"Worship of the Dragon God
A religious essay outlining the commandments of Akatosh
"Lord Akatosh, lend us your might! Lord Akatosh, grant us your light!" —A popular prayer to Akatosh the Dragon God
If there is a single Divine who holds dominion over the Gold Coast, it has to be Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time. From the grand Cathedral of Akatosh in Kvatch and radiating outward, the word of Akatosh and his servants spreads the light and the truth of the Dragon God in all directions.
Reputed to be the first and greatest of the Eight Divines and the first of the gods to form in the Beginning Place, Akatosh watches over the land and its people with a singular ferocity, never shirking in his role as the God-defender of the Empire—even while the Empire lies broken and shattered. As the Primate of Kvatch likes to say at every opportunity, "The Dragon God sees beyond the concerns of the day and contemplates the entire expanse of time. The current situation is merely a minor disturbance in the flow of events, and Akatosh has everything well in hand."
Akatosh promotes three key qualities in his sphere: endurance, invincibility, and everlasting legitimacy. Perhaps that's why the Empire was so quick to embrace the Dragon God and his tenets. In the words of the Primate of Kvatch, here are the ways in which Akatosh embodies the three key qualities.
Endurance: "This quality represents Akatosh's ability and strength to continue or last and is directly tied to his role as the God of Time. Akatosh endures, and so do the true believers who have accepted his words and devoted themselves to his teachings. Despite fatigue, regardless of stress or adverse conditions, Akatosh and his followers carry on. This is the Dragon God's lasting quality."
Invincibility: "Akatosh cannot be conquered, defeated, or subdued—and neither can those who believe in and honor the Dragon God. This is the Dragon God's indomitable quality."
Everlasting Legitimacy: "This quality must be examined in all its parts. It represents not only Akatosh's eternal aspect, but his reverence for law, reason, and the ruling principles of hereditary right. Nothing blessed and sanctioned by Akatosh can be considered spurious or unjustified. This is the Dragon God's continuing and lawful quality."
Beyond these basic tenets, the Primate of Kvatch and his priests preach the five commands of Akatosh to faithful and faithless alike.
"Serve and obey your Emperor." Since its inception, the Empire and Akatosh worship have gone hand in hand, as this command clearly exemplifies.
"Study the Covenants." These written agreements between Akatosh and his mortal followers, such as Alessia and her descendents, serve as tokens of their joined blood and pledged faith. All followers are urged to read and understand these eternal contracts.
"Worship the Eight." But Akatosh is not a jealous god. He expects his followers to pay tribute not just to himself, but to his fellow Divines.
"Do your duty." Duty and responsibility figure prominently in the teachings of the rule-loving Dragon God. Failure to fulfill your obligations is a sin in the eyes of Akatosh.
"Heed the commands of the saints and priests." Akatosh favors hierarchy and structure, so it comes as no surprise that he demands that his followers comply with the orders of the saints and priests.
The Primate of Kvatch often declares, "As Akatosh wills it, so shall it be." For the Dragon God of Time embodies yesterday, today, and tomorrow, and he embraces the rules that keep the world ordered and precise. By honoring Akatosh with devotion and worship, his followers endeavor to do the same."
The realm of Coldharbour was still; it was as though the very air itself was cautious regarding Cura and her growing army. The void hung above, sparks of energy swirling around it like an eddy. It reminded Cura of the Soul Cairn every time she looked up.
Cura glared at the steps leading down below. "I assume this leads to Nenyond's Priory?" her gaze was fixed upon the dark passage leading below. The air coming up from it was dank and warm; humid, and suffocating, like hiding one's face in their shirt inside of a mine shaft. She was not looking forward to delving therein.
Mirabelle nodded. "Yes; it must certainly be. The darkness is so strong below tat we can feel it up here."
Carcette stood by Cura and placed a reassuring hand on her protégé's shoulder. "It won't be too different from what you've already endured, dear Cura. Remember, I'm right behind you."
A thin smile stretched on Cura's face. "Thank you, Keeper. I'll bear that in mind when your warhammer goes out swinging."
Carcette responded to her comment with laughter, and soon Cura joined in, chuckling too. "Then, perhaps I should be beside you instead."
Sir Ralvas sighed through the empty space where his head would be. "I shall await your return. I am not too keen entering a hive of Alessians without my head; it may give them ideas concerning my other limbs. Plus, I do not think it safe to navigate an unfamiliar terrain like that until I have functioning eyes again."
Gloriel watched the roads surrounding them. "I will wait outside with Sir Ralvas in case the Daedra try to do us a mischief."
Varla turned to look at her and Sir Ralvas. "Fine; be careful out here, and stay sharp. The Daedra are chomping at the bit to kill whoever they can - stay obscured. It shouldn't take us all day." He uttered each word with clenched teeth, the usual stormy demeanor present, yet Gloriel detected a whisper of tenderness beneath his gruff exterior.
The Valkyrie was silent for a minute, and watched as Varla descended behind the others. "I... I will keep that in mind. Thank you."
In the shadowed depths of Nenyond Priory, Cura and her allies tread softly, their footsteps echoing in the hallowed halls of this forsaken place. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and ancient incense, a remnant of the prayers once offered here. They moved with purpose, their eyes scanning the darkness for the lurking dangers that the Coldharbour vividly brings to life. The Priory, now a mere husk of its former glory, whispered secrets of a time when it stood proud and unyielding against the encroaching darkness.
The descent was treacherous, a winding path of narrow ledges and sudden drops, where the unwary could easily slip into oblivion. Cura led the way down with a steady hand, Dawnbreaker at the ready, a silver lining around the dark cloud of eternity. Her allies followed her, a band of warriors and mages, each skilled in their craft, each carrying the burden of hope that they might prevail against the shadows that skulk in every corner of this hellish dimension.
