Dragon from Ash

by Mortigaunt

"I may be Dunmer, but I am the Dragonborn, and I will defend your people whether they like it or not." Expands on Skyrim. Features fleshed out characters, content from earlier games and apocrypha, alternate choices and consequences for actions. WARNING: Contains mature content, including sexual themes, violence, and in-depth examinations of lore.

9. Chapter 9 - Serana

Chapter 9 – Serana

Before

She remembered innocence…

Sneaking through the gardens, beautiful, striking flowers set against stone and snow. Jumping out in front of her mother, pale and slender in the half-light, reading by the moondial, smiling and spreading her arms upon seeing her daughter. Sitting beside her father, bearded and smiling, leading a hall full of his men in joyous song. Learning Aldmeris, the tongue spoken by the elves to the west, at her mother's insistence. Learning why when her mother gave her a book of Aldmer poetry; the songs of Alinor and Firsthold, spun from sunlight and star-glass. Plucking out a few clumsy notes on an old warped lute; her joy when her father had a gorgeous new one shipped from Solitude. Watching the last of the great sky-whales, who had followed brave Ysgramor from Atmora, frolic in the clouds. Casting her first spell at dinner, and the laughter on her parents' faces when she set the tablecloth on fire. Greeting the subjects as they bowed low before her, done up in her finest clothing on her name-day.

…and its end.

Her father, beard trimmed short and going grey, hunched over a burned scrap of paper mumbling words. When he saw her, he spoke harshly, ordering her to return to her room. Beside him, her mother, face drawn, whispering spells she had never seen before. Commoners, no longer smiling, paying their tithes to her father with terror in their eyes. Strange men and women, and a chamber in the castle where she was never to go. Her proposed marriage going nowhere, her betrothed offering no explanation and her parents mocking his weakness. The name of Molag Bal, and the oaths she was expected to swear. Her mother, fussing over her hair as she had not done since she was a child, telling her how beautiful she looked. The long walk, through empty rooms and cold corridors. Her father, standing among the bodies, beckoning her forward. The altar, and upon it—

She did not dream, but in the instant after the stone closed around her and her mother's face was lost from view, she remembered.

---

The vampires had Adalvald completely at their mercy, but by the sound of it were getting nowhere with their interrogation. Lydia knew that a strong mind could resist the seduction of a vampire for longer, though she had never heard of someone who could not be turned eventually. For the moment, however, the vampires seemed entirely unaware of the two mortals on the ledge above. They were hiding in a building that covered most of one huge wall; it had likely been a grand structure once, but only the stone skeleton remained. The stairs down to the floor were treacherous in their age, as Lydia could testify, having almost tripped while descending to their current vantage point. The room itself was something incredible. It was a huge cavern, dominated by a lake with an island rising from the center. The island was covered in ruins of some style she had never seen; a huge circular stone floor studded with plinths and surrounded by arches. There was some sort of pattern on the floor, and the entire thing gave off a most disquieting air. Velandryn also seemed ill at ease, though that could well have been because of the foes below. They had not encountered any draugr since passing through the gate; the crypts must have ended back there, though these caves went deeper still. That single thrall had been the only foe they faced, and now it seemed the rest of their enemies were gathered before them. The vampire with the swords, the subordinate, was pacing impatiently, while the other, in more ornate armor and carrying no weapons, was overseeing the Vigilant. The thralls were holding the Vigilant in place, and all four had their attention anywhere but where it should have been. They are convinced they outsmarted us, so they got sloppy. It was the weakness of vampires, she knew. They were convinced that they were better than mortals, so if you let them think they had the upper hand, they would take it without question.

Behind them, the thrall came stumbling down. He took the stairs clumsily, and on taking the landing, almost looked as though he might fall. He kept going, however, and managed to reach the ground while still relatively upright. Once on level footing, he stumbled towards the vampires who had made him a living tool.

The pacing vampire noticed him first. "Were we followed? Have you slain them?" the thrall shambled closer, and Lydia held her breath. It was uncomfortable, relying on the thrall like this, but could have been worse. At least it wasn't her out there.

The vampire closed with the thrall, and Lydia wondered which he would notice first. The gash across the thrall's neck that still dripped blood, or the unnatural sheen of his skin and armor, glistening and slick in the half-light. She was no weak-kneed civilian to turn pale at the first sign of blood, but she could not help feeling faintly ill as she recalled what Velandryn had done to the corpse. If it worked, however…

The vampire must have realized something was wrong, for he recoiled from the body with all the speed his inhuman abilities could grant. He was too late, however, as their trap was sprung. His trap, in truth. It was a horrifying and unconventional use of their resources, and a darker part of her admired him for it.

The bolt of flame was of middling strength, Lydia estimated, cast for speed rather than intensity. It took less than a second to span the gap between master and puppet, whose final act was to lurch forward, as if to embrace the nearer vampire. The other, the master, rose and stretched out his hand in a furious gesture. Lydia wondered if he knew what was going to happen, or just understood that something was terribly wrong. And it was wrong, what they had done. Her thane could claim that using a corpse in battle was fully in keeping with his people's beliefs, but to Lydia, it was abhorrent. When they had stood over the body of the thrall and Velandryn had noticed the lamps full of unlit oil hanging from the ceiling, he had formulated his plan. As he was elbow-deep in the dead man's entrails, sawing and pulling, she had understood. And when he mended the flesh around the oil he had poured into the space where the man's insides had been, forming a fleshy sack that held a great quantity of the flammable mixture, she had nearly upended the contents of her stomach onto the floor. Soon enough, though, the puppet had been ready. And now, the nameless, luckless Nord who had been a vampire's thrall was getting revenge on his former masters in the most dramatic fashion possible.

Velandryn had had nearly half a jug of the oil left after filling the interior sack, so he had poured it all over the thrall's skin and armor. When the fireball hit, the oil went up in an instant, and Lydia ducked into cover. Beside her, Velandryn was doing the same. The dead flesh was soaked through with oil, and it took only a second for the heat to work its way within. The explosion was deafening, and the blast of heat was palpable even in her cover. When she checked over the low barrier, it was to witness a scene of carnage. He did it. She glanced at her thane, who was gazing at the devastation with eager eyes. For him this is no horror, only the victory.

---

It was everything Velandryn had hoped for and more. He had angled the fire bolt squarely for the back, where he applied the oil more liberally than elsewhere. Given that he had had ample time to take the shot and was also controlling the dead thrall's movement, it had been a perfect impact. As a result, though the flames spread over the body quickly, they first reached the reservoir within from the back, meaning that the initial combustion projected the oil forward before igniting as well. It was a glorious fountain of flame, a cone spreading outward and upward in a thousand burning streams that splashed on the stone or on flesh, living or dead. He felt a momentary stab of pity for Vigilant Adalvald, but quashed it quickly. The human had chosen a life of zealotry and fanaticism, and if he died here, he would at the very least have assisted in the killing of a true threat.

The conflagration burned brightly, and Velandryn could make out no hint of how effective it had been. Where the thrall and the nearer vampire had been, he could see a few burning chunks of some indeterminate material, and beyond that was some large shape, perhaps the master vampire, or one of the stones. All was aflame, and he waited for the fire to die. Let it burn. If any live, they will only grow weaker. If they are fighting the flames, they must fight longer. And if they were already dead, well, with vampires it never hurt to make sure. Or so the books say. He was putting much of his reading to the test since coming to Skyrim.

As the fire died, the large shape became clearer. It was a dome of shimmering energy, opaque to the eye, and it occupied the space where the master vampire had stood before the trap was sprung. Lydia moved up beside him, awkwardly holding the crossbow Injard had tossed her. The flames danced along the dome's surface, but they could not penetrate whatever energy was being used to project it. It was not unheard of to mitigate a spell, but to block it entirely like this was truly high-level magecraft. Velandryn drew out a potion that fortified his magicka reserves and another that served as a broad-spectrum magical resistance. That second one would leave him nauseous and shivering in a few hours, but clearly they faced a being of no trivial power. The shield began to dissolve, and he saw the vampire clearly for the first time. Not across a hectic hall filled with undead, or a glimpse from a hiding place, but facing him squarely across a floor of burning oil over ancient stone. He stood in the center of where the dome had been, one hand raised as though to offer prayers to some god, and the other down beside him, bleeding frost and cold into the air around it. Behind him, Vigilant Adalvald was whimpering and rocking back and forth, and the sole remaining thrall pulled himself to his feet, gingerly trying to put weight on a cracked and smoking leg. He saved three with his shield, though he was not quite fast enough to spare the thrall. He'll be slow. Good.

