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.

12. Chapter 12 - To Live Forever

Chapter 12—To Live Forever

CW: Some non-consensual implications. Vampires aren't child-friendly in this world, I'm afraid.

---

"I came to learn that Movarth Piquine could see in the dark almost as well as the light — an excellent talent, considering his interests were exclusively nocturnal."

…

"'Vampirism,' he said, and then paused at my quizzical look. 'I was told that you were someone I should seek out for help understanding it.'"

…

"He wanted to know about the vampires of eastern Skyrim. I told him about the most powerful tribe, the Volkihar, paranoid and cruel, whose very breath could freeze their victims' blood in the veins. I explained to him how they lived beneath the ice of remote and haunted lakes, never venturing into the world of men except to feed."

…

"'I don't believe in luck. I believe in knowledge and training. Your information helped me, and my skill at melee combat sealed the bloodsucker's fate. I've never believed in weaponry of any kind. Too many unknowns. Even the best swordsmith has created a flawed blade, but you know what your body is capable of. I know I can land a thousand blows without losing my balance, provided I get the first strike.'

'The first strike?' I murmured. 'So you must never be surprised.'

'That is why I came to you,' said Movarth. 'You know more than anyone alive about these monsters, in all their cursed varieties across the land.'"

…

"'Now, tell me,' he said. 'Of the vampires of Cyrodiil.'

I told him what I could. There was but one tribe in Cyrodiil, a powerful clan who had ousted all other competitors, much like the Imperials themselves had done. Their true name was unknown, lost in history, but they were experts at concealment. If they kept themselves well-fed, they were indistinguishable from living persons. They were cultured, more civilized than the vampires of the provinces, preferring to feed on victims while they were asleep, unaware.

'They will be difficult to surprise,' Movarth frowned. 'But I will seek one out, and tell you what I learn. And then you will tell me of the vampires of High Rock, and Hammerfell, and Elsweyr, and Black Marsh, and Morrowind, and the Sumurset Isles, yes?'

I nodded, knowing then that this was a man on an eternal quest. He wouldn't be satisfied with but the barest hint of how things were. He needed to know it all.

He did not return for a month, and on the night that he did, I could see his frustration and despair, though there were no lights burning in my chapel.

'I failed,' he said, as I lit a candle. 'You were right. I could not find a single one.'

I brought the light up to my face and smiled. He was surprised, even stunned by the pallor of my flesh, the dark hunger in my ageless eyes, and the teeth. Oh, yes, I think the teeth definitely surprised the man who could not afford to be surprised.

'I haven't fed in seventy-two hours,' I explained, as I fell on him. He did not land the first blow or the last."

Excerpts from Immortal Blood, Author and date of publication unknown

---

Lydia's blow did not, if one wanted to be pedantic, open the door. That implied that the door had previously existed in the state of closed, and was now open. Rather, Velandryn mused, the door had only moments before been intact and was now undergoing a transformation into a cloud of splinters.

He had heard stories about legendary weapons forged from ebony, of course, and Sudra's essay on its link to Lorkhan was considered required reading for those seeking any sort of background in Dunmer cosmology. The Chimer had called it Godsblood, and their work with it had predated any other race's use of the enigmatic ore. It possessed properties that set it apart from any known metal or stone; its closest analog was the rare volcanic glass called malachite from which his people spun both armor and ornamentation, and working with either required a lifetime of study. Whatever long-ago smith had made the maul Lydia now carried had clearly been skilled, though just as clearly unused to working with such a material. The head was rough and misshapen, with marks showing where the smith had labored to force it into shape and inelegant hide wrappings and steel nails binding the head to the haft. Still, as crude as it was, it pulverized its intended target, and revealed the dark interior of the room beyond.