"The man this priory is named after was a dirtbag." Varla sneered as they descended the initial steps. "I gained his fort at Belharza's recommendation. Hmph. I guess I hope he's not bitter."
"If he is, he can suck on a Jazbay grape." Cura remarked firmly.
As they delved deeper, the Priory revealed its trials. Skeletal remains clad in the tattered vestments of Alessian Priests and Paladins clutched at them from the shadows, their bony fingers scraping against armor in a macabre attempt to drag them, kicking and screaming, into the past.
"Die, you Alessian Bastard!" Sabrina shouted as she clubbed one over the head with her Daedric Mace and shoved him, wailing, down into the abyss below. As the body plummeted, Sir Amiel took heed.
"A bit harsh, Sabrina." he chastised his ally for her lack of tact. "They don't even know who they are, anymore."
"Doesn't mean they get to escape our fury, does it?" Sabrina hurled a poison-tipped dagger at an adversary below who had tried to cast fireballs at them. The blade found its target, embedding itself squarely between his eyes. The Alessian collapsed, lifeless. Sir Amiel was impressed by her deft hand, but unsurprised. He bolted down the stairs and drove his sword straight through the chest of an Alessian Paladin, and then pushed the undead off it using his foot. He continued to dash forward, engaging one around a thick stone pillar with a wide swing, when his sword tore through his flesh and broke against the pillar.
Before another Alessian could emerge from the shadows and stab him, he moved backwards and Varla impaled the foe. "Watch your back," the Man-Hunter cautioned. "They're all too eager to put a knife in it." He then turned his sword downward and impaled the Alessian who was squirming on the ground.
"Thank you," Sir Amiel said, his expression one of surprise. He surveyed his broken sword as the battle raged on. Only the pommel and the base of the blade remained. Glancing at a fallen Alessian, he claimed his sword. "It seems I must manage with one hand for the time being, until I find a suitable replacement."
An Alessian worshipper lunged at Cura, but she blocked it with her shield. "Ugh! Get out of my face, punk!" she roared, swinging her shield across his head. "I don't even want to be here - I just want to kill your master and return to Skyrim!" The naked Soul-Shriven fell over the railings and plummeted into the black water below.
The air grew colder, a chill that seeped into the bone, and the light from the braziers and wall torches flickered as if afraid as they traversed further into the ancient priory. The very stones of this underground catacomb seemed to moan with the weight of sorrow, the sandstone walls etched with the tales of those who once walked these halls. Each person lingering here once believed they were doing the right thing in life; that sacrificing people to the Red Stone would bring paradise to Nirn.
Rather, they all wound up not just cursing those they sacrificed to eternity in Coldharbour, but they also wound up condemned themselves. Molag Bal's cruelest jest upon the world, Cura thought as she mowed through the lot of them.
Korn took the lead, nimbly jumping over a mound of fallen stones that created a makeshift bridge to another ledge, the remains of what was once a walkway. The rest of the group trailed behind the wolf, and Varla, with Mary on his back, because she was unable to leap across herself.
Aria, graceful and agile, hopped across with ease, while Maram struggled due to his cumbersome armor. Nevertheless, they succeeded in reuniting with Cura and the rest on the opposite side, proceeding with their journey into the darkness. The air, a thick veil of night, obscured much of their view as they marched forward. In the dim light of the braziers, a stone bridge loomed like a petrified giant, arching over the abyssal chasm that whispered of oblivion. Vigilant Cura, her armor glinting with Meridia's light, stood resolute as the embodiment of her unwavering faith. Beside her, Carcette, eyes ablaze with righteous fury, channeled her inner strength into a palpable aura of determination. They were not merely warriors; they were the bulwark against the encroaching darkness, being at the front of the pack.
Below, the chasm yawned like the maw of some ancient, slumbering beast, eager to swallow any who dared to fall.
After taking one look at the frightful drop, they dashed across a stone bridge to reach the other side of the large chasm which divided the room. As soon as they reached the opposite side, an Alessian Knight, coated in black armour, lunged at them with two ebony swords in his hands. Behind him came another just as eager to spill their blood.
The Alessian Knights, clad in armor that seemed to swallow the light, advanced with a silence that was more terrifying than any war cry. Their swords were unsheathed, gleaming with a malevolent hunger for the souls of the just. The air crackled with the tension of impending doom, the only sounds the squalling of the ancient architecture, akin to the cawing of distant crows and the mournful howl of the wind through the chasm below.
As the first knight stepped onto the bridge, the stone beneath his feet groaned, as if in protest of the evil it was forced to bear. Cura met his charge with a shield raised high, the impact resonating like thunder, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth. Carcette's warhammer danced like lightning, swift and deadly, carving arcs of silver in the blackness as she parried and struck with the grace of a tempest.
Due to the nature of the environment, Savos, Mirabelle and the others could loose neither spell nor arrow for fear of striking the backs of their allies. Shadows danced on the other side as more Alessian Knights piled up behind their comrades to join the charge.
The duel was a maelstrom of clashing steel; each blow a testament to the warriors' skill and ferocity. The knights fought with a brutality that was bone-chilling, their strikes fueled by a zealotry that knew no mercy. Yet, for every knight that fell, two more took their place, a seemingly endless tide of malice that surged forward with relentless determination.
The chasm echoed with the sounds of battle, a symphony of despair that seemed to resonate with the very souls of those locked in combat. The air was thick with the scent of blood and steel, a tangible reminder of the razor-thin line between life and death.