The vampire gestured at the space between them. "He was here as a reward." His voice was low, every syllable laced with subtle power. "Vakken found this place, uncovered our master's lost treasure. He was young, and arrogant in that youth, but he showed promise. And you killed him with…that." His lip curled slightly. "It was you, wasn't it?" Now, he locked eyes with Velandryn. "That ploy, turning the corpse into a weapon. It stinks of elven cunning." He smiled, revealing his pointed fangs, and took a single step forward. "It was clever, and well-done. You knew you could not best us fairly, so you resorted to trickery. I applaud your ingenuity, but you have failed." He reached out, and Adalvald screamed as he was lifted from the ground. "He knows nothing that I need, but he is one of you. A mortal who thought to challenge us!" That last was said with mockery. "He told us that we would be undone, that the righteous would punish us for our transgressions and save him." He closed the hand into a fist, and Adalvald's scream cut off with a snap as his head twisted around in a full circle. His dead eyes, on a head atop a twisted neck, stared into Velandryn's accusingly. "You did not save him." He took another step forward, and Adalvald's body, still floating in midair, began to gush blood from every orifice. The streams combined and converged on the vampire. He smiled as they became a fine mist about him, and inhaled deeply. "You mortals are so…frail, you…cannot comprehend…this… exquisite …sensation!" The half-burned thrall struggled to his feet, but before he could so much as take a step the vampire extended another hands and pulled him with a flick of his wrist. The hapless thrall collapsed before his master, and the vampire's hand closed around his throat. He lifted the burned Nord with one hand, while his other writhed its fingers in gestures alien to Velandryn's understanding. The thrall jerked, twisted, and screamed before going limp. The vampire opened both hands, and the thrall crumpled to the ground. The vampire spread his arms wide, and the thrall began to rise once more. "The living flesh is weak while the dead flesh is servile. Behold—"

The crossbow bolt punched through the thrall's neck. Lydia was already shoving another bolt into place as the vampire pivoted in rage, hands coming up to begin some attack. Velandryn preempted him with a pair of fire bolts, forcing the undead to summon a ward and letting Lydia put a second bolt into the rising thrall. This bolt tore through armor and chest, and blood flowed freely as the thrall collapsed to the ground once more. It tried to rise again, but the body was clearly not functioning as it should. One arm was pulling it up, but the other lay limp, while both legs were moving as though trying to make it walk, though it was on the ground. Velandryn knew little about advanced necromancy, but the more precise reanimations required relatively intact bodily functions, one of the reasons necromancers generally preferred to seduce or sacrifice their targets rather than kill them in pitched combat. He gave silent thanks that he had only needed the crudest form of walking corpse for his scheme; removing the innards and filling it with oil would have rendered it largely useless for anything else. Finally, the vampire hissed in frustration and snapped his fingers. The flesh rotted away in a matter of seconds, and the bones pulled themselves up. The skeleton took up the thrall's huge axe and stood beside its master.

The vampire was no longer sanguine in his approach to them, but seemed now almost amused by their actions. "An elf and a Nord brute, trying to deny me my glory!" He gestured, and the skeleton leaped forward, swinging for Velandryn. However, Lydia's charge brought her barreling into the reanimated minion, and her shield sent it staggering. It was made of sterner stuff than the skeletons above however, and retaliated with a mighty overhead blow that rang through the cavern when Lydia blocked it. The vampire sent an ice spike towards Lydia's back, but Velandryn's cry of warning let her bring up her shield and block it in time.

"My thane! I cannot fight two!" She spun back on the skeleton, and her sword struck twice against its arm, opening its guard for a devastating shield bash to the skull.

Velandryn was snapped out of his fascinated observation; he moved swiftly around her and positioned himself opposite the vampire. "Face me then, bloodsucker." He felt curiously calm. This creature was far beyond the others he had faced. He had likely lived for many times longer than Velandryn, honing his craft. Clearly he had mastered not only magic, but the spells and arts unique to vampiric traditions. The fine mist of Adalvald's blood lingered around the monster, and his hands were grasping at nothing. His eyes burned a piercing yellow, and his face was a mask of cruel mockery.

"Elf, you are so naive, so foolish, to challenge me. I am Lokil of Volkihar, and I shall reap Lord Harkon's reward." His hands glowed blue, and Velandryn pulled on his magicka quickly, using the Nord-style ward but tuning it like a frost shield. He had not seen any of Farengar's books cover the issue of elemental shields, but it had only taken an hour or so of work to slap together a dual-aspect spell that allowed for elemental tuning and the ward structure to coexist. The increased cost of structuring the ward with frost resistance was compensated by the ward requiring less magicka upfront to bring into being. It still drained magicka at a prodigious rate, but Velandryn had been practicing the efficient use of his magicka and this vampire had shown himself fond of ice projectiles. A momentary ward should allow him to nullify the attack at little cost to himself. And so, when the first shard of ice impacted the shield, he was ready, and gritted his teeth and held firm as the shards scattered over his aetherial shield and dissipated into cold air. It was only when the second spike failed to come that he realized something was wrong. He had all of a heartbeat to panic before the lightning came at him, a continuous surge that would burn through the ward in little time. Clearly, this vampire was no fool, and his attack was specifically designed to overwhelm a spellcaster like Velandryn. Either his ward would persist, and he would expend all his magicka staving off the attack, or he would abandon the ward and the lightning would shock him, destabilizing any remaining magicka reserves. Either way, he would be drained of magicka and at the monster's mercy. Unless…

This might be the worst idea I've had yet. He braced himself against the attack, using his free hand to pull a potion from his belt as he did so. I need but a few seconds. He swallowed it in one gulp, and felt magicka pour into him, hopefully bolstering his reserves enough to pull this off. If the shield failed, the attack would simply hit him. However, if it was destabilized by an overload of magicka it would self-destruct outward, disrupting any magicka in its immediate vicinity. Hopefully. He kept falling into situations where his only chance out was trying these absurd tricks, but perhaps that was to his advantage. Nobody in their right mind would see this coming. He charged.

He could not see Lokil through the attack, but the energy crackling along the ward was a good guide for direction. He ran with his left hand holding the ward as he drew his sword with the right. Three steps after drawing the sword fully, he judged the distance correct. He would not retreat, so if he is standing in the same place, then I should be where I need right—NOW! He poured magicka into the ward, and felt it ripple and surge in response. The lightning rebounded from parts of it, while it pierced other regions. The smooth edges became jagged, and the dimensions swelled to a full third again as large. He had perhaps two heartbeats.

And…

The ward exploded outward, and the lightning branched in every direction. The magical theory behind it was almost insultingly simple. Lightning, though tremendously destructive, also required an absurd amount of magicka to manifest at the necessary strength. As a result, all spellcasters who used lightning in any fashion relied to some extent on workarounds to reduce the magicka they had to put in. Consequentially, lightning spells, so damaging against enemy spellcasters, functioned as they did because they siphoned off the target's magicka to sustain the focused flow. In fact, a fraction of the magicka Velandryn had been putting into the ward was actually sustaining the assault against him. However, altering the environmental conditions could disrupt the spell, even if momentarily. Just like now, when a cascade of realized magicka in the form of a ward was projected violently outward into the stream of a spell. The lightning drew on the increased levels of ambient magicka and branched everywhere, but it was dispersed enough to do no more than raise the hair on Velandryn's head, and, critically, the zone between them was largely free due to the residue of the ward. Lokil stood in the same spot as he had before beginning his assault, one arm outstretched and pouring out the lightning. His other hand was held before him, manipulating the blood mist, to what end Velandryn could not say. The look on the vampire's face was one of undisguised shock. He did not expect that. Velandryn had only bought himself a moment, but it was a moment of no spell or shield between them. I only have a second, but that's all I need.

'FUS!"

There was no way the vampire could resist an attack like that. As Velandryn used it for the third time in his life, he couldn't help but notice that it was completely unaffected by the magical disruption he had unleashed. Interesting. Clearly the Thu'um was not merely magic. He had known on some level that it was not a spell, but—no, no, it was affecting the magicka. The lightning and charged magicka between them had been pushed as well. Impossible. But he had no time to ponder the implications of this information, as his shock was nothing compared to Lokil's. If his overloaded ward had taken the vampire by surprise, this looked to have shattered foundations of his world. His face was contorted, yellow eyes open wide, and his hands gesticulated frantically as he staggered back. Velandryn knew he had the opening he needed. He aimed the point of his sword at the chest of the vampire's grey-black armor and charged. He only had to take two steps, and then the lunge.

Blood fountained out from Lokil's back, and the vampire staggered. However, he did not fall. His head slumped, but he remained standing, and Velandryn was suddenly seized with doubt. Did I pierce the heart? If he had missed, the wound, while grievous, might well not be mortal. Suddenly, the body shook. From behind, he could hear Lydia's sword, or possibly shield, clanging off of the skeleton's own weapon. The skeleton, he realized, that was still fighting. Damn. Lokil raised his head, and the mist of Adalvald's blood flowed to the sword. The vampire had regained his composure, laughing as he straightened his back.

"Well done, mortal." Lokil grabbed the blade sticking out of his chest, gripping the steel in a vice-like hand. Velandryn tried to wrench the sword out, but the vampire deformed the blade with a twist of his wrist. "Your blade cut deep and reached my heart. Were I of lesser kind, you may well have slain me. But," the blood mist around him pulsed as his eyes glowed, "I am superior to any being you have ever beheld." He pulled the twisted and useless sword out of his chest with one hand while his other went to his wound, stroking it gently. "Braveof you, to charge. And that spell, I have never seen the like." Velandryn released the sword and made to retreat, but Lokil's hand came up to grip his wrist. He pulled with all of his might, but the vampire's hold was iron and stone. "I think I shall turn you. Return to Lord Harkon with a new disciple as well as his prize. You will join a family of superior beings, blessed beyond the hopes of the common kyne." Velandryn's mind raced as he considered what items he had in reach. He had a dagger of steel and one of iron, but clearly neither would do much good. "I can offer you an eternity of knowledge, of power." He heard Lydia bellow some taunt or war cry as she staggered into view, shield raised against the skeleton's onslaught. His spells might wound the undead, but the vampire could kill him easily from his current position. "Your brutish companion would make an…adequate…thrall, but I think it will be for the best if she does not leave this place. Instead, I shall make her your first meal. It is always best to feed on a trusted companion as an…appetizer to the eternal feast that follows." His gaze was far from Velandryn, eyes fixed on some long-past reverie. Disgusting as the vampire's clear enjoyment of the situation was, his arrogant distraction was for the best.

Velandryn extended his left hand behind him, fingers wide. He had enough magicka, but the leverage would be difficult. He focused, and felt magicka ebb out of him, and the indescribable feeling of Daedric Creatia take its place. Even as his body rejected the protean substance, the mental framework he had constructed rejoiced at its presence. It was at once infinitely alien and utterly right. A paradox, the impossible center. Dov and Joor. He smiled, and an impossible blade manifested with a keening wail in his outstretched hand.

