Serana made her way into Jarl Korir's longhouse situated in the desolate expanse of Winterhold. When she'd passed over to the College, she was perturbed by the stark stillness that greeted her. The halls, usually bustling busily with the footsteps of arcane practitioners, now bore a haunting emptiness. Among the few mages that lingered, not one bore a familiar face to her scrutinizing gaze.
No Tolfdir, no Faralda, no Colette, no Phinis, no Drevis, no Arniel, no Sergius, no Nirya, no Brelyna, Onmund or J'zargo nobody that she could actively speak with concerning the dire matters of the Daedra with. Except perhaps Urag Gro-Shub, but he was nosedeep in his books.
In the longhouse, she was greeted by the sneering face of the former Jarl of the Pale, Skald the Elder. He leaned against a wooden pillar, his furrowed brow revealing a lifetime of burdens. He left it as soon as she entered and sat on a bench against the wall and strung curses against the Empire as he wolfed down the loaf of bread in his hands. His Housecarl stood adjacent, monitoring the new visitor, as did the Housecarl of the miniscule court of Winterhold.
The Jarl of Winterhold himself sat on a high-backed chair, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth at the center of the hall.
"Jarl Korir," Serana began, her voice echoing through the stone walls, "I've come with troubling news: terrible things have been happening here in Skyrim." She bowed forward respectfully, as she was facing a Jarl, regardless of how she felt about him.
"Pah! What else is new?" Skald bleated from across the room. They'd grown accustomed to Skyrim being in turmoil. Whatever this was was simply par for the course. Why would he need to trouble himself?
Jarl Korir leaned forward, his grizzled face etched with curiosity as venom seeped from his lips. "And so the College of Witches decides to send a Vampire to bring this news to me?"
When he said this, the Housecarls immediately drew their weapons. Serana took immediate notice of this shift in the environment and she placed her hands over her abdomen to reveal that she had no weapon, nor spell drawn. Though, little difference it would make. If she wanted to kill them, they would be dead already. She was simply making it clear that it was not her intention.
Korir's voice was low, filled with bitterness. "The sea took our homes, our people. And the College remained untouched. They hoard their secrets, their magic, while Winterhold crumbles. And now they're deciding to mock me by sending a beast to inform me of the obvious fact that Skyrim is amiss. Not before they wrought the remainder of the city with their weird ghastly creatures; not before a Dragon took flight, but now. I don't give two shakes of a skeever's tail if you technically came to our aid when the ghasts attacked our town - you're a filthy mage yourself. You go back an' tell them to sod off. I don't know what they're thinking these days."
"There was nobody at the College, you stubborn -!" Serana spouted angrily, but managed to quickly stifle herself before she could finish the sentence that would without a doubt see her condemned to the dungeons. "I've come to request aid on behalf of the Southern Holds - Riften and Windhelm have been fighting a war against Daedric Forces."
"Daedric forces?" pondered Jarl Korir, reclining thoughtfully in his chair. "Rumors of such entities have reached my ears indeed. Not long ago, that eccentric Breton lady who's obsessed with Restoration magic, was raving about the Hall of the Vigilant or some such place as she hurried westward with the old sorcerer, some students and a pair of blasted elves. It must have been a week ago, or perhaps a tad more?"
The realization struck her at once, resolving many of her queries. Now, she understood the whereabouts of the others during her absence. However, their hasty departure to the Pale was peculiar, even for them.
"Keeper Carcette's broken down shack?" Skald leaned back, rubbing his temples. "And what of Dawnstar? What conflict brews there?"
Korir's eyes met Serana's, and she could see the realization sinking in. "You might be onto something. Your friends headed west to the Pale."
Serana's unbeating heart raced as the words sank in. "Dagon's minions are storming from all sides... not just the east. Oh no... this is worse than I thought."
Jarl Skald stood up. "Damn it! Can't the confounded Empire do anything right? I relinquish my grip on Dawnstar for a few months, and now this! When I get back there, I'll have Brina and Horik's heads mounted on spikes!"
"Calm yourself, fool." Jarl Korir admonished his rashness. "You don't even know if there'll be a Dawnstar for you to return to. We don't know what we're dealing with now."