Cura and Carcette, though weary, stood undaunted, their spirits unbroken by the onslaught. They fought not just for themselves, but for all who cherished the light, for all who stood against the creeping shadow that sought to engulf the world in its stygian embrace.
The duo exchanged nods, silently communicating their plan to defeat the potential enemies. Carcette fell back behind Cura, who stepped back a few paces. With agility, she slid beneath the first enemy's blow and thrust him upward with her shield. Then, ducking low, Carcette finished the move by knocking him over the edge with her warhammer.
Seeing the opening now, Savos Aren conjured up Arrows Telekinetically. With the snap of his finger, they embedded themselves right into the throat and chest of the second knight, and Mirabelle cast Chain Lighting onto the rest, stunning them. Cura boldly grabbed one and threw him off the ledge, and Korn raced between herself and her mentor, gripping the last one's belt with her fangs. The white wolf dragged him to the ledge, causing him to plummet, but Korn herself went overboard.
"KORN, NO!" Mary wailed as her white companion began to drop.
Cura quickly reached down and pulled the canid aspect of Mara by the scruff of her neck. The wolf dangled over the railing as the Vigilant struggled to pull her back up. Carcette grabbed hold of Cura and helped her hoist Korn back onto the bridge. Mary cut around Mirabelle and Savos, and hurried to her wolf's side.
As soon as Korn was back in place, she affectionately began to lick Cura's face. Cura wrapped her arms around the loyal wolf and giggled in response to her gratitude. "You're welcome, Korn."
Sabrina laughed from the side. "For real; she almost became Korn on the Cob." she pointed to a jagged rock that she saw jutting up from the abyss.
"Must you really?" Sir Amiel rebuked her jest.
"I'm sorry, but it had to be said," Sabrina conceded. "Besides, we're in Coldharbour; why shouldn't I attempt to lighten the mood? I mean, we're very likely going to encounter something atrocious down there, so..."
A figure lurked in the shadows some distance away on a higher ledge. An Alessian Archer, an he began to draw his bow. Nocking an arrow, he began to try and steady his aim on Cura.
Mary approached the wolf and gently began to stroke her. "We've been separated for thousands of years, Korn; we can't go through that again." The wolf squeaked in response to her master's touch and they shared an embrace of relief. Mary turned to the very vigilant Vigilant. "Thank you, Cura."
Cura nodded. "Don't mention it." She surveyed the area, keeping her eyes peeled for any more trouble. Bourlor swiftly nocked an arrow on his bow and loosed it into the darkness. They heard the sound of a demon choking as an Alessian fell from a cliff higher up from their level.
Mirabelle noticed this immediately, as she stood beside him. "Not a bad shot. I daresay you would give Inigo a run for his money."
Bourlor proudly twirled his bow. "With good Kynareth's Blessing, my aim will forever be true."
Cura watched as the figure, plus his bow and set of arrows fell into the gaping pit. She turned to look at Bourlor, impressed. "Wow; thank you. I didn't see him!"
Bourlor waved it off. "Let us keep moving; there's no telling how many things are going to try and catch us off-guard in this place."
Aria, flanked by Mary and Korn, maintained a discreet presence and a hushed tone within the confines of the narrow stone corridors. Clutching her spider-emblazoned rapier, she moved with a stooped back, skulking in the penumbrae. "The Nenyond Priory..." she murmured, her voice a faint susurration, "I recall tales of this place. It is said they interred their deceased within the catacombs below the priory. Should Coldharbour have replicated it..."
Varla cut her off unceremoniously. "You're correct - and you suppose there will be skeletons lurking about."
"Yes." Aria nodded. "But I am not afraid. Our party is well-equipped to handle the likes of those." She kept a close eye on Dawnbreaker: the blade which the undead dreaded, and she looked at Mary and Korn.
Mary smiled to her old friend. "Good, Aria; we will prevail. Of that you can be certain."
"Oh, but you're not at full power, Lady Mara - or should I say, 'Mary,'" Aria said, correcting herself. "You remain vulnerable until your bond with Aetherius is restored."
Hearing this, Cura could sympathize with Mary's plight; she herself was divided now. She wondered if perhaps the missing sensation she felt within herself from the absence of her Dragon Soul was similar to how Mara must have felt for millennia; after all, a piece of herself, divided into two separate entities, was lost in Coldharbour, irretrievable to the Mother of Nirn.
The reality of the situation filled Cura with deep sorrow; if Mara could suffer such a fate, what hope remained for the inhabitants of Tamriel?
Mary remained silent, acknowledging the truth in Aria's words. With Korn by her side, she stroked the smooth white fur of her loyal wolf companion. They followed in the footsteps of Sir Amiel and Bourlor, who themselves were behind Cura, Carcette, Sabrina, Savos, and Mirabelle. Bringing up the rear were Varla and Maram, vigilant as ever.
Varla touched the Amulet of Mara around his neck, and Sabrina caught notice of it. "Huh. Is that an Amulet of Mara? I'm surprised someone like you isn't spoken for." A wide smirk spread across her face as she tempted fate by mocking the Man-Hunter.
"Silence, you wretch." Varla retorted, sneering as he attempted to instinctively hide it beneath his chestplate, but to no avail. The cheeky Redguard couldn't help but chuckle at his predicament.
"Oh, come on, I was only joking!" Sabrina said, attempting to dismiss the tension with a casual flick of her hand, but another chuckle escaped her. "But seriously, if Mara is indeed your mother, then sporting her Amulet might just earn you the title of 'Mama's boy,' don't you think?"
Varla stopped sharply in his tracks and paused for a second. "This is neither the time, nor the place for your idiocy." he sneered at her again, his face growing redder by the second underneath his helmet. He gave up trying to hide the Amulet, as it would not go without breaking.