Lokil's head snapped back down, fixing on the weapon, but he was far too late. The moment the weapon had taken form, it was over. The blade was whispering to him, a current of malice from the unwilling energy that had crossed the liminal divide to make his weapon.

Kill him cut him burn him slay him boil his blood rend his flesh devour his soul end him forever.

He had heard stories, that Creatia pulled into this world could take on a 'spirit' of sorts, and that its most primal form was unthinking hatred and rage. It had not happened when he summoned it with a calm mind during meditation, but in the heat of battle it thirsted. He felt heat radiating off the blade, but this was not the magical heat he could call into being, or even the holy fire of the Dunmer, borne outward from the heart of Red Mountain. This was Daedric flame, called forth for battle, and it burned only to destroy. The blade burned with flame of an unreal shade, and was impossibly sharp besides; this weapon was as far removed from the steel blade he had lodged in the vampire's chest as dragons were from the tiny lizards that scuttled across the dunes of Stonefalls. This is a blade that can kill an ancient vampire.

Velandryn's left arm was positioned awkwardly for the cut he needed to make, but it hardly mattered. He cut upward as he pulled his own arm back, slicing through the Lokil's arm at the elbow. The vampire reared back and shrieked in pain, and Velandryn was free. The undead's lower arm and hand still gripped his wrist, but he could move again, and so his right hand joined his left on the blade's long grip. He faced the vampire, still reeling from the wound, and prepared to finish this fight.

The blade's burning edge had cauterized both the stump and arm fragment, and now Lokil's wound were smoking and slowly bleeding ash as the fire ate at the undead flesh. Lokil's mockery and humor were gone, replaced with agony and loathing, but Velandryn had no time to savor the vampire's humiliation. He had begun to move, so Velandryn took a firm stance and swung the blade with both hands in a cut that was nearly horizontal. The edge, sharped than any razor, parted the skin of his neck like thin paper and sheared through bone with a feeling not unlike snapping a branch from a tree. The expression on Lokil's face was absurdly surprised, as though he could not have imagined this outcome. His body crumpled to the ground with a whisper of cloth and armor folding, and his head rolled away into the darkness of the cave. "Superior, was it?" He was tired, but the feeling of victory was never less than sweet.

"My thane! Are you well?" The skeleton too had collapsed to nothingness, and Lydia moved over quickly, sporting a set of nicks and a worrying amount of blood leaking from her right pauldron. Despite that, as his housecarl approached she was hurriedly assessing his condition rather than worrying about her own. Her speed abated somewhat when she saw that he was mostly unharmed, though she did rip the still-clenched hand from his wrist with enough force to be more than a little painful, and it left some unpleasant residue on the cuff of his armor. She acquiesced easily enough when he made her remove her armor so he could heal her wound. As they sat, his hands on her shoulder and golden light suffusing the gash, she exhaled heavily.

"That skeleton, it was more than I anticipated, my thane. I'm sorry, I should have been there to assist." She tested her shoulder with a wince and slumped against one of the walls.

He had never seen her like this; could she be feeling like she had failed at her duty? He did not know what to say to make her feel better, but he had to try. "I would wager that skeleton would have been a match for any warrior in the Whiterun Guard, at least. It was raised by a master necromancer from a fresh corpse, and likely had spells beyond count running through its bones." The best I can do, for now. He flipped over Lokil's headless corpse and began rifling through the vampire's pockets; he wanted to know more about this 'prize' of which the vampire had spoken.

Lydia let out a short bark of a laugh. "Master or not, he's dead now, no thanks to me. I fought a skeleton, while you killed a vampire! You did it, my thane! A dirty trick, but you killed them all." She leaned her head back against the wall and looked upward into the darkness.

"Don't sell yourself short. I would have gone down in seconds if not for you keeping that skeleton off of me. We make a damned good team, housecarl." He found a bloodstained journal, a pouch of coins and gems, and an ornate dagger that looked to be made from ebony. It hummed with power, and he felt an enchantment that seemed to pull the vitality from his skin as he touched the blade. A sight better than steel, at least. He tucked the valuables and knife away, and glanced through the book.

The journal had belonged to Adalvald, and while the late Vigilant had not come to any concrete conclusions, he seemed to have decided that this crypt had been built in two stages. The same culture that had made Bleak Falls, what Farengar had called the ancient Nords, or the Dragon Cult, had done most of the work and then, some number of years later, the culture that had established this ritual circle on the island had altered the crypt according to their own inscrutable designs. Now that he had a chance to simply feel the presence of the strange construction, he could detect the subtle pressure that came from being near an active ritual array. He would wager that this was what the vampires had been after, the weapon or relic that Lokil had sought. "Lord Harkon's prize," the vampire had called it, though apparently he had been as mystified by its workings as Adalvald, if he had gone to the trouble of interrogating the Vigilant rather than simply interacting with the array. The fact that Adalvald had not recognized the architectural style indicated that it was the work of some smaller faction that had not spread extensively, or else they had been utterly destroyed. Velandryn likewise did not know the style, thought the arch structures were vaguely reminiscent of pre-Alessian Ayleid construction. Unfortunately, this was a thousand miles north of even the most optimistic range of the Ayleids' expanse. Under different circumstances, he would gladly have remained down here for a time and surveyed these ruins. However, this prize was the more urgent matter, and doubtless either was the circle itself or lay within whatever function the structure had been built to provide.

Velandryn crossed the bridge, Lydia in tow, and entered the area demarcated by the arches. From up close, certain aspects of the construction jumped out at him, and he found himself increasingly curious about the group that had made this. The arches were free-standing and clearly had some sort of ritual significance, indicating possible Daedra worship, as those cults were most likely to incorporate doorway iconography into their rituals. Magicka hummed around him, and he had a sneaking suspicion that if he were to pull this apart and investigate the underlying array, it would be of the same style as the one he had encountered when first entering the cave. The floor was composed of sections divided by five radial and three concentric troughs. There was a single pillar, roughly waist-high, located at the center of the whole, and several braziers dotted the outer reaches. He checked one; it was filled with what looked rather like a thick purple tar.

"My thane!" Lydia was peering at the central pillar curiously, and Velandryn saw the large dome-shaped trigger as Lydia pointed at it. "I think this is the key!" She reached out curiously.

"Stop!" Velandryn's shout brought his housecarl up short. He peered at it closely, and tapped it experimentally. "I thought so. A blood seal." The small hole in the center through which the spike would rise, and the grating around the edge to drink the resultant blood.

"A blood seal, my thane?"

"It uses blood to fuel magic. I would recommend not pushing down on the button just yet, though doubtless we will have to." He studied the pillar. Whoever created this had designed the entire complex to power the ritual, clearly. The array was inside and underneath the structures. It would have been wholly admirable, if not for that moronic blood seal. "Blood seals are a fool's game. I wonder why they used one here."

"What's so bad about them? Is blood that sacred to you?"

"Hmm? Oh, no, not at all. It's simply that requiring a bleeding wound any time you want to activate an array is idiotic. Either you have to heal yourself up after activating," his hand took in the gloomy arches around them, "this, or you grab an underling and make them do it." He paused, and looked over the pillar again. "Not that we have a choice, though." He might not know what this thing was, but he would never pass up a chance to find out, which meant feeding this thing. Sadly, Adalvald's corpse was drained dry, both thralls and that sword-wielding bloodsucker were piles of ash, and Lokil was likely mostly assorted soot and bones by this point. He grimaced and pulled off his gauntlet.

"My thane, I insist!" Lydia likewise had her gauntlet off, and grabbed his wrist with her other hand. Before he could say a word, she jammed her hand onto the button, and gave a stifled cry and hiss of pain as the spike lanced through her hand.

He pulled her hand away the moment the spike retracted and handed her one of his cure disease potions. "Happy, housecarl?" He healed her hand quickly as she downed the potion, and watched the pillar begin to glow.

"It is my duty to take a wound rather than you, my thane. I would be remiss to allow you to press that button knowing what would happen." She doubtless would have said more, but light exploded from the ground, lancing upward while following a line along one of the radial troughs. She jumped away from the magic, and her weapons were in hand a second later. Disconcertingly, while Lydia's actions had caused significant shifts in the array, he could feel that the vast majority of the ritual had remained perfectly static. The system governing the pillar and blood seal is not only separate from the main function of the device, but is so trivial in comparison that it doesn't even cause a fluctuation in the array. He stomped his foot against the ground experimentally. There was only one type of array he had heard of that used this configuration, and that raised one burning question. If this entire setup is a key-locked vault, what in the name of Azura does it hold?

Velandryn glanced at the light briefly and followed it to the nearest brazier. He nudged it, and the brazier wobbled in place; closer examination showed it to be cleverly set on some rolling mechanism within the floor. "Lydia. Help me move this." Together, they pushed it to the point where the light ended. As it reached that point it settled into a hitherto unseen slot and would move no more. The thick liquid inside took on the purple glow of the light, and the path continued to trace itself out along the floor. Velandryn sighed. "Very well, Lydia, on to the next one."

Some time later, as they moved the third brazier into place, the question that Lydia had been obviously suppressing for some time finally squirmed out. "My thane, why are we doing this? Why not simply tell the Dawnguard what we found and leave this as we found it? Or smash it beyond repair, make it unusable to anyone?"

"All of this, what we can see, what's obvious, it's a lock." The third brazier thudded into place and they moved onto the fourth. "There is something else, something utilizing magicka in a configuration I've never felt before. It's under the central pillar, most likely. And, unless I miss my guess, it's old." Daedric, too, possibly, but he didn't see the need to worry her with that.