"We were even prepared for it, and the Daedric invasion caught us off guard. Mehrunes Dagon's minions covered the entire field. We were outnumbered, and outmatched. But we fought. We fought because Windhelm was our home; Skyrim. We fought because the soil beneath our boots held the memories of our ancestors." Serana explained. "I don't care about how you feel about the mages, or about the Empire, but if you know what's good for you, you'd think about tying down an alliance."
"Those damned Vigilants..." Jarl Skald muttered under his breath, his hand meeting his forehead with a resounding smack. "For years, that Keeper Carcette prattled on about Daedra, about the Mythic Dawn. Always warning us about how the Daedra worshippers were growin' bolder and bolder. About how the Vigil needed assistance to grow its influence to cleanse those bastards from the land. I dismissed her, laughed it off. Never did I give it a moment's serious thought. Never did I give her the credit she deserved, even though she was the only one in these parts taking the damned Daedra seriously"
Serana confronted the seasoned curmudgeon. Her intermittent conversations with Cura had given her small glimpses into his past dealings with the Vigil of Stendarr. Now, as she observed him and listened to his account, the scattered pieces formed a more complete picture. Jarl Skald's disposition towards the Vigilants was far from cordial - his support extended merely to permitting their presence in Dawnstar and the Pale.
Cura had mentioned that he audaciously imposed a levy on the religious group for their modest abode at the mountain's base. Such actions were reprehensible.
Jarl Korir's expression remained stoic, his amusement nowhere to be found. "Your fixation was always with the Empire, Skald. Your problem was seeing Imperial spies lurking around every corner, whether they were there or not."
"Right, because you're the epitome of perfection, aren't you? Not like you've dedicated the majority of your time to the College's torment rather than focusing on the reconstruction of your own city. That's utterly inconceivable," Skald retorted, his words laced with a sharp sarcasm.
Jarl Korir could barely contain his excitement. Despite the situation, he couldn't deny the truth, especially with Serana standing right there, a living testament to the facts. His welcome may not have been warm, but Serana didn't mind. She stayed quiet, eagerly anticipating the outcome of this intriguing encounter.
Jarl Skald stood up immediately. His hasty reaction made plain to see. "I don't give a damn what happens - I'm going back to Dawnstar. Let the Empire drag me out by my toenails. Or let the Daedra take my head. Or let the mages do their ooga-booga on me. I need to get back to my Hall."
Jarl Korir raised a hand in protest. "Skald, with all due respect, Dawnstar could be smoke an' ashes right now."
The elder grunted furiously. "Do I look like I give a damn? That's my Hold! Mine! I was born to her, and I plan to die in her. I'll not go 'till the shrieking winds of the Pale take me."
Serana shook her head. "It's not a good idea - not at the moment. Come with me instead; my friends are in Riften, speaking to the Jarl there. We need a plan to deal with this scourge."
"Laila's agreed to this?" Jarl Skald appeared surprised upon hearing it, even though he did not completely grasp what she was alluding to.
Jarl Korir furrowed his brow, skepticism etched across his face. "My trust isn't easily earned. These companions of yours, who are they? Dabblers in the dark arts, maybe?"
"The Dragonborn's allies." Serana said plainly. "The Khajiit Inigo the Brave and Lucien Flavius -"
"Of course; why am I not surprised? A blasted little Imperial shit and a swivel-eyed skooma-chugging Khajiit?" Skald the Elder spat their names on the ground with disdain. "I doubt they've even made it past the Riften city gate."
Serana couldn't hide her irritation at his casual dismissal and harsh critique of her trusted companions. With a voice firm and impassioned, she retorted, "How dare you! They're the brave warriors who helped protect this city in its darkest hour; the ones who joined forces with the Dawnguard to bring down the Volkihar Clan; the very heroes who were PIVOTAL in aiding the Dragonborn through her trials that led to the fall of Alduin! They deserve your respect!"
The Hall was drowned under the weight of her words. Each more pressuring than the last. This Vampire; this Necromancess, stood there before the bickering lot of them, and her presence consumed the room. She meant every word she said, and damn it if she wouldn't back up her claims with some sort of action would they not choose their words carefully.