"Yeah, whatever you say, Varla the Mama's-Boy." Sabrina walked a bit further ahead and he growled angrily in response. More embarrassing still, the others were chuckling at her comments.
"And this is why I have, and will always prefer the company of dogs." Varla sneered, citing this interaction to justify his hatred of people.
Due to Sabrina's calling attention to it, Maram observed the Amulet around his neck now, as well. "I take it you found that in our Cavern Temple?" It amused him, but he decided not to press the matter.
Korn barked at Varla and panted amiably as she turned to accompany him. Initially hesitant, he reached out and gently stroked the wolf behind her ear, just as he would with his own hounds. "I still don't fully understand the connection between the two of you; it's very bizarre."
Cura heard him and proposed her own theory. "I suppose it would be like the connection between Clavicus Vile and Barbas - no offense, Mary. I mean no disrespect."
The Breton woman shook her head. "None taken; it is quite an astute observation. We are indeed linked in such a manner." she sighed for a moment. "When we leave Coldharbour and see Aetherius, I suppose... well..." she cut herself off. "Nevermind. We'll discuss the matters later."
Carcette kept her eye on the paths ahead, and stayed by Cura. "Aetherius... my entire life, I've dreamt of seeing it. The Patriarch and the Archbishop of Bhoriane would often encourage the youth to seek it. As I have encouraged you. Now, the idea of entering it, potentially - well - it is nothing short of incredible."
Cura nodded. "I've already been to Sovngarde; Shor's Realm. It was magnificent."
"Then Vigilant Tolan and Brother Adalvald will have much to look forward to." Carcette smiled as she thought to her closest friends. Her mind drifted to her own future. She was likely going to end up in Jyggalag's Library for eternity, given that she was sacrificed to him. It was not quite the afterlife she'd hoped for, but at the very least she was going to see Aetherius before the hour of her death - even setting foot in it. The honour was sufficient enough.
Sabrina looked at a banner hanging from a nearby wall; it was crimson, and emblazoned with golden thread depicting a golden upside-down triangle with three eyes in its center formed in a straight line. "Spooky. How could these people be so dumb? Their own banners look evil, for crying out loud!"
Savos Aren concurred, "Indeed, but it's possible they took pleasure in their malevolence. Not everyone seeks virtue in our world. Magic, and power itself, are frequently exploited for selfish ends. All that you witness here in Coldharbour embodies this—the ambition, the greed, the cruelty. It's a voracious appetite that consumes both the innocent and the guilty."
Mirabelle scoffed as she walked alongside the Arch-Mage. "I frankly am surprised we haven't seen the likes of Ancano down here."
Cura advanced into a marginally more spacious area veiled in shadows. Preparing to conjure a Magelight, she paused at the sound of scuffling. Staying discreet, she gripped Dawnbreaker firmly, finding solace in its hold. The sword had been her faithful companion since she claimed it from the defeated Malkoran at Meridia's Temple. It had been her ally through countless challenging ordeals. She cherished it deeply.
Cura beckoned her allies to follow her lead, hushing them as she navigated silently, uncertain as to what lurked in the large patch of shadow adjacent to a brazier.
As they dredged further into the blackened, dimly lit halls of the priory, they were aghast by the sight of something gleaming under the brazier some distance away. A towering colossus of skeletal remains, each bone a testament to a life once lived and now consumed by darkness. It moved with a cacophony of clattering, the sound of a thousand deaths marching in unison, a relentless rhythm that heralded doom. Its hollow eye sockets, deep and endless, blazed with a malevolent fire, casting a ghastly glow that danced across the twisted landscape.
The fiend's limbs, a grotesque assembly of femurs, ribs, and skulls, reached out as if to snatch the souls of the living to add to its ghastly form. The very air around it seemed to wither, as though life itself recoiled in horror from its touch. This demonic entity, pieced together from the remnants of the forgotten dead, was not merely walking—it was a parade of terror, a procession of the damned.
Sir Amiel pointed at it and shuddered. "A Shambles Lord!"
Cura, without hesitation, brandished Dawnbreaker. "Soon to be simply shambles." Without warning, she leapt forward, followed with magical flames loosed by her allies against the fiend. Her charge gave them confidence, and Varla, Sir Amiel, Carcette and Sabrina assaulted it with melee attacks.
This demonic entity, a macabre tapestry of skeletal remains, moved with a chilling grace, its bones clacking together in a symphony of death. The ground itself seemed to moan in despair as the Shambles approached, its skeletal jaws opening to burn the group with a malevolent blue fire.
Cura, with a heart steeled by righteous fury, raised the radiant Dawnbreaker high, its light piercing the suffocating darkness. The blade, a sliver of dawn in a land bereft of hope, hummed with power as Cura charged forward. The Shambles, undeterred by the holy light, lashed out with limbs made of the bones of the fallen, each strike seeking to snuff out life's delicate flame.
The clash was titanic, echoing through the forsaken landscape as metal met bone. Sparks flew, casting eerie shadows as Dawnbreaker cleaved through the Shambles' limbs, only for them to reform as if woven by unseen, sinister forces. The air crackled with dark magic, the Shambles' presence corrupting the very essence of the world around it.
Yet, Cura did not falter. With each swing of Dawnbreaker, she severed the tendrils of darkness that bound the bones together. The Shambles writhed and howled, a cacophony of anguished spirits that were trapped within its form. A second one joined it upon hearing the commotion and half of the group dispersed to cover it. The battle raged on, the group fighting against an overwhelming tide of darkness.