Lydia was the first in, dropping the hammer at her feet and stepping over the threshold while drawing her favored sword and shield. Velandryn was only a step behind, channeling magicka into night-eye and glancing around the deserted room. It looked as though only a single person was living there, if the single place set at the table was anything to go by. Notably, the bed looked unused, and a second door, corded with steel, was set into the rear wall. From behind it came the thud of footsteps; clearly their entry had not gone unnoticed

The door was knocked open, and a man emerged from the blackness beyond. He was clad in roughspun pants and nothing else, bleeding from the neck. He brandished some sort of workman's hatchet, and the look in his eyes put Velandryn in mind of the thralls in Dimhollow Crypt.

Lydia approached him, shield raised. "Are you Hroggar? We are here on behalf of the jarl. Put the weapon down and come quietly."

Velandryn didn't need to hear Serana's sigh from behind him to know that it wouldn't work. Of course, no doubt Lydia knew just as well that the man was under Alva's spell. The wounds on his neck and the dullness of his eyes gave it away, and no man so ensorcelled would abandon his master.

From behind the man who was likely Hroggar, a soft voice came from the darkness. "My love, they are here to harm us." The man twitched, and brought his axe up before him. The voice sounded again. "Only you can defend me, my love."

With a snarl, the Nord dropped into a fighting stance. "Stay back, fiends!"

Out of nowhere, an idea came to Velandryn, and he decided to give it a try. Not killing Nords wasn't a habit he necessarily wanted to get into, but Hroggar would potentially be much more useful alive than dead. "Hroggar, we spoke with Helgi. Alva had her and your wife killed, Hroggar. It was not an accident." A name was a powerful thing in the unbinding of illusions. It recalled the self, and gave the soul a tether upon which to cling.

The man's eyes widened. "Lies! There was a fire…"

Serana took half a step forward. "Think, Hroggar. What did Alva say? Did she whisper to you, and make the pain go away? She was there when you were fighting with your wife, and there when your family died, wasn't she?"

Hroggar swayed, axe still in hand. "She…she…"

A woman stepped out from the doorway, baring herself to their eyes. A pale face with red eyes was framed by long black hair that fell in a great stream down past her hips. Pale lips curled up into a smile, and the tip of her tongue slipped out to wick away a thin trickle of blood escaping one corner of her mouth. Like Hroggar, she was naked above the waist, though the similarity ended there. Her bare breasts swung obscenely as she swept towards them, pink nipples erect against the milky-white skin. Her dress, which had been pulled down to her waist, pooled around her feet as she performed a twist of her hips and let it fall to the floor. She was wearing a scrap of white cloth about her loins that was perhaps, on the thinnest of technicalities, preserving her modesty; the firelight played with her body, running light and shadow over the taut skin of her stomach and the long slender outline of her legs. Some dark part of Velandryn wondered for a fleeting moment what it would be like, bedding her. Would a vampire—he cut off that line of thought and focused on the fight to come. We will fight. She is a hostile vampire, and there can be no other outcome.

Alva might be a vampire, but she was still gorgeous in every particular, and Velandryn felt a twinge of absurd and shameful jealousy as the woman twined her arms around Hroggar's bare chest. The vampire is the servant of Molag Bal, and its hunger is the curse of the Lord of Rape. Let there be no quarter for those who prey upon the innocent to sate their own dark desires. The Canticle of Absolution had guided the Ordinators in thousands of hunts, and its words restored his world to its proper way. She was an abomination, and a fair face only made fouler the twisted appetites that lurked within.

"Hroggar, my love, what lies are they telling you?" Her voice was soft and melodious, and judging by how the Nord relaxed the moment he heard it, he was too far gone to be saved. Could we kill her first and break the spell? Serana might know, but this was not the opportune time to formulate a strategy.

The vampire in question was glaring at the other. "Hiding behind a mortal?" The contempt in her voice was the harshest he had ever heard from Serana.