"And you want to open it, to see what's inside?" Lydia gave the brazier an experimental shake to make sure it was secure.

"You don't? You aren't just the slightest bit curious to see what we've been fighting for?" The fifth brazier had become stuck in place at some point in its long life; it was a miracle that none of the others had after so long down here. "Besides which, we've earned the right to know. This puzzle is trivially easy, so anybody with a functioning brain could saunter down and open this up. We did the work, now we get the reward." He leaned his shoulder into the brazier, and felt it give slightly. "Some help here?" She joined him at his labor, and the brazier slipped free.

"Well, when it goes horribly wrong, I'll be ready to haul you to safety, my thane."

"It seems you've grasped the first rule of dealing with unknown magical devices. Expect the worst and plan accordingly, and always bring twice as many potions as you think you could possibly need. Once this last piece is in place, I expect something will happen. To be safe, we should probably get out of the way." The moment the final brazier locked itself at the junction of the troughs, they both moved back, taking up positions by the arches well back from the area demarcated by the light.

The light flared up, and the array shifted. "Lydia, something is happening, I can feel it. Something big." She unslung her weapons, and Velandryn readied his hands, flexing his fingers beneath his gloves and letting magicka rise through his skin. Below their feet, he could feel magicka swirling, as some massive ritual that had been operating for untold eras ceased to be. The floor beneath them gave a shudder, and the center segments of the floor descended, leaving the blood seal pillar and the area around it as a five-sided column taller than Lydia. It stood alone and proud in the venter of the violet light. Velandryn approached cautiously, noticing as he did so that it felt as though the array was completely inert. Was that it? Was this its entire purpose? He wished he had studied up on spells to detect the undead. He knew how to sense the living, and there were none but him and Lydia anywhere near, but vampires required more specialized spellcasting to detect. Sadly, he did not have that skill, and would have to find out what—or who —was inside the monolith in a more mundane manner. He reached the pentagonal stone and noted its clean edges and smooth construction. Finely made, sharply hewn, completely unknown. Well, I've come too far to stop now. He reached out and touched the stone. For a moment, he thought he could feel the cold of the age-old monolith through his leather gloves, but that thought vanished as seams appeared in the stone, widening rapidly. A cleverly concealed panel fell off of the pillar and crashed to the ground, revealing a dim chamber. Inside was—

Well, I wasn't expecting this.

---

She remembered eternity…

Traveling across Skyrim, staying away from the cities but feeling so free beneath the stars and moons, luxuriating in the feel of wind on her skin, of rain on her wings; hunting and racing her mother, almost forgetting why they were doing this. Seeing the chamber for the first time, prepared painstakingly just for her, deep beneath an ancient crypt. Sneaking in, taking care not to disturb the guardians, but savoring the feel of the stone and the play of the lights. Settling in, knowing that she would not remember, would not dream. Her mother had promised her that much, that she would not even know time had passed. The final touch, a brush on her cheek, and a promise to see her again. The first touch in a very long time.

…and its end.

There was no thought, no sense of time. She did not sleep, she was. Years, centuries, the rise and fall of nations and the birth and death of heroes passed her by with not a flicker of an eyelid. On her back, the item she carried hummed and sang a song that none with ears could hear, and burned colors that unmade the eyes of those who had the wit to see them. It whispered, too, secrets both terrible and beautiful, but she was not sleeping, and could not hear. Until, from above, a sound. Inert flesh required prompting from the soul, suspended in an array of timeless magic, to pump blood and twitch muscles. Thought came slowly, reason slower still. From without, faint voices. Language she half-understood. And finally, the grind and crash of falling stone. This far below the surface, the air was feeble, but even the slight current in this cavern was more than her skin had known in untold years. She drank the feeling of air moving, though she could not consciously recall being without it. She gave this feeling a long moment more, but knew she must address those who had opened her tomb, and fulfill whatever duty those who had sent for her had in mind. Whether her mother's plans come to fruition or her father tracking her down, she must play her part, as was demanded of a Daughter of Coldharbour.

Serana opened her eyes.

---

Velandryn had expected a relic, when he first heard about Dimhollow Crypt. Some sort of ancient enchantment or weapon. Once faced with it, once he had heard Lokil's proclamations and seen the chamber for himself, he had begun to harbor a suspicion that what lay down here was a being of some sort, sustained through the array he had felt. This Lord Harkon clearly considered it a prize to be possessed, but he had reserved judgement until he could see it with his own eyes. Now that he had, he felt himself at something of a loss.

The woman was still, looking as though she could be sleeping. Her skin was pale and nearly luminous in the purple light, and though Velandryn had long found the word exquisite trite and irritating when he heard it leave the lips of some poet or merchant, the aspect of her features brought the word to the forefront of his mind. However overused it had become within the markets of Blacklight and Mournhold, it would always be the word that described the lone coda flower rising from the marsh, or the parting of the clouds that let Azura's dawn illuminate the towers of the Great Fane. Perhaps anywhere else it would not strike him as such, but here, after battle and mystery and in this pale violet light cast by an unknown mage long ages ago, her beauty was exquisite.

Her eyes were shut, her full lips pursed slightly, and he did not miss that her chest did not rise and fall. Nonetheless, he was unsurprised when she stirred; when she opened her eyes and regarded them with irises of bright gold, it only confirmed what he had known since the stone fell away.

Lydia was already in motion, doubtless to menace the vampire, extract what information they could, but Velandryn raised a hand slightly and she stilled. The woman watched them for a long second, and then abruptly shrugged and gave an inelegant stretch, craning her neck and opening her mouth experimentally as though roused from nothing more than a long sleep. Her teeth were white and straight, save for the two long incisors that marred the clean lines of her mouth.

"Unnuhh, hokkan istten thoug?" The vampire made no move nor spoke any more, as she seemed to be waiting for a response. A pleasant voice, though.

Velandryn looked at Lydia, who leaned in and spoke in a low voice. "She asked who we are, I think. It's old Nordic. Extremely old Nordic. We had to learn a few words for when we had dealings with any of the Old Clans who came down onto Whiterun Plains."

He considered this for a moment. It was exceptionally rare, in this day and age, to meet anyone who couldn't speak at least some Imperial Tamrielic, but he recalled the hulking Nord who had spoken with the Thu'um when fighting Mirmulnir. He had been of the Old Clans, and Velandryn could well imagine him speaking the harsh tongue of the ancient Nords. This woman, though? How long has she been down here?

He was about to inquire, in as many tongues as he knew, whether she spoke any other language at all when she suddenly spoke, in archaic and only slightly mangled Imperial. "Forgive my rudeness, esteemed slaves, but art thou of the most heretical Dwemer?"

---

Mother, you liar, you said I would not feel the passage of time. It seemed lying in a tomb with an Elder Scroll strapped to your back would be enough to make one a little sore. She stretched as she pulled herself out of her chamber, luxuriating in the feel of muscles moving beneath her skin. For all that she could not remember any of her time in there and felt no more hunger than she would have after a good night's sleep, her body was reminding her of its long stillness in subtler ways. She could feel her blood, such as it was, pumping beneath her skin, and her breath, though not necessary for her to exist, filled her lungs. Even down here, the air seemed sweet. She was struck by the desire to be above the ground again and see the stars. She knew it was nighttime, a vampire always knew, and the thought of the stars burning in the void filled her with longing. For now though, the present demanded her focus.

Serana didn't know what she'd expected, but it certainly wasn't this. Directly before her stood an elf of a breed she had neither seen nor even heard of, with dark grey skin and harsh, angular features. He was garbed in leather armor that looked as though it had taken a great many beatings, and bore a red sigil like that of a hand upon his breast. He wore a bow slung upon his back, and had the most unusual face, even for an elf. It was perfectly still, save for his eyes, which burned a red that put her uncomfortably in mind of the fires she had once loved to read beside. What is he? He didn't have the look of a thrall, but any free elf out on his own in Skyrim would have to be much better armed, and he did not look a runaway or outlaw. Besides which, the woman, a Nord, stood beside and behind him, in the position of a guard…or a servant. No. No Nord would stand subservient to an elf.

It was all too much to take in, so she had to make it small. Little pieces, little bites. Start with the simple. She focused on the woman, trying to make sense of these two by starting with the easier puzzle. The elf was clearly an anomaly of some sort, but she had seen the woman's type before. Her clothing was ornate metal over furs; clearly she was some sort of lord or great warrior to wear such fine armor. However, she did not have the look of one used to greatness. She could sense the self-righteousness that came with renown, in the subtle movements and tells of the body, and neither of these was a commander or a great hero. The elf carried himself as though he were half a lord, but the woman seemed no more than a soldier. Could she be his guard?

"Umm, who are you?"

It slipped out without conscious thought, and she felt mortified at her first words being something so foolish. However, neither gave any indication that they would answer. Instead, they seemed to be conferring, with the Nord giving advice to the elf. Why would she do that? Who was this elf to be attended by a Nord in such fine armor?

The pieces came together then. Dwemer! She had never seen one in the flesh, but from the stories, it all fit. A strange elf, beneath the earth, accompanied by a servitor in strange and heavy armor, could be nothing else. Perhaps some Nord clan had a deal with the Dwemer of this region, and got armor in exchange for service. He looked nothing like what Dwemer were supposed to, but the Deep Elves were reclusive, and it was not out of the realm of possibility that some of them could be like this dark creature. She had never learned the Dwemer tongue, as they saw little point in teaching any not of their race, but she remembered some of her Aldmeris. She was about to inquire in that language when she recognized a few words of what the Nord woman was saying.