Bourlor fired arrow after arrow from a safe distance, locking the second fiend's joints in place, preventing it from extending its arms, and Mary and Korn shone their brilliant healing light upon the group, mending the wounds they'd received.
But the Vigilant's resolve was unbreakable, her swings unwavering. Dawnbreaker's glow became a tempest, banishing the shadows with each passing moment. She drove Dawnbreaker straight into the core of the Shambles Lord's being and the blue fires of Meridia engulfed it, and an explosion of holy light consumed the room, destroying the second one as well.
"What the hell was that? Were those?" Sabrina inquired with fright. "I've been here a while, but I've never seen anything that messed up!"
"And yet you've seen the Thrassian Plague." Cura widened her eyes.
"Well, a plague is a plague. This was something else entirely." Sabrina protested.
Cura shook her head. "It was frightening, certainly, but next to Alduin, or the Eye of Magnus, or even Harkon, it was nothing."
Carcette agreed. "I suppose you're right when you put it that way. Just remember that things like these are the reason that spawned the Vigil." She examined the various corpses that were strewn together to form this demonic construct and shook her head.
Mirabelle shuddered lightly, giving her upper body a shake to get out the chill she was feeling. "Oog. Perhaps we ought to keep moving on - who knows what lies in wait?"
Savos agreed. "Whatever lurks beyond that door," he gestured towards the skeletal door within a small shadowed hallway. "we will certainly be better off catching off-guard." He waved his hands and cast a Muffle spell on the party, enabling them to walk silently into the next area.
In the heart of the Priory, they found the remnants of a chapel, its altar shattered, the Divines' effigies defaced. In their place, bearing their icons, were hooded skeletal sculptures with their hands clasped together in prayer surrounding a bonfire. On approach, they vanished and the ground shook beneath their feet. Extending upwards were temple walls which seemed to form a small maze. It was here that the line between the living and the dead blurred. Ghostly apparitions flitted through the upper walls, their ethereal whispers a litany of regret and longing. Cura raised her sword, its blade glowing with a pale light, casting long shadows that danced with the specters.
The hooded skeleton statues reemerged, each facing away from the group; however, their baleful presence exerted a force of darkness around them. Any who touched them were stung with the pain of darkness.
Striking them proved futile, so the group elected to keep their distance in spite of their sudden apparitions. With each corner of the maze turned, there appeared to be new rising walls to block their progress, to Cura's chagrin. She spun around and narrowly avoided contact with one of the odd sculptures. Looking at its skeletal face sent shivers down her spine, especially for how close it was in proximity to her.
She could feel herself growing tired with each passing second and hurried away from it. When one wall closed in on her, another opened, causing her and her party to essentially U-turn back to the entrance, where they saw a new opening in the raised wall beside the bonfire. They proceeded through it and around another macabre statue. Though, it seemed to be like these sculptures were shadowing their steps.
This was all so bizarre, and Cura was beginning to feel incredibly uncomfortable, as though something were lurking about; omnipresent; watching her and her allies from beyond the shadows. "Keeper, do you feel that something is... off?"
Carcette nodded and clenched her fingers tightly around the shaft of her warhammer. "I certainly do. Watch yourself, Cura. Even in the Lion's Den, this is the Lion's Den. I feel incredible malice in the air."
When they reached the bony door at the end of the labyrinth, they came upon a catacombs with coffins lain in the walls. A skeleton hung over the second door leading towards a long hallway. He wore a special medallion around his wrist, and some of his flesh hung from his shin. It appeared to have a magical glow around it, and lake water dripped from the corpse.
Varla stared at the remains for a few moments. "This skeleton smells like Lake Rumare." He looked to Aria and Maram for confirmation. "Tell me if I'm mad."
Aria came close and shook her head, while Maram nodded. "No, you're not mad," she whispered. "it certainly has that distinctive mossy odour. What could this mean?"
"I think it may be related to the Alessians, as usual, if I were to guess." Sir Amiel shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps one of their own who lived by the Lake and was executed."
As they ventured into the narrow catacombs, a figure emerged in the distance: a skeleton, pitch-black, with eyes of icy blue, started to glide toward them. Sabrina let out a scream and took refuge behind Sir Amiel, exclaiming, "WHAT IN THE WORLD IS THAT?! WHAT IS IT?"
Sir Amiel clenched his new unfamiliar sword in both hands and fear took hold of him, firmly planting his legs onto the ground.
Carcette took a step back, herself. "A tormented wraith, perhaps."
Cura's eyes grew wide with alarm as she lunged forward, Dawnbreaker in hand, aiming for the specter. The blade passed through without effect, and a wave of fatigue washed over her. As the skeleton's head eerily turned to the right, its jaw spread open wide and a bloodcurdling, chilling scream echoed, as if it came from a man who had been tortured for ages.
Overwhelmed by a sudden and intense fear, Cura's visions were consumed by flames. The courage that had sustained her until now vanished, replaced by primal instinct. A scream of terror escaped her as she bolted up the stairs. As the catacombs shook, coffins tumbled from their niches, their grim contents revealed as they crashed down and blocked the pathway behind her, between herself and her group. Isolated from her companions, Cura navigated the tight corridors, her thoughts a whirlwind of panic. Enormous skeletal figures clad in the robes of hooded priests seemed to glide across the floor, ominously silent in their pursuit, driving her forward. But to what end?
Dark fingers coiled along the walls, forming shadows in the brazier's glow. The crevices resembled bolts of lightning, while dust and sand swirled like ashes, overwhelming and oppressive, closing in. Cura sprinted tirelessly, yet the catacombs stretched on without end. Skeletons with faces twisted in torment reached out to her, their gestures one of pain and desperation, as if suffocating, ensnared in their eternal struggle.