In the brightly lit room, her eyes gleamed with an otherworldly intensity. It was a fleeting moment, but to those who witnessed it, it felt like an eternity. Her gaze, sharp and calculating, had always been her most formidable weapon, but as the tension in the room reached its peak, something unexpected happened. Without warning, her lips parted to reveal a set of razor-sharp fangs, a stark contrast to her otherwise ethereal beauty. The revelation was accidental, a rare loss of composure from someone who was always in control. The sight of those fangs, glistening under the flickering lights, sent a wave of terror through the room. It was a visceral reminder of her true nature, one that she had concealed behind a veil of charm and grace. In that instant, the facade fell away, and the predator within was laid bare for all to see.
The atmosphere was thick with tension as the Housecarls, warriors of esteemed rank, gripped their weapons tighter. Foreboding hung heavy in the air; the entity they faced was no ordinary adversary. Possessing formidable strength, she had the capability to decimate them in the mere span of a moment's glance. The gravity of the situation was not lost on them, for it was clear that even their well-honed skills might not suffice should she unleash her full might.
Once Serana recognized the grip of anger loosening, she gently shut her eyes, allowing a measured breath to escape her lips. As she repositioned herself into a stance of composure, a wave of tranquility washed over the room. As a being tainted by Molag Bal, she possessed an innate violent instinct that she diligently struggled to restrain. Such lapses were infrequent, yet this occasion was one of those rare instances.
Throughout the time spent alongside Cura, Inigo, and Lucien, Serana had come to view herself as the elder sibling within their circle. She was the one who provided sage advice and supernatural insights, which served as a complement to Lucien's scholarly intelligence and extensive erudition, Inigo's ingenuity and sharp wit, and Cura's benevolence and protective nature.
There was no way in all the planes of Oblivion that she was going to sit idly by and allow any of them to be insulted like that. She had witnessed the struggles, the sacrifices, and the sheer determination that had brought them to this point. Each one of them had faced their own battles, fought their own demons, and emerged victorious. They were not just comrades; they were survivors, warriors who had earned their place through blood, sweat, and tears. To hear such disparaging words thrown at them was more than just an insult; it was a challenge to their very essence, a denial of their hard-won victories.
In the frostbitten realm of Skyrim, where the cold pierces through the bravest of armours, Jarl Skald's pride was a fortress seldom breached. Yet, before him stood a truth so potent it shattered his defenses like brittle ice. The Dragonborn, a figure of prophecy and power, had graced his domain with her presence. With eyes that had witnessed the turning of ages and a spirit as indomitable as the Throat of the World itself, she had come.
The mention of this fiasco had also captured Jarl Korir. The Dragonborn had saved his city not all too long ago; this was true. Though, not alone in her endeavors, she was flanked by the Mages of Winterhold, as well as this vampiress who spoke to them, and a blue Khajiit and blonde Imperial lad. Together, they faced the tempest of chaos that had befallen Jarl Korir's beloved streets, a maelstrom of otherworldly fury that threatened to consume all it touched.
The Jarl, hardened by countless winters and battles waged in word and steel, could not deny what unfolded before him. The Dragonborn and her mage allies had quelled the storm, banishing the chaos back into the abyss from whence it came. It was a feat that would be etched into the sagas, sung by bards in great reverence.
Korir's voice, once a booming echo across his hall, now carried a timbre of humility. "She's right. I have seen it with my own eyes," he confessed to his guest Jarl, corroborating her point.
"All of what remains of Winterhold is in their debt." Serana pierced his inner armour once more. "So, if they're doing something like having a meeting with a Jarl over a dire threat in the east, don't you think that might be worth looking into?"
Jarl Korir gave a nod. Despite their crucial role in safeguarding his city, he had previously shown disrespect towards the Dragonborn and the College. Although he was eager to blame them for the strange occurrence, he lacked concrete proof, holding only his personal contempt as evidence. Considering this, he thought it might be worthwhile to listen to her.
Jarl Skald began to reminisce on past matters, as well. The old curmudgeon confessed in a low voice, "I knew the Dragonborn long before her fame. I recall when she was merely a little urchin, living with the Vigilants to the south of my city. Seems Keeper Carcette recognized her potential well before we did."