To Serana, the woman's words sounded suspiciously like the Cyrodilic slave tongue. That language was a mangled blend of Ayleidoon, Aldmeris, Nordic and the Nedic spoken by the peoples of Heiroc and Iliac Bay to the west. Serana had only learned it after her transformation, but it had been one of her favorites. Her father had bartered with Ayleid traders numerous times, and would always bring back a piece of human cattle or two for them to feed upon. She had been curious about these strange humans, and learned their language one terrified slave at a time. Now, she could put it to good use. She framed the sentence she intended to speak, and let it leave her lips.

"Forgive my rudeness, my friends, but are you of the most clever Dwemer?"

The elf looked at her for a long moment. His angular face remained still, and she found herself wondering if they had actually been speaking Cyrodilic or if she had misheard. The armored woman looked displeased at something, or else her face just looked like that all of the time. For her sake, Serana hoped not.

"Why do you think I am Dwemer?" The elf's voice was surprisingly low, and had an unusual gravelly undertone that lent his words an odd gravity. He raised a hand. "No, before that, who are you, and why were you sealed away down here?" His words were simple and direct, and she appreciated that, as it had been some time since she had tried to use this tongue. It was coming back to her, but she still had to mull her words before speaking. As she did, she realized that she had called them 'slaves' in her earlier address, and her face reddened.

"I was supposed to be waiting for—well, it isn't important." She was certain neither of them was a vampire, and she didn't want to go spilling her family's secrets to anybody who didn't need to know. "How long have I been down here? Who is the High King?" Why did I ask that? She had only the most superficial concern about the High King, and if much more than a century had passed her limited knowledge of the politics of Skyrim would be hopelessly out of date.

The elf looked at the Nord. "A good question. Once the Nords stop killing each other over that question, I can give you an answer."

Well, some things never change. "Glad to know the world didn't get boring while I was gone. Who's fighting for it?" Again, she didn't expect the names to mean anything, but there had been a hint of humor in the elf's voice when he mentioned the conflict, and she wanted to warm them up as much as possible since she would likely need their help. And questions can do that.

The Nord woman answered first. "The war is about more than just the throne, but Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm has raised his banners for a free Skyrim, and will be High King should he prevail. Jarl Elisif was High King Torygg's wife, and she leads the jarls who have sided with the Empire."

Empire? She supposed that could mean the Nord Empire, but that had been seated in Windhelm, and the woman had mentioned a 'free Skyrim.' The Jarl of Windhelm should be High King, so what had changed? If anyone was likely to rebel, it would be the Reachmen in their mountain holds or the Chimer of the east, who had only recently fallen under the Nord banner. This was all far too confusing. "Empire? What Empire is that?" And how long was I asleep?

The elf spoke now, his words deliberate. "The Mede Empire, successors to the Septim Dynasty. From Cyrodiil."

"There's an Empire in Cyrodiil? And it rules Skyrim?" If there is an Ayleid Empire, little wonder this Jarl Ulfric is rebelling. No Nord would welcome elven dominance.

"How long were you in there?" To the Nord woman, it was clearly an offense of some sort not to know about this Empire.

"Apparently longer than we planned." These two spoke of this Empire as though it was a fact of life, and if an Empire could rise, then certainly the strife between her parents had been resolved. One way or another. Why they had not sent for her, she did not know. Unless… "Why were the two of you down here in the first place?" If they had been sent for her…

"We followed some…friends of yours; people like you." She should not have been surprise that they knew what she was, and did not have to ask what the fate of those other vampires had been. He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth as he continued. "Then, we found you. You speak ancient Nordic as your first language, considered me as Dwemer rather than correctly identifying my race, and used words indicating that you learned Cyrodilic when it was still a tongue confined to slaves of the Ayleids." At that last, the armored woman gave Serana a very strange look. "You are unfamiliar with the concept of an Empire in Cyrodiil, and your first instinct was to ask after the High King as the power in Skyrim." He cocked his head. "I believe I can tell you how long you were away, if you give me an answer in turn. Why were you sealed down here?"

"For a very good reason. How long was I sealed?" She would not give him the satisfaction of dominating this…conversation, she supposed it was.

"For an amount of time greater than one day and less than the lifespan of the Mundus. What do you have on your back?" His eyes were bright red now, though whether that was a trick of the light or some part of his physiology, perhaps cued to his mood, she could not say.

"Something that is mine. What race are you?"

He snorted. "I am the race that I am. This is getting us nowhere."

Serana had been enjoying herself, but she had to admit that neither one of them was getting the answers they wanted. "All right. One answer for each of us?"

He was silent for a long moment, something he seemed fond of doing. The long pauses were slightly off-putting, but perhaps that was his goal, to throw her out of balance. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. I will answer to the best of my ability, and you will do the same. I swear this by the Three, and I expect you to swear by whatever god or oath you hold."

Do you now? He expected her to swear. It would be an easy thing to choose a random Nord god and make a pointless oath; only Molag Bal had any claim on her soul. However, it felt wrong to do so. He was engaging with her in good faith, perhaps she should do the same. It had been a long time since she had engaged with anyone not of Clan Volkihar as an equal; but these two had freed her, and so they earned that courtesy. "I so swear, by the Mace of Souls." If she used that name for Molag Bal, she might get away without them knowing who she was referring to.

"Then ask." His sudden statement took her aback, not having expected to be given the first question, but she had to know how much time had passed. She did wonder, though, at what point she had lost control of the conversation.

"How long have I been down here?"

He gave her another long, measured look. "To my best guess, somewhere upwards of four thousand years."

Serana felt her knees go weak from shock. She had known, on some level, that it was longer than she had expected, but four thousand? She made a conscious effort not to let her shock and horror show, but didn't know how successful she had been. Impossible. What could have happened? Mother said it would only take—

Mother…oh Lord, what happened?

The elf was watching her impassively, and she almost thought she saw compassion hiding somewhere in those alien eyes. As she composed herself, she straightened and faced him.

"Your turn. Ask and I will answer."

He nodded. "Who is Harkon?"

At the sound of her father's name, bile rose in her gut and panic clouded her mind. She saw his face, bowed and bloodied before the altar. She heard her mother whispering prayers, and her own sobs. She felt the cold of the stone and the warmth of the blood. Her flesh tore, and pain lanced through her once again. No, that is done. It is done with. She steadied herself with a hand on her pillar, only to find herself leaning on it for support.

The elf stepped closer. "I gambled on that question, and now I want my answer. You know the name. Who is Harkon?"

She could not have said why hearing his name affected her so. She had never been overcome like that before. Could her sealing have affected her, made her emotions raw again? She should have been beyond that. Fortunately, the second time she heard nothing. Perhaps it was just the shock. "Lord Harkon is…he's my father. Did you hear the name from the others sent to find me?"

The elf made an affirmative noise. "I don't suppose you'll tell me why you were sealed down here?"

And give away my power over you? She had the elf figured out now. He was the type who could not stand mysteries. He demanded answers, and would dig until he got them. She could handle folk like those. After all, she was much the same. And right now, she was overflowing with questions. However, she could also prioritize, and knew that if her father was sending forces to search for her, then she would have to return. If he knew where she was, her father would never relent until he had what he wanted, and she had no allies to speak of. These two looked to be vagrants or adventurers, and could help her little if she sought to escape or oppose her father. For now, she should return home and take stock of the situation. "I need to get back to my fath– my family. If you help me, I'll tell you everything you want to know."

She had had her suspicions, and the way they processed her decision made it clear that the elf was the leader of this odd pairing. The Nord had glanced at him immediately, and at his nod, had relaxed her stance. Well, relaxed it slightly; clearly she did not trust Serana much. Not that the elf did either, if she was reading him correctly. He held himself stiffly, and she could feel the magicka pulsing through him. She had the feeling that if she so much as sneezed at the wrong time, he would do his level best to turn her to dust. After the backbiting and intrigue of the Volkihar court, however, she was pretty sure she could handle these two.

The elf fell into step beside her as she passed him. The Nord took up position behind them both. To take me down should I prove false? While Serana was fairly certain that she was fast enough to kill one of them before the other could react, she would rather not test that if she didn't need to. As long as they went along with what she wanted, she would leave them be. And perhaps, if the elf is very well-behaved, I'll let him see what's in the bundle. She wondered if his expressionless face would crack at the sight of what was beneath the wrappings in the sling on her back.

"Where is your family's…abode?" The pause before the final word made it clear that the elf originally had a different word in mind. Lair? Coven?

"North and west of Solitude. Is Solitude still a city in this age?" Serana's question spurred the elf to glance at his—what was the armored Nord to him? Her blend of obvious competence and inexplicable deference was puzzling.

"It is. The seat of Jarl Elisif, and the center of Imperial power in Skyrim." Well, that was good. Serana could point them to the right area from Solitude, and she should be able to pierce the wards that hid the castle once she got close enough. She still wanted to know more about this Empire, though that would have to wait.

"Lydia, what is the best path from here to Solitude?" Lydia. So, that was the Nord. In that moment, she realized that not only did she not know the elf's name, but likely neither one of them knew hers. They hadn't known she was down here, so it was unlikely they had a name.

The woman was silent for a moment, clearly thinking over the best route. "Retrieve our horses in Heljarchen, then north along the foothill roads. With any luck, we avoid major Imperial or Stormcloak operations, though I'd wager we run into at least a few patrols. Down into the Hjaalmarch and Imperial territory, and take ship from Morthal to Solitude. We can be on the docks of the city in less than ten days, if all goes well."

The elf nodded. "I'd wager it's nearly morning now. Let's try to be in Heljarchen early, get a full night's sleep, and then be on the road at dawn." He glanced at Serana. "Can you travel by day?"