Alva laughed, and Velandryn braced himself, remembering Laelette. However, either his preparedness was sufficient or she was merely amused, since he felt nothing. "My dear, you have not lived until you've taken a mortal. A whisper," the word was murmured into Hroggar's ear, and he fell to his knees, "in the perfect moment, and they are yours. When he" her hand traced the marks her teeth had made on his neck "learned that his family had died, when he wept" she drove her fingers into the wound, twisting, and Hroggar gasped, "in that moment I had only to speak" she pulled her fingers from his neck, the digits dripping red with blood where they had been inside him, and brought them to her lips, "and he was mine." She raised her hand to her mouth and began to clean her fingers, inserting them one at a time and sucking with obscene and obvious delight. Velandryn wanted to attack her, to destroy her in this moment, but he couldn't yet. She might let something slip.

Only one thing left to slip away. Is that what you're waiting for? Was he? Was it mere lust? Or was she enchanting him? Clan Cyrodiil were subtle, it was said and perhaps—

A familiar metallic twang came from behind, and he flinched involuntarily. Alva must have seen the bolt coming, twisting at a speed Velandryn knew he could not hope to match, and so Lydia's shot merely passed through her hair, sending the ends of a few cut strands fluttering away from the vampire. His housecarl stepped forward, and raised the weapon again. On his other side, Serana had bolted forward, blade in hand. Their grotesque parley was over, it would seem.

Alva reached out and knocked Serana's blade aside with her hand, sending the weapon wide but opening a thin slice across the seductress's palm. Meanwhile, Hroggar, unheeding of his wound, snatched his axe from the ground and barreled at Velandryn snarling. Lydia raised her crossbow, but an idea struck Velandryn and he stepped in front of her.

"My thane—"

"Hold!" He had only a moment to pull this off, and it would require two spells with which he had little expertise. Hroggar would be on him in half a second, and the Nord was winding up with his axe. Perfect.

Velandryn stepped in and reached out, catching the human's arm over his head. The Nord would doubtless be able to overpower him in a few moments, but Velandryn only needed a heartbeat. He sent a pulse of magicka through the man, one laced with the most powerful spells of calming he could muster. The effect did not come as easily to him as anger, but the meditations he used for spiritual and emotional cleansing promoted certain paths of thinking and reflection, and facsimiles of those could be transmitted. It lacked any of the subtle elegance of his spells of fury; this was nothing more than a bare-bones emotional transference framework layered with interlocking patterns of illusory calmness and self-reflective meditations. It seemed to do the trick, however; Hroggar let the axe fall to the ground and stood still, swaying slightly in place. Unfortunately, Velandryn knew it could only last a moment, as Alva was doubtless far and away his superior in the domination of lesser minds. He might give Hroggar a moment's pause, but the vampire had been working on him for far longer, and her foul lessons would be written far too deep to be so easily affected. That was where the second spell came in.

One of the Missions of the New Temple was the preservation of the body Dunmeri, which meant that every Anointed was required to have at least a basic understanding of healing magic. The School of Restoration was not Velandryn's forte, but he could heal wounds, and simple punctures and trauma of the flesh such as Hroggar's were trivial. However, the power had to come from somewhere, and in situations of crisis, a healer could not afford to deplete their magicka too quickly. So, some simple spells of restoration contained a component that utilized the vitality and magicka of the wounded, essentially exhausting them to heal their wounds. Velandryn had only ever had to resort to it the once, but he had once heard an account of a healer who had subdued an unruly patient by sapping their strength as the wounds were knit, and Hroggar was nothing if not unruly…

The wound at his neck began to glow, skin crept over the raw muscles and bloody flesh, and Hroggar swayed. Velandryn placed one hand on the Nord's neck, and with the other gently took the axe from his hands. Hroggar stood still for a second, and Velandryn wondered if it had been enough. Then, the widower crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Velandryn shook his head. Now I'm sparing enemy Nords. He shuddered slightly. Best not to make a habit of it. He needed whatever information the man had, of course, but still. It's the principle of the thing.

He glanced up to see the vampires were trading blows with their fists, Serana's sword lying