The hall around them was silent and Jarl Korir took the time to work an answer. He stood up from his throne. "All right. We're goin' to Riften. If the Empire's summoning Mehrunes Dagon to try and crush the Stormcloaks, it's only right we band together."
"The Empire has nothing to do with this!" Serana protested. "It's the Mythic Dawn. An ancient Daedric cult."
"Sure. Let's just pretend as though this fraudulent Empire would never commit such an act." Jarl Skald snidely declared as he proceeded to follow Korir, who had just walked past the hearth. As they exited the Longhouse, Jarl Korir gestured to the stablemaster by the dilapidated stone gate to ready a carriage for their ascent, accompanied by their Housecarls. Jarl Korir was confident that his city would remain secure in the hands of the Stormcloak General until his return.
Once they boarded the carriage, Korir turned to face Serana, who was on the ground behind him, watching them. "We'll be there tomorrow in the morn'. Make sure your friends stay put. We have a lot to talk about, and I want the full picture."
Serana nodded. "Safe journey to you, Jarl."
The carriage jolted forward as the driver snapped the reins, propelling them past the city's edge and onto the alabaster trail that snaked up the mountainside. Apprehension filled their hearts as they observed the sun retreat behind a veil of somber clouds, casting an ominous shadow over their journey. In the distance, the Shrine of Azura loomed, its silhouette a stark contrast against the brooding sky. It stood as a silent sentinel, its presence a constant reminder of the delicate balance between calamity and hope that she foretold.
Serana thought it a good idea to investigate the Hall of the Vigilant, as it was a clue to where the other Mages were headed. Using ancient magic, she performed a Fast Travel.
Those wounded during the battle of the Pale were brought to the new Vigilant Headquarters in Stuhn Ravine for sanctuary. Many succumbed to their battle wounds on the walk over the mountain pass, and others perished at the entrance and within. There were many casualties on and off the battlefield, and the white mountains were painted with streaks of red as lifeblood seeped into the landscape like red wine on a tablecloth.
Thorondir, the new Keeper, rallied the more stable Vigilants and commanded them to prepare resting places for the infirm within their castle headquarters, which was nestled into the mountain. The outer palisades were adorned with blue tapestries, featuring the white-emblazoned Chalice of Mercy.
Vigilant Tolan and Colette Marence stood in the dimly lit chamber of the Temple of Stendarr in Stuhn Ravine - their faces etched with exhaustion and grief. The recent events weighed heavily upon them - the complete destruction of the Hall of the Vigilant, the total disappearance of Keeper Carcette, and the relentless Daedric war that had left scars on their souls and tore the lands asunder.
She'd just finished tending the wounded, repairing what damage was possible, while many soldiers would never walk again, nor see again, nor feel again in some cases. The land wept with soft echoes of their violent losses. Things might have turned out much worse had Stendarr not intervened personally. The fields of the Pale would never be the same after that battle, which divided parts of the landscape and destroyed everything in the immediate vicinity of that mountain. The fields were covered with large stones and rubble left over from the explosion and the land was split by a large crater which revealed Dimhollow Crypt below, as well as the vampiric remains that were left in Cura's wake in the past.
The Restoration Mage was weary and downcast. She appeared disheartened and could barely stand upright, leaning on the wall for support. She herself was covered in cut wounds that remained unhealed, as she'd focused her magic towards trying to heal the wounded soldiers and Vigilants. Her golden light had faded to sparks with each attempt; her magic growing weaker and weaker.
Although the Vigilants were knowledgeable in healing spells, their primary focus was combat, which left them ill-equipped to mend severe wounds on a large scale. They found themselves desperately unprepared, scrambling to distribute Healing Potions to those who required them.
Vigilant Tolan, too, was weary, resting against the adjacent grey stone wall. The robust man shut his eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply. A wave of sorrow washed over him as memories of the Hall of the Vigilant flooded back. "It's hard to accept that it's truly gone. Those hallowed grounds where we underwent training, offered prayers, and shared in both lighthearted banter and days filled with comradery."
Colette observed him as he spoke, offering empathy without uttering a word.