A corner turned, a life lost, a stair climbed, a day gone, a coffin fallen, a light extinguished. Dust rained from the ceiling as she sprinted. Large statues loomed condemningly, praying for her to turn away; this is the end, they seemed to say. At the end of the hall; a dead end; was a room behind a skeletal door. Fire's orange glow peeked through the bones, and Cura opened the door seeking shelter from the nightmare of the catacombs.
She paused for a moment to compose herself, taking a deep breath. She found herself in a rectangular chamber, its floor littered with scattered bones. In the room's heart blazed a bonfire, within which a skeleton was bound to a chair, consumed by the fire's embrace. Suspended above was a macabre chandelier, crafted from skeletons hung in reverse, their arms reaching down towards the inferno. A single droplet of water landed on Cura's hood, drawing her gaze upwards.
"Free me, free me from this everlasting torment; I beg of you!" A hoarse voice from the shadows implored her for attention. Above the doorway, the dark skeleton, soaked with lake water, descended. Its eyes, an icy blue, glowed as it hovered toward Cura, seemingly pulled by the magnetic force of her spirit.
Cura attempted to escape, but she found herself disoriented, colliding with walls and veering into the fire - everywhere she intended not to go. She floundered, as if her eyes were no longer her own. It was as though she had traded vision with the skeleton tied to the chair in the bonfire, witnessing her own movements through its hollow gaze. The world around Cura was dark and disorienting. As she attempted to escape her shadowy pursuer, she stumbled and found herself on a staircase to the east of the room. With determination, she hauled herself up the steps while the world seemed to spin and shift, giving her a surreal view of herself ascending the staircase.
When she reached the top of the stairs she found herself in another room with more skeletal statues and a large bonelike door. When she approached the door, it opened by itself, giving way to several more skeletal doors which opened one after the next in a frighteningly tight hallway extending forwards. Just as well, she certainly had no intention of moving backwards.
All this for a ring.
To reach the Volkihar Castle again.
"I hate my life." Cura grumbled, her voice a cocktail of dread and irritation, as she trudged down the corridor with all the enthusiasm of a snail facing a salt trail.
As she gingerly walked through the tall arched doors, she came upon a final room; one with a proper altar decorated with statues depicting the praying skeletal priests. Surrounding the altar were four burning braziers, and the altar itself was on a raised platform, carved of solid stone. Atop the altar was a sarcophagus, and therein lay a skeleton with its legs crossed, in a meditative pose.
Cura's heart was throbbing in her chest: each beat a countdown to whatever horror was about to beset her next.
As Cura approached, it sprang to life, and began to hover over the coffin.
"I... am Manthar... who dares disrupt my eternal rest?" the skeleton hissed as his eyes fell upon Cura. As soon as he saw the Amulet of Stendarr before her breast, he screeched like a beast. With a wave of his hands, skeletons began to emerge from the walls surrounding the shrine.
Author's Note: For this boss fight, "Sword of the Berserk Guts' Rage - Niko battle OST" thanks for reading :)
The necromancer began to glow an eerie red as he launched balls of dark energy towards Cura. She was light on her feet, and her adrenaline was through the roof. She sprang almost superhumanly, slaying the Skeletons around her with Dawnbreaker. The blue flames burst, engulfing Manthar and the other skeletons in the room, eating away at them.
Each swing of the holy sword sent forth waves of purging light, disintegrating the undead with Meridia's, and Cura's divine fury. The minions, once soldiers of flesh and blood, now but puppets to Manthar's will, fell in droves, their brittle forms shattering upon the Priory's ancient stone floors.
But they keep on coming, reviving from the dust of the ground surrounding them, the clatter of bone on bone echoed like a macabre symphony, the relentless pursuit of the skeletal horde unyielding. Each skeleton, a grotesque marionette animated by Manthar's malevolence, moved with a chilling purpose, their hollow eye sockets fixed upon their prey. Their jaws chattered as they grabbed hold of the weakened Dragonborn from every angle.
With eevry stride, Cura was stiffened and pulled at by the hands of the damned, seeking to drag her kicking and screaming into the abyss with them for eternity.
The dark Wizard Manthar, specter of malice and decay, continued to conjure eldritch spells from the beyond, his skeletal fingers weaving a tapestry of death. Dark energy crackled in the air, a stark contrast to the sanctified glow of Dawnbreaker. The very stones of the Priory wept with the weight of this unhallowed presence, as if mourning the desecration of their sacred grounds.
Cura, undeterred by the overwhelming odds, called upon her unwavering faith. "Stendarr, I call upon you! With your Sacred Light, banish these fiends!" Her voice, a clarion call, resonated through the crypts, bolstering her spirit. A golden light shimmered forth from her, dusting off the skeletal foes which surrounded her, like fire to paper. With each fallen minion, the power binding Manthar's skeletal form weakened, the chains of necromancy loosening their hold.
The wizard's skeletal remains, a grotesque mockery of life, continued to fight with a desperation born of eternal servitude. His skull, crowned with a circlet of corrupted power, glared with eyes that burned with an unholy fire. Yet, for all his dark might, the relentless assault of Dawnbreaker's light proved too much. He tried to flee, levitating backwards, but there was nowhere he could escape to. His bones cracked and crumbled, the remnants of his ancient form succumbing to the relentless tide of Cura's onslaught.
With the final blow delivered, silence descended upon Nenyond's Priory. Dawnbreaker's light throbbed thrice, a symbol of hope amidst the engulfing shadows. The skeletal fragments of Wizard Manthar lay strewn about, evidence of the Vigilant's power and Dawnbreaker's relentless radiance. His bones were entirely devoured by Dawnbreaker's holy fire, augmented by Stendarr's Aura. In the quietude, Cura remained, a solitary candle in the gloom.