"I can." The Volkihar were weakened by the sun, but they would not be destroyed by it unless some other blow brought them to the edge of death. A superior breed. If she had to fight, though, she would be little better than a human as long as the sun shone down on her. "But first, I would know your name. At some point I will have to call you something, and I do not think elf is ideal."

"Neither is vampire." He almost smiled, a miniscule lift of the corners of his mouth. "I am Velandryn Savani."

She mulled the name he had given her. Certainly not Dwemer. They had all of their strange z's and k's. This sounded elven, to be sure, and the style was vaguely familiar, though she could not place from where. "I'm Serana." Her own name felt strange upon her ears. For all that she had not perceived the passage of time, clearly it had affected her.

Part of her wanted to ask what his race was, but it was interesting trying to figure it out. His skin was too dark to be Ayleid, Chimer, Altmer or Direnni. She had only ever seen one Bosmer in her life, but this elf seemed far too tall, and he clearly had too much mass to be kin to the whip-thin little mer she had seen. He was not an Orsimer, that much was certain, and while she had never seen one of the legendary Maormer, she had heard that they were so pale that they glowed beneath the moon. The Falmer were extinct, unless some had hidden themselves away and survived the years, and she could not see this dark creature being kin to the Snow Elves. Some elves supposedly lived on far-flung Yokuda, though she knew nothing about them, and while there were rumors of strange furred creatures living in the deserts south of Cyrodiil…

"Is there another way out of this tomb? Your…friends woke a great many draugr above us, and we closed the gate on them. It is unlikely we would be able to make our way back without a very unpleasant fight." His question interrupted her musings, and she had to think back to before she had been sealed.

"Yes. A path to a hidden exit at the base of the mountains. I've never been on it, but my moth—I know it is a way out."

The elf nodded. "We will make use of it. Your mother was wise to tell you of it. Was it her who sealed you down here?" He strode off without waiting for an answer and Serana was left feeling slightly a fool. He figured it out, I need to be more careful. But, he could not resist showing off that he knew. A weakness. His pride, I can use that somehow. These two would get her home, and from there, well, from there she would figure something out.

---

Lydia was not pleased. As she followed her thane and the woman—the vampire—across the bridge away from the ritual site, she kept both eyes on Serana. Her thane might be clever, but he could be a damned fool when the mood struck him. He coveted secrets and lost knowledge, and this woman was offering him both. He had spent days reading about the dragons because he thought there might be something he could glean from being Dragonborn. Now he had agreed to help this dangerous creature reconnect with more of her kind, and all he had received in return was the promise of secrets. The woman claimed to have been locked down here for millennia, and just like that the Dragonborn was clay in her undead hands. She had known men—and one woman, she admitted ruefully— to do stupid things for a beautiful woman, which this Serana undoubtedly was. However, she had a suspicion that Velandryn's sudden willingness to aid a vampire had nothing to do with a desire to bed her. She had to get him alone and find out what in Oblivion he was thinking. Or if he even was.

Up ahead, Lydia noticed a pair of gargoyles at the top of a stair that led to a down-sloping tunnel which seemed to be the only exit on this side of the cave; she had a sudden urge to smash the ugly statues into tiny pieces. She wanted to pound something; for the last few weeks she had had to hold back when practicing with her thane, and the skeletons, thralls and draugr from before had only been brief, unsatisfying skirmishes. It would feel good to vent her frustration, but she supposed it would make her emotions too obvious. Those two up ahead were playing their little game of secrets, a game for which she knew she had no skill.

Her thane was the first one to set foot on the stair, and the moment he did so both gargoyles shuddered and rumbled to life. They descended ponderously, and Velandryn dodged backwards, thrusting out his hand and pouring flame onto one of them. For her part, Serana was throwing ice that slowed them but did little more.

Lydia had no idea if her grin was showing as she charged forward. Meet me, freaks! As she slammed her shield into the nearest one and pounded its head with her armored gauntlet and sword hilt, she felt the stone-like flesh crack beneath her assault. She didn't know if this was some mage's creation or a Daedra or some creature that lived in dark corners of Nirn. Those were questions for people like her thane to worry about. She was a warrior, and she knew her duty. She kicked the gargoyle away to gain space for another blow, and saw her thane channeling fire and ice onto the other foe's face. It screamed, and the vampire swooped in, her ornate blade cutting into one of the gargoyle's wings and nearly severing it. As the three of them brought the two brutish creatures down, Lydia could feel the battle-lust take her. She wanted more, and she wanted it now.

No. She was better than that. She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. She knew her duty. She would defend her thane, and protect the people of Whiterun Hold and Skyrim. She watched the vampire sheathe her sword and continue onwards. From everything that would harm them.

She might be acting unfairly towards the vampire woman, she knew. Perhaps Serana was innocent and untainted by the crimes of her kin, but Lydia had never seen nor heard of a vampire that, when its hunger rose, would not consume the blood of others to sate were a threat, and she dealt with threats. She watched the vampire out of the corner of her eye; the creature could likely tell where she was by the smell of the blood in her veins. After so long asleep, she was likely to be hungry. Lydia wondered how her thane would handle that.

Velandryn pried a glittering gemstone out of one of the dead foes' flesh, and held it up to the light, turning it this way and that experimentally. He pocketed it, and followed Serana, who was already heading down the tunnel out of the room. Lydia had to be fair; the vampire had spent a very long time in this chamber and had to be eager to be gone. She kept one eye on the vampire, though, and hoped her thane was doing the same.

---

Serana could see the exit. Her vision in the dark was far better than the mortals,' and even across the huge arena on whose rim they stood, she could make out the cold iron bars set into the stone and the lever that would open their way. She could even smell a hint of the sweet air of the outside. Of course, she didn't need to breathe, but she could appreciate the delicate scents of life and light when they were offered to her. First, though, they had to reach them, and the array of draugr lying dormant around the arena would doubtless pose a problem in that regard. There was at least a dozen of them, and while the ones roaming the halls they had just passed through had died easily enough, the caution with which her two…rescuers…were proceeding made her think that these were of a different type, more worthy of caution. The elf, whose race she still could not figure out, was looking out over the arena, seemingly into darkness that mortal eyes should not have been able to penetrate. He jumped slightly as she slid in beside him.

"What is it?" He did not look at her as he spoke, instead scanning the blackness. Her eyes could make out some sort of huge curved wall in a far corner, and he seemed to be looking in that direction as well.

"Why so cautious? We killed the draugr in the last hall easily." They had been decent combatants, but his fire, her sword work and spells, and Lydia's overwhelming strength had made short work of them. She still couldn't figure out what the Nord woman was; she was clearly the more skilled of the two but her deference to the elf bordered on servitude. For instance, she deeply distrusted Serana, while the elf was at least willing to work with her. However, she had gone along without audible complaint when Velandryn agreed to help her. It was puzzling, but she would figure it out, and then she would have another piece of knowledge. In this unfamiliar world, knowledge was power for her, and she needed all the power she could get. She had considered the possibility that they were lying, that this was all some scheme, but either Lydia was a master of deception, or the Nord woman's ill-concealed mistrust proved the truth of their words. The elf was harder to read, but she did not think he was lying. However, as now, she found herself wondering what was going on behind those strange red eyes. Fascinating eyes, to be sure, but disquieting. She wondered if all elves like him had such eyes, or if he was some unique case. She had certainly never heard of any race of elves so afflicted.

"Most draugr are servants, tending the crypts of their masters. The ones back in the hall, simple enough to deal with. Those down there are lords and warriors, and we must be cautious."

How do you know this? "So, what's the plan?" She wondered how much knowledge she must have missed, sealed away for so long.

He pointed into the gloom. "Over there is a great wall, carved in Dovahzul. We must reach it."

"Wait, why?" Dovahzul? He had already stood, and was clearly preparing to go.

"They will not wake until we will it, if we are adept with our movements. Lydia, far wall, right side. Move quietly. Serana, you too."

"But why?" Her protest was cut off as he began picking his way along the cave wall, but as Lydia moved up beside her, she saw her own confusion writ plain upon the Nord woman's face as well. This unexpected kinship brought her an amusing thought. I'm a Nord too, aren't I? It had been a long time since anything except vampire had been a relevant identifier. She set off beside the other Nord woman.

The wall resolved out of the mist as they got closer, huge and curved, and as they approached the inward side, something very odd happened. Velandryn seemed to go into a sort of trance. He abandoned subtlety and marched up to the wall, extended one hand and reached out to touch one of the words inscribed there. So intent was his focus that when Lydia shook his shoulder, he did not even acknowledge her presence. She shook him harder, but again he gave no sign of awareness. Serana began to grow alarmed. Was there some spell on the wall that she had not noticed, one that had taken the elf's wits? Could this be another trick of her mother's, like the gargoyles that had spring to life when a mortal foot touched the stairs? If he died, or was rendered insensate, she would be stuck with nobody but Lydia to aid her. She had no doubt she could enthrall the Nord, given enough time, but she would prefer not to resort to such crude tactics. So, she too reached in to jostle the elf back to reality. However, before she could touch him, he calmly returned his hand to his side and shrugged free of Lydia's hand.