The sizable Nord was scarcely able to grasp the events that had unfolded. He had battled with honour, even as many fell beside him. "The Daedra came down the mountain like a storm, Colette. They ravaged everything in their path, leaving only bloodshed and shattered bones," he recounted. Gazing at the cast encasing his left arm, he remembered the Daedric warhammer, wielded by a Dremora, that had crushed it. Carrying Silus Vesuius on his right shoulder, he trudged through miles of snow until, finally, the agony peaked and his elbow gave way under the weight of his fragmented bone. It was slung in a cast now, but that would do them no good should the Daedra return again.
Colette gently touched his arm. He tried to concentrate a Healing spell onto it, but it was no use: she was too weak. "Tolan, dear, we were fools. We underestimated the darkness. Even though we won... so many dead. So many crippled... it's a miracle any of us got out of there! The Soldiers of the Pale fell, one by one. I saw their faces - the fear, the pain. I.. I couldn't save them all." she looked disheartenedly at the numerous bodies being covered with blankets lain about the central area of the temple. Not one person in that building had emerged from the battle unscathed. All had suffered losses of friends, and many wounds - big or small.
The Breton's face sunk and she looked like she would cry in any second. Her shrill voice broke. "My Restoration skills failed. It's tough being the only real practitioner of it here. I'm sure if Cura or Carcette were here, it... it could have made a difference. The other mages did what they could, but.. none of them really took my school seriously."
Tolan was massaging his brow. "Keeper Carcette vanished without a trace. But I could still hear her voice, urging us to stand strong, even as the flames consumed everything."
Brother Adalvald located Tolan and carefully stepped over a recovering soldier as he headed towards where they stood. "It's a travesty, Tolan. We had the combined force of 6448 men, and 4003 of them; Vigilants of our faction and Nirtius, Pale Soldiers, and a couple of the Companions are estimated to be dead. Tolfdir and his cohorts are still doing a count."
Overwhelmed by the gravity of the situation, Colette's composure crumbled. She found herself succumbing to the weight of her emotions, her sobs muffled as she concealed her face. Gradually sinking to the ground, her back against the wall, she assumed a protective posture akin to a child's. Despite her valiant efforts to maintain control, the floodgates of her restraint gave way. The stark realization of her inability to preserve their lives struck her with unrelenting force.
Vigilant Tolan paid mind to Colette's reaction, and expressed compassion to the healer. "Hey," he tapped her on the arm. "it's nothing against you; you did what you could. Sometimes, you can't save them all."
Colette looked up at him as the tears streamed down her face. "I can't save anyone these days."
The words cut like a knife, but Tolan understood where she was coming from. He slowly slid down the wall and sat beside her in the hallway.
Onmund, J'zargo and Brelyna were wounded, but not gravely, fortunately for them. The Winterhold professors were doing their best to try and mend their own wounds, but they had run out of Health Potions trying to help those with more serious injuries. With all their magickal might, these stalwart magicians were reduced to relying on cloth and water to keep their wounds from becoming infected.
"Did... did J'zargo fight well?" the Khajiit asked his friends for reassurance.
"You did incredibly, J'zargo. If not for your Flame Scrolls, I think we would have lost a whole lot more people." Onmund indulged him.
"Or, could we have saved more if they did not make them as bold?" J'zargo wondered sadly. He looked at the numerous injured, dying, and dead surrounding them. "J'zargo could have done much better. He was too focused on the offense that he did not realize many needed his help."
The vivid image surged through his consciousness, transporting him back to that fateful encounter. Ria, the valiant Companion, emerged as a shield from the annals of his memory. With a warrior's grace, she intercepted the cowardly and lethal advance of a Spider Daedra, who was poised to strike his back while he was ensnared in battle against a horde of Daedra. His hands danced with the fury of Lightning Storms, casting bolts of destruction upon his foes. In the midst of the chaos, he turned only to behold the harrowing sight of Ria, the noble Imperial, skewered by the creature's sinister appendage in a display of otherworldly savagery.
Their eyes met in that fatal instant, and he watched the life fade from hers as her body slipped to the ground, scarring him forevermore.
When he returned to the present, J'zargo felt ashamed. "J'zargo was too careless... another lost her life to protect him. J'zargo does not even know who she was."