She shut her eyes and let out a breath, sensing the oppressive shadows recede from the room and, consequently, from the Priory. "The nightmare is over." she assured herself. Then, amidst the ashes on the floor, something captured her attention - a ring. It was a gleaming black piece, with an eye etched into its setting. There was no need for guesses; she recognized it by instinct.
The Sithis' Eye Ring!
Cura bent down and picked it up from the ashes and held it up to try and catch the very faint light of the hallway. The eye glowed in the darkness eerily, sending chills down her spine. "With this, I can talk to the Black Hand..." she reminded herself of her purpose. "And head to the Island off the Coast... get Sir Ralvas' head back... and then, he'll bring me to Jhunal's Library, where I'll learn how to retrieve my Dragon Soul. And then I can tear down the Northwestern Barrier Tower... and from there... will the border around Sacremnor break?"
She shook it off. First things first. She would handle it in stride.
Suddenly, a chill came over the air. Cura began to look around, and descending from the ceiling was the black skeleton from earlier, his eyes glowing blue still. She immediately drew Dawnbreaker. "Are you serious?!" she grit her teeth as she prepared for another fight.
The skeleton levitated some distance away. "I am not here to fight you... I have come to thank you..." it hissed from its throat. Water continued to drip from its bones. Suddenly, the ashes from the room began to whirl around him and began to take on the appearance of flesh, and then becoming flesh itself. When his body finished reconstructing itself, he was a man of modest red and gold-coloured Alessian robes, with a light brown beard and a receding hairline. He appeared Nedic in his race.
Cura, no longer sensing a threat, sheathed Dawnbreaker on her hip. "Who are you?" It was plain to see that he was different in temperament to the other Alessians she'd encountered thus far. Perhaps he could be reasoned with.
"I am Abbot Silorn," the man began. His voice was soft and kind-sounding. Pleasant to the ear. "yes. I am an Alessian Abbot. Like Cosmas. I was the founder of the Marukhati Selectives."
"Wait; I believe I've read about you before. You - you're the one who saved the baby from drowning in Lake Rumare, are you not?" Cura inquired. She recalled reading about such a thing, in the "Eight Saints of Cyrod." Varla as a baby was nearly murdered by the Alessians who scorned his heritage, but Abbot Silorn leapt into the Lake and rescued him. Cura reachd into her satchel and brought out the book and read the entry text: "One of the founders of the Marukhati Selectives. They say he saved a drowning baby from the lake Rumare, just as Marukh's prophecy foretold. He went into the depths of the ancient ruins to search for the missing Nenyond and Manthar, but after a few days, only his skin returned to the surface. As a result, the entire underground priory and the excavated ruins were sealed."
Nenyond. Manthar. Ruins.
"Gods... what happened?" Cura inquired.
"My two good friends betrayed me, and sacrificed me to the shard of the Red Stone they found here." Silorn explained. "I have been trapped, in torment, for thousands of years - but I was much more unfortunate than most of the Soul-Shriven in this land... I have been lucid in my suffering." he looked down upon the ashes of Manthar. "Manthar was one of our great architects and a powerful mage. Nenyond was a feudal lord in eastern Cyrod; he did not truly believe much in our cause, but he craved the influence that it brought."
Cura nodded. "As is often the case, I suppose. What will you do now that you're free?"
Abbot Silorn scratched his beard and paced the floor. "I do not quite know. I have been trapped for so long, now... I had entirely given up on hope of repose - until you entered. A fresh face; one not of the Order. One follower of Stendarr, the proclaimed "God of Mercy." I wagered that if anybody would be willing to help me, it would be you."
"A bold assumption. I also follow Meridia." Cura warned him. "She does not deal in mercy towards the undead. At least, not unless it's an incredibly special circumstance. Your wager could have gone very poorly."
"Indeed; but I do not regret it. I thank you, again." Abbot Silorn lowered his head humbly. "I suppose I will go to Mathmalatu Priory, at the Waterfront District, if it still remains?"
It was a bold assumption, but not a strange one. After all, this part of Coldharbour was modeled after the world of his time. Cura nodded, confirming it. "Yes, it is. And there's a little Khajiit girl there, called Atima. If you want to do me a kindness, take care of her, until it's time to leave Coldharbour."
"Leave Coldharbour? What a fanciful idea." Abbot Silorn scoffed in disbelief. "Nobody leaves Coldharbour, my dear. Not even Molag Bal himself."
"Not until now." Cura reassured him, pressuring down her point. "I guess I'll have to be the first."
The Abbot stared at her in silence for a few moments, before he came to a realization. "Oh... you're serious?"
Cura nodded. "I am serious, 110%. I swear it upon my honour as the Last Dragonborn. I will free you, and any who wish to leave this realm."
Abbot Silorn's eyes flared in that instant. "The... the Last Dragonborn, you say? Like our Lady Alessia?" When Cura nodded in response, he examined her face. "An Ayleid? No... perhaps a mixed race; a Breton? Why would Akatosh..." he paced the floor for a few moments. "...I see. I see, that... that makes sense. Quite unexpectedly. But, as Akatosh wills it, so shall it be." he sighed. "I told them. I told them we could never truly rid Akatosh of his Elven aspect. They killed me for saying it, labelled it as blasphemy. I would never Blaspheme the One!"
"What were they thinking?" Cura asked, now that she had one member of the group which fractured Akatosh within her grasp.
Abbot Silorn hid his face in shame. "It became our goal to reverse the error of Sanctus Primus... and restore Ak-at-Osh to humanadic purity."