"Gaan." It was almost a whisper, but she felt something in the air as he the sound left his mouth. It was gone in a moment, and so faint that she thought she might have been merely unnerved by the oddness of Velandryn's actions and imagined it. He turned to face them. "It is done." With no more explanation, he gestured beyond. "It would seem that they heard us." A draugr in a great horned helm was lifting itself from its throne, bracing its weight on a hammer that seemed entirely too large to be carried by such desiccated arms. Once standing, it began ascending the arena steps, while its retinue fell in. Heat blossomed behind her, and she turned to see Velandryn's hands afire. His face was as still as ever, but those eyes…

She shivered, unused to seeing such bloodlust in the elf, and readied herself. The draugr were charging, and she had to admit that these were not only stronger and better-equipped than those they had faced before, but moved with a purpose and menace that the others had lacked. Their leader especially was a terrifying figure, and Serana was suddenly afraid to be any closer to that brute. Those heavy steps pounded up the stairs with shocking speed, and she steeled herself. I am Serana of Volkihar! With a snarl, she leapt forward. She was upon the first of the draugr, and delivered half a dozen cuts in less than a mortal's heartbeat. The first two removed one arm, the third and fourth the other, and the last two pierced its heart and half-severed its head. Still, it managed another step before collapsing to the ground, and in the next moment she realized that her charge had brought her fully into the charging pack of undead. With a hiss, she leapt upwards and back, just as a burst of fire set two of the monsters ablaze. Or was the elf aiming for three?

Once on the ground again, she took stock of the battle. She was far stronger than any mortal and had leapt without thinking, so she had easily cleared the foes and travelled a good ten feet before coming down again. If either of her companions had noticed, they were now otherwise engaged. Lydia was alternating between two draugr, using the gaps in each one's attacks to land blows on the other before parrying whatever came her way with sword or shield. It was an intricate dance in which either sword or shield could attack or defend, and Serana found herself grudgingly impressed with the other woman's skill.

As for Velandryn, if she had not known that he must be the same elf that had interrogated her back in the sealing room, she would never have believed it. He spat fire from both hands with unerring accuracy and kept the draugr at bay as Lydia dispatched them. He gestured towards the mass of draugr around the towering commander with the helm and the hammer, and two of them suddenly began laying about with their weapons, causing chaos among their ranks.

With a start, Serana realized that she had simply been standing there for several seconds, and reached out as Lydia snapped the neck of one of the draugr and pounded it to the ground. When the corpse rose jerkily to its feet, the armored woman moved to attack but stopped at Serana's shout of her name. They locked eyes briefly, and the moment ended when the raised draugr carved a chunk out of Lydia's other foe. She nodded curtly and waded into the melee that Velandryn's spellcasting had caused.

Soon enough, almost all of the draugr were burning, and more than a few were laying indiscriminately into their onetime allies. In the center of it all stood the commander, who had yet to take any action save killing those turned followers who attempted to slay it. Finally, as Lydia cut down another burning draugr and Velandryn gulped down a glowing blue potion, the helmed draugr stepped out. It raised the hammer one-handed, and reached out to snatch a burning sword from one of its dying allies. Looking closer, Serana could see that it was armored as well, and while it was aflame in a few places, it stood tall and strong. Whoever it had been in life, they must have been mighty indeed. Man or woman she could not tell, but it stood a head again taller than Lydia and Serana realized that what she had taken for weak and desiccated arms were in fact bolstered with some ancient magic and corded with muscle. Its eyes glowed blue and as it raised the great maul above its head, they burned. It pointed the warhammer at Velandryn, and shouted forth a battle cry.

"Bolog aaz, mal lirre!" The creature's voice was high-pitched and almost painful, and it punctuated its words with a contemptuous wave of the burning sword.

To her utter shock, Velandryn responded with a scornful laugh. "Hii kendavve kos oblaan, Zaam!" His voice was deeper and harsher than she had ever heard it, and the unfamiliar cadence twisted her gut. With one hand he struck his chest, a grand gesture incongruous with his slight frame and battleworn armor. "Come to me, and I will end your suffering!"

He stepped forward, and the great draugr did the same. Step by slow step, they closed on each other, neither removing their eyes from the other. It looked almost pitiful; Serana and Velandryn were of a height, and the monstrous undead stood nearly two feet taller than either of them. It was holding a maul in one hand and a twisted chunk of burning, half-melted iron that had once been a sword in the other, and seemed fully able to wield them both at the same time. In all honesty, she could not see how Velandryn hoped to win this battle. Yes, he clearly had some skill with magic, but the other outweighed him and was heavily armed besides. She drew her sword and poised herself to intervene if she saw a chance. She owed the elf that much

Then, she noticed that the path to the gate was clear. I could make it while the monster focuses on these two. Lydia would never abandon Velandryn, that much was certain. For whatever reason, she followed him like a trained dog. She might rage against Serana, but three had no more hope against this monstrosity than two. Would it not be better for her to escape, to return home?

She was at the gate, one hand on the lever, when she heard the battle cry. Lydia had maneuvered herself to an elevated position to one side of the mighty draugr, and now she barreled down the stairs at a dead run, shield held out before her. She's going to die. She could see it now. The great draugr would turn and destroy her in a few blows, and then finish the elf.

She turned away, pressed down on the lever, and heard the gate give a squeal as it began to lift. She heard the deep echoing sound of the Thu'um, and knew that those two were dead. If the draugr could Shout, even their slim chance was gone. She couldn't look back, and so she stared at the slowly rising gate.

I'm sorry.

She froze as the thought took hold. She didn't have to be sorry. She could go back now, she could tie her fate to theirs. She might die, against such a foe. It was foolishness. She was stuck, gripped with indecision as the gate rumbled higher. Now, if she so chose, she could duck under it and be free. She could smell the sunlight and taste the wind. She wanted that freedom, more than she had wanted anything in a very long time.

And they had given it to her.

She cursed, and turned back. She bolted forward, not daring to peer into the black. The longer she went without seeing the hopelessness of the situation, the longer she could continue back without the idiocy of her actions hitting home. After a moment though, when she realized that she had to look or else risk bowling headlong into whatever was going on, she lifted her eyes and let her superior vision penetrate the darkness.

To her shock, she saw Velandryn and Lydia evenly locked with the draugr; somehow they had managed to match it. The elf was hurling fireballs, and as she watched he downed another potion. Lydia was countering the draugr's blows, though she was unable to attack in the face of such an onslaught from two weapons. The other woman could counter the blows from the ruined iron sword easily enough, but that maul sent her staggering every time it crashed home. Lydia was slowly giving ground, though the draugr howled each time a fire bolt found a patch of exposed skin.

Serana did not know whether the elf's attacks would allow Lydia an opening before the draugr's dual-wielding madness brought the Nord to the ground. She angled her charge to bring her into range just as the draugr raised its massive maul. Lydia was busy fending off blows from the sword, but Serana had a clear shot at the creature's upraised arm. She knew that she did not look the part of a fearsome warrior, but she had trained at the sword from a young age. Her father had thought it essential that any member of the noble Clan Volkihar be skilled in combat, and she had always loved the intricate footwork and elegant movements of the single-blade style of the Heiroc Bretons. Her instructors had praised her form, but warned her that she would have to practice with ferocious dedication if she wished to become a master, and she never did. However, in the aftermath of her transformation, her slender arms concealed a strength that she knew surpassed Lydia's and put her into the upper range of what any mortal could hope to achieve. Let it never be said there were no gifts given by Molag Bal. So, when she drew her blade and sliced it into the draugr's arm, she heard the crunch of bone and saw the elbow deform horribly as the maul's weight suddenly unbalanced its wielder.

The draugr hissed, and Lydia launched a furious assault, though Serana could see her fatigue in every movement. Had that been all that happened, the draugr might well have prevailed; by dropping the sword and using two hands on the maul it managed to bring the weapon around and drive Lydia to one knee with a blow that would have crushed her chest If not for her shield. However, at that moment Velandryn redoubled his barrage and three bolts of flame splashed on the undead creature. It took a clumsy swing at Serana, but she ducked under it easily and slashed at the arm she had cut before. This time, the bone broke outright, and she followed it up with a backhanded chop, delivered with all of her strength directly at the elbow, and watched the arm come free, fingers twitching madly as the appendage fell away.

The draugr roared as its great maul crashed to the ground. The creature bent down to pick it up, but Velandryn was there, though Serana had not seen him approach. He looked taller than he had before, and in his outstretched left hand he held a blade, single-edged and looking at once rough-hewn and exceptionally deadly. Even a moment in its presence was enough for Serana to know that it was conjured from Daedric energies. The blade parted flesh and bone alike as it swept down, and the draugr's head bounced down the steps and away into the gloom. The body crumpled to the ground, and Velandryn opened his hand, letting the blade fade away. The body tried to lift itself from the ground again, but whatever energy has been sustaining it must have been insufficient in the face of the trauma it had undergone, and it finally laid still. Velandryn ignited his hand, and pulled the backplate of the armor away. His fingers made a dull squish as they dig into the dead meat, and flames flowed out along the body. In no time at all, the sickly smell of burning flesh filled the cavern.

The elf studied his worn gloves. The fingers of the leather looked to be charred as well as stained from the draugr flesh, and some discoloration marred the wrist of one of his bracers. Lydia rose and took up her position beside him. He looked down at the draugr. "The dead should burn." He said no more, seemingly lost in thought. Serana had no wish to intrude, not least because she had been on the verge of abandoning them to die and did not want to have to explain either her departure or her return.

He raised his eyes to meet hers. "I am surprised you are still here." She braced for one or both to attack her for leaving them, but he just shifted his gaze to the opened gate. "The night air is out there, and you have been away too long."

The moment she realized that he was right, that what she wanted was within her grasp, she was gone. She knew she must look a fool, but she no longer cared. She passed the gate and bolted up the tunnel, her lungs filling with air that got fresher with every breath. Magicka came into the world from the void, through Magnus the Sun and the Magne-Ge who were the stars, and she wanted to feel their blessing upon her skin. It has been so long, since I felt the stars. She could not look upon the sun without pain, but she wanted to at least see the open sky above her, endless forever. She did not remember being asleep, but she craved the open air and stars above. Mother, you liar, you said it would be as though I never left. She wanted to see it all, this new world. She saw the light ahead, and felt the subtle shift of magicka in the air. She stood, in the mouth of the cave, and gazed up at the stars. To the east the sky was slightly lighter, and she knew that soon the sun would rise, and with it would come the hiding, and the pain. But for now, there was only her and the sky. Her parents' schemes were far away, and the distrust of her companions was behind her, in the darkness. Now, for this moment, she was free.