Onmund and Brelyna shared a look of sorrow and accepted his words. Brelyna softly placed her hand on his right knee, giving it a comforting shake. The cat-man acknowledged this gesture by touching his friend's hand. "Thank you."
In the grand hall, Faralda and Nirya stood surrounded by the echoes of their recent ordeal. Nirya, weakened by her wounds, found respite on a nearby bench, succumbing to the weight of her injuries. Faralda, with a concerned gaze, assessed her condition, but her abilities were limited in providing aid.
"Hng... what? Are you going to laugh? Go ahead. I blundered that fight." Nirya scoffed at her rival.
Faralda shook her head. "I don't think so; your Stone wall divided the horde. It was really rather impressive."
"Not as impressive as your lightning from the skies, you showoff." Nirya threw back a begrudging compliment.
Faralda was taken aback to hear it, yet it did bolster her ego, if nothing else. She strutted like a peacock, her skills acknowledged by someone who often held her in contempt. "Well, thank you, Nirya. I never imagined you would say that."
"Oh, posh. I always give credit where it's due." Nirya protested. "But, for real; how on Nirn did you do that?"
"It's a very advanced Destruction spell, known as Fingers of the Mountain." Faralda explained. "Perhaps one day, if you think you can manage it, I might allow you to sit in on one of my advanced classes."
Nirya scoffed defiantly and turned her face away. "Uh-huh. No. I have better things to do, like licking chamber pots."
"Well, seeing how you shamelessly plant your lips on the Arch-Mage's behind, that really would not surprise me." Faralda quipped back at her.
Immediately, the two began to relentlessly bicker, and Tolfdir observed it as he walked past with Phinis and Drevis at either side of him. They were counting the living and the dead of all factions. Tragically, some of the meager Winterhold mages had lost their lives as well.
In the field outside of the ramparts leading to Stuhn Ravine, a bonfire was set up and warriors were being given their righteous sendoff.
Vilkas and Farkas, along with Kodlak, Athis, and Aela, gazed somberly at the bodies of Ria, Njada, and Torvar. All three had been killed on the lower cliffs of the mountain, which had enabled them to assault the upper reaches.
"Rest in Sovngarde, Shield-brothers and sisters. You have fought valiantly and honored Shor with your bravery. The mead halls of Sovngarde will resound with tales of your courage, and your legacy will endure eternally in the hearts of men. The land of Skyrim will murmur your names with the breeze. Each stone will resonate with the audacity you exhibited in this noble war against the Daedric oppressors," Kodlak declared, bowing his head. The others followed his lead, and the Harbinger commenced, lifting his hands. "Before the ancient flame..."
Everybody present responded, "We grieve."
Kodlak continued, "At this loss..."
"We weep."
Kodlak continued, "For the fallen..."
"We shout."
Kodlak continued, "And for ourselves..."
"We take our leave."
Farkas struck a match, igniting the oil-soaked torch. Flames rapidly consumed the top of the wooden stick, and he solemnly handed it to the Harbinger, who cast it onto the pyre. The fire blazed, its tongues weaving through the sticks and branches, enveloping the bodies laid upon them like a layered wooden bed.
Silus Vesuius perched sorrowfully atop a ledge, observing as the deceased were carried from Stuhn Ravine to their mountainous final resting places. He was the cause. The burden was partly his to bear. And it haunted him. The thought of exacting revenge on those who had tormented him for most of his life, envisioning their cries and demise, had once seemed gratifying; satisfying. Yet, witnessing the reality was far from it. Amidst the biting winds, he cradled his face in his hands, weighed down by the enormity of his actions as despair's grip dragged him deeper.
This was what the Daedra were capable of.
He observed solemnly as each body was gently descended into the awaiting graves. The earth was tenderly blanketed over them, a final embrace from the world they once walked upon. The remaining members of the Vigilant stood in somber silence, their voices rising in a chant that paid homage to the fallen. In the sacred names of Arkay and Stendarr, they bestowed upon their brethren the final rites, a testament to their unwavering faith even in the face of death's cold visage.
Irbrand Bienne wept as he watched his master's burial in Stuhn's Ravine. Vigilant Greyvild tried to give his brother in Stendarr words of consolation, reminding him that at the end of despair lay hope. And that those who killed Nirtius would face Stendarr's justice for their heinous crimes.
Keeper Thorondir returned to the library with Gwyneth, where he informed her to write a letter to the Vigil in Chorrol detailing what they'd just faced, and the logistical nightmare he was set to deal with now.
Vigilant Altano, along with his mentor Jacob, supervised the burials and recognized them as a wake-up call. They conversed with an injured Brina Merillis and Horik about these events, suspecting them to be the harbinger of even graver dangers ahead.
The ex-Legionnaire acknowledged this as she tended to her bodyguard's wounds. She was acutely aware that this was just the onset of a more extensive conflict. Perhaps it would be the war that ultimately concludes Skyrim's saga, once and for all.
They eluded Alduin, yet calamity struck in a different guise.
"We must contact General Tullius," Brina Merilis said, wincing from the sharp pain in her collarbone that tormented her anew. Each movement of her right shoulder brought back the sensations of the arrow piercing her neck muscles once more. She offered silent thanks to the Divines that her Legion armor had absorbed much of the impact. "I'm uncertain of our next move, but we can't afford to be targets like before."
Recalling the battle proved challenging; a vicious haze and blizzard had obscured much of the field. However, she did witness a barrage of arrows descending from the mountain ridges.
It was an absolute nightmare. If they couldn't mount a stronger defense, their end was inevitable.
Serana gazed into the vast chasm that had once been a towering mountain and her best friend's esteemed Hall of the Vigilant. A profound sense of loss washed over her as she took in the sight of what was now just a ruin, a mere shadow of its former glory. The absence of Cura at this moment was perhaps a small mercy; the devastation of witnessing her beloved home in such a state would have been unbearable. The Hall, which had stood as a beacon of hope and vigilance, lay in ruins, its legacy now as fragmented as the rubble it had become.
The cavernous depths of Dimhollow Crypt, with its ancient and eerie silence, served as a stark testament to the end of one epoch in Serana's existence and the unexpected dawn of another. It was as if the very stones whispered tales of transformation and new beginnings, echoing the sentiment that perhaps there was a poetic justice woven into the fabric of her fate.
Above this subterranean sepulcher, unbeknownst to the slumbering vampire, the Dragonborn's own saga was unfolding mere miles away. The convergence of their paths seemed less like chance and more like destiny's intricate design. It was as if the threads of their lives were spun by the same cosmic loom, destined to intertwine. The Dragonborn, growing and learning under the vast sky, and Serana, sealed away in darkness, were fated to meet.
This gave Serana solace, that there really was more to their lives than happenstance. She wondered if Dexion would have had an idea about this sort of thing from reading the Elder Scroll.
She prudently gazed upon the mess surrounding her. Would Dexion have foreseen this moment from reading the Scroll? Could the Scroll have hinted at a path laid out for them all since time immemorial? These questions danced in her mind as she contemplated the intricate tapestry of life - a tapestry that perhaps was not as random as it seemed.
But the damage to this plain was astounding; she could barely fathom what could have caused this. Was it Daedra? Was it something worse? Where were the Winterhold mages? Did they do this? What was going on?
The landscape bore no signs of the others' presence, save for the shattered remnants of Atronachs and the spell burns etched deep into the stone fabric. And then there were the bodies, many bodies, interred beneath the snow's silent shroud - a testament to the raw power of an avalanche's wrath.
The snow's reach extended to the forest skirting Red Road Pass as well.
A palpable stillness hung in the air, a quiet so profound it seemed to herald the presence of death itself.
There were ashes of Daedra blowing in the striking winds, riding the sky like black ribbons. Lots of black ribbons, rising higher and higher and disappearing like a plume of smoke.
Jarl Skald was definitely not going to be thrilled to see what became of this part of his Hold. This was not the legacy he had envisioned leaving behind, nor was it the future he had promised to his people.
This revelation told her more than any hint ever could, yet it left her with an abundance of questions. She now understood that Inigo and Lucien, as well as the cities of Windhelm and Riften, needed to be informed. Without any hesitation, she departed from the scene and prepared for another Fast Travel, this time heading towards Riften.