"The Middle Dawn." Cura recounted the event. "The day the Dragon Broke."
Tears began to bead in the corners of the Abbot's eyes. "It was a mistake! Those fools knew not what they were doing! They allowed their hatred to blind them to the truth!"
Cura raised her hand. "Hold on a second - you helped found the Marukhati Selectives, right? That means you met Marukh? But the Middle Dawn happened after he died... long, long after. Centuries."
"Death is illusion." Abbot Silorn informed her. "We are among the dead now, and are we not speaking?"
When she considered his point, it made sense. "I... I guess the Alessians revived him, somehow." In the world she lived in, such things were not so uncommon, if Alduin taught her anything when he revived Sahlokniir, or when she resurrected Voslaarum and Naaslaarum.
"Can you explain to me the proper-life is taint-death thing?" Cura asked. "It makes no sense to me at all."
Abbot Silorn nodded and clasped his hands together over his abdomen. "Yes; I suppose to the uninitiated, it would sound quite confusing. Those Alessian doctrines asserted that Shezarr is "Singularly Misplaced and therefore Doubly Venerated". His being the only one absent made his influence over us greater than were he present like the others. The concept of "Proper-Life," as articulated by Prophet Marukh, is nurtured through "monothought" - a singular desire adapted by a large enough group, utilizing the old magics - and aims to eradicate the Aldmeri Taint from Akatosh. Fundamentally, we as a collective—excluding myself—deemed it essential to intervene in the mortal realm to accomplish the sacred objective of purging this taint, asserting that "Akatosh is Time is Proper-Life is Taint-Death." By eliminating the impurities from time, we would have eradicated age, eradicated death. Everyone would have achieved true life; immortality. A life without growing old and dying from age."
Cura's eyes widened and her mouth hung open as it suddenly began to make some sense. "Ahhh, I see. So, the thought was that if everybody in unison changed Akatosh's nature it would affect Time itself, and remove the corruption from it. Then people would live forever like the gods do."
"Precisely." Abbot Silorn nodded.
"Wow. Why couldn't Inquisitor Pepe just lead with that?" Cura folded her arms, her annoyance evident.
"Cura!" Carcette shouted as she came running into the chamber, followed by Mirabelle, Savos, Sir Amiel, Bourlor, Sabrina, Mary, Korn, Maram, Aria, and Varla.
Cura spun around when she heard her voice. "Keeper!"
Carcette embraced Cura at the center of the room. "We had to find an alternate route - the entire upper floors of the catacombs fell upon itself. Are you well?"
"Physically, of course. Mentally? Perhaps when I return to Nirn." Cura admitted sardonically. She presented the Sithis' Eye Ring to everybody. "Here it is - a necromancer had it. I defeated him. And, er, this is Abbot Silorn. The Marukhati Selective-"
"I know who he is. he was a friend of Nenyond - the lord whose fort I took over when he disappeared. And a Marukhati Selective." Varla stepped forward. "He was the man who saved my life, when I was a babe."
Mary walked closer to Abbot Silorn. "Thank you for that. For saving my son in my absence." She took his hands gently into her own and smiled tenderly at him.
Abbot Silorn's eyes widened when he saw Mary, Korn, Maram, and Aria. "The Mara worshippers! I anticipated seeing the two of you here, for all the carnage you've wrought," he pointed an accusatory finger at Maram and Aria, who both shifted awkwardly, and then he looked at Mary. "but you... the woman who healed the boy who was sick with the plague... a dreadful shame what the Inquisitor had done. It was not Tamriel's brightest day. But I must say, this land is made brighter by your appearance." After scanning the group, the Abbot turned to Cura and then addressed the others. "I take it this group follows your lead? You all truly believe that Coldharbour can be escaped?"
"Hey, it's worth a shot." Sabrina shrugged her shoulders. "If it amounts to nothing, then it amounts to nothing. We go back to moping in our little corners."
Sir Amiel continued, "But if it is true, and we can do it, we would be fools to ignore the opportunity of a new life."
Carcette folded her arms and stood at Cura's side. "It will happen. Cura is going to return to Nirn. If Jyggalag says it is so, it will happen."
"Jyggalag?" Abbot Silorn's eyes widened. "What heresy is this? You base your decisions off the words of a Daedric Prince? A Daimon?"
"Who better to understand how Oblivion works?" Carcette pointed out.
The Abbot was on the verge of a retort, yet he recognized that he had little ground to argue, given that his own convictions had brought him to Coldharbour in the first place. Thus, he chose silence.
Cura placed a hand on his shoulder. "Return to the Mathmalatu Priory. When it's time, we will come back for you, and for Atima. Perhaps you'd like to see the Fourth Era?"
Abbot Silorn looked up at her, and then at her group, and nodded. "Very well. I will await your signal. Thank you, Dragonborn."
The group ascended the steps of the unforgiving labyrinth of bodies and coffins, returning from whence they came. The air was far calmer, now; the evil was cleansed from the Priory, and it was restful, presumably as it was in ancient times.
Gloriel and Sir Ralvas greeted the party when they emerged, and Cura was ready to set off for the Cemetery of Arkay, due to the Northern cliffs. The reunion was brief, and Mirabelle and Savos filled them in on what occurred. Abbot Silorn began his walk to the south, to head to the Mathmalatu Priory, as promised.
Coldharbour itself was upset with her, but that was okay; she did not seek the Daedra's approval; she sought their destruction. So the feeling was very much mutual. As she looked upon the top of the tower, looming above the world, she nodded.
"You're slipping, Molag Bal," she murmured with a chuckle to the Lord of Domination, her voice a mix of defiance and mirth as she confidently strode northward.