---

Velandryn lifted the great hammer from the ground, and hefted it in both hands. "Lydia, you any good with a warhammer?"

His housecarl gave a short bark of laughter. "Figure out some way to let me use it with a shield, and I'll give it a try." With the vampire having bolted for the outside, Lydia seemed to have relaxed somewhat, and even allowed herself a long drink from the pouch at her hip.

"Come on, let's get going. I want to be gone from here nearly as much as Serana, I'd wager." He started for the exit, and Lydia followed. She had good senses, he had noticed. Without the benefit of either his night-eye or whatever magic Serana used to see in the darkness, Lydia had fared perfectly well fighting by only the light of burning draugr and fire bolts. Of course, she had made a horrifying racket trying to sneak, but he had been so engrossed by the Wall that he had not noticed. That was not smart of me. Of course, it hadn't been the smart part of him that was doing the thinking at that point. Dov had wanted the secret of that message, and had pulled Gaan from those words. He could not understand it or give it meaning, but he felt it tickling the edges of his mind. However, Mirmulnir's knowledge and experience had faded in recent days, and more and more he found himself with Dov and Joor in agreement. When that draugr had belted out its challenge, then Dov had come roaring to the front. He had no clue what he had said, and only half-remembered deciding to challenge the draugr, but he figured that Lydia didn't need to know that her thane, the Dragonborn, was picking fights with undead monsters and then not knowing why. It was the sort of behavior that could erode support for the legendary hero with alarming speed. I do need to see about the Greybeards though. Action without thought was dangerous for any, and doubly so for someone with a power as unstable as the Thu'um. When he had used it against the draugr just now, after Serana had abandoned them for a bit, it had worked, but the backlash had sent him sprawling, something that had never happened before. Interestingly, it had sent him sprawling forward. He recalled its ability to push magicka, and resolved to examine its effects each time he used it. The potential implications were at once frightening and exciting.

"My thane, would you care to explain what you were thinking in agreeing to help the vampire?" Lydia had pulled even with him, and while he had known that he would have to have this conversation, he had hoped it could wait a little longer.

"Look at this hammer, Lydia. It is ebony! A shame you could not use it, but it will fetch a fine price if we sell, or make for a kingly gift." He held the hammer out for inspection and spoke loudly as he walked. Vampires have good vision, they could well have excellent hearing to match."

"My thane?" Lydia's confusion aside, Velandryn wished she would stop saying that. Pre-Alessian Skyrim had been characterized by vicious wars against whatever elves were convenient, and he didn't need the vampire learning that he was a thane. She didn't seem excessively bigoted, but he'd rather not have the issue come up at all.

He stopped at the tunnel, and channeled magicka as night-eye to check that they were alone. "Alright Lydia, now you may ask." Serana was far enough away that he was confident she could not overhear.

"Why are we helping her, my thane? I am sworn to follow, but if you insist on aiding these vampires in their attacks on the innocent—"

"Then you will do your duty, unless you stopped being my housecarl when I made a decision you did not understand!" He instantly regretted the harshness of his tone, and patted her shoulder in reassurance. Why did I say that? Deep within, Dov roared approval at how he brought his subordinate into line."I've not lost my mind, nor am I enchanted by her. I am glad you are wary though."

"But—"

"You are a terrible liar, Lydia." At that, her mouth opened as if to protest, but she just stood there gaping. "If I had told you to welcome the vampire, to make her feel at ease, you would have done your best, but your distrust would have shown through." Vampires were masters of reading emotions, it was said. "She clearly has little to no knowledge of my people—"

"Why is that, my thane? Skyrim ruled over Morrowind while she lived. She should have recognized you."

"My people were the Chimer then. We did not receive this skin and these eyes," there was no promise made, no foul murder committed, "until after freeing ourselves from the chains of the Nords. But, it's good. No Dunmer of true heart would aid the vampire."

Relief blossomed on his housecarl's face. "It was an act, then."

"In part. I do have many questions, and I will gladly play games for her secrets until I have them all." He smiled at the thought of picking clean a brain that predated the Tribunal. "But for now, we have a clear goal."

"Which is?" By the look on her face she had already figured out where he was going with this. Either I am getting much better at reading humans, or I am so convinced of my own cleverness that I tink all others must see it as well.

"These were not some ragged bloodsuckers holing up for the night. Lokil was acting on orders from Harkon, who is that one's" His head nodded towards the entrance, "father. That means organization and a powerful leadership. She was asleep for more than four millennia, and the magic used to seal her was potent, ancient, and Daedric. Whoever these vampires are, they have existed completely undetected in Skyrim for a very long time, and have unknown capabilities. The first step in defeating an enemy is identification."

"So we bring her to where she wants to go."

"Exactly. Continue to distrust her, I will probe for secrets while giving her a few of my own, and sooner or later we will have a location of this home of hers. Perhaps more, if we are lucky. Numbers, resources, plans. The Dawnguard will be interested, and I'd wager Solitude and the Empire would throw a few soldiers and battlemages at the problem if there's a coven on their doorstep."

"And then, my thane?"

He started up the tunnel, hoisting the warhammer onto his shoulder as he went. He would never choose it for battle, but the weight felt good as he walked. "Lydia, they're vampires." He turned to look back at her. "The dead should burn."

---

A/N So, we get to Serana. I recognize that there is no canonical date given for her sealing (and believe me, I combed the fucking desert looking for information I might have missed) but the timeframe I have chosen fits into the lore and lets me write a character who is more interesting than 'victim vampire princess.'As for language, I took a questionable canonical shortcut, and I regret nothing. I tried numerous avenues of language barrier, and short of a magic translation spell (which is stupid) or her only speaking ancient Nordic (which is cumbersome) this is the cleanest solution. Alessia used the slave tongue as the basis for Imperial Tamrielic, so Serna is fluent enough, and she's a smart lady who can pick up languages quickly. This chapter was long enough without a linguistic breakdown of their first meeting. (I wrote part of one, so give thanks that I wised up and spared you that)

Just as a heads-up, I am not going to be shying away from the very traumatic experiences in her past, and while I will try to put a label on the top of any chapter that has something I think warrants a CW, I am also not a person who is triggered by this sort of thing. If you have concerns or would like me to more assiduous in my labeling, please let me know and I will adjust my warnings accordingly.

Dovahzul (Dragon tongue) translations:

"Bolog aaz, mal lirre!" Beg for mercy, little worms!

"Hii kendavve kos oblaan, Zaam!" Your warriors are ended, slave!

"Gaan" Stamina

Ethereal-23 I appreciate the support, my thought on why lore-'light' stories tend to be more popular is that it can be a little off-putting if you are not familiar with the insane depth that exists in TES. I can see why someone cracking mine open would feel like they need to go read UESP or TIL for a few hours, and while I would love for them to do that, not everyone is a crazy person like me.

Mangahero18 I hope it was everything you wanted! They are not going to be bosom buddies right off the bat, but they are both intrigued by the other, and neither likes the other holding secrets over their heads.

Naruto Loves FemKyuubi Velandryn is doing his best to increase his magicka, as he too recognizes that for him, running dry puts him in unfortunate situations. Increasing one's magicka does take time, however, and he is quite clever, so he also puts a lot of thought into making the most of the magicka he has. Modification of his fire bolts for maximum effect is one example of such. On the clans of vampires, while others do exist, most are simply isolated offshoots of pre-existing clans. The only hard evidence we have of points of origin is the Volkihar Clan and Lamae Beolfag, and while it is possible that other 'distinct' bloodlines exist in other provinces (and in my coda, they do) they have not make enough progress in Skyrim to draw the notice of Isran or Lydia, and Velandryn's knowledge of Skyrim's vampires is spotty at best. To all of them, there are the 'normal' ones from Cyrodiil, the Volkihar strains (of varying removal from the original family) and maybe a few that have crept in from outside. Most Vampire Lords are reclusive to the extreme, as Harkon should have been had he not become obsessed with the prophecy. And yeah, the cure for vampirism as presented in-game is bullshit. Morrowind is the only one that gets close to the fact that you would need to get Molag Bal to lift the curse, and even then the only reason he goes along with it is that it is unwise to make an enemy of the Nerevarine. Falion can't just do something with a black soul gem and lift the curse. Molag Bal would consume his soul for trying. There are no easy outs for vampires, and for a Daughter of Coldharbour, Bal's grip is tighter still.

Tylerbamafan34 I love where you are going with this, and it is an issue I plan to explore in depth, but I don't want to give away my political plotlines. But yes, he represents a serious potential for change to the Dunmer.

6thfloormadness: Thanks for the vote of confidence. Velandryn is a lot of fun to write because I get to distort so many classically heroic traits through cultural lenses. I can see how the Dragonborn can wind up a little Mary Su/Marty Stu-ish simply because Skyrim gives so much room to imprint ourselves on the PC, and I really appreciate that you think I'm avoiding falling into that trap. I try to do my best to write well-rounded characters, and I can only promise that Lydia's sexuality is just one facet of her personality. Lydia is a warrior first and foremost, and her history of walking away from romance for the sake of duty, coupled with the sheer scale of the threat they currently face, means that any titillation she gets will have to pound its way through her thick Nord skull. As for numerous threads, there are going to be a lot of balls in the air, and balancing various threats is an issue that will arise. Everyone has priorities, and everyone wants to be first on the Dragonborn's to-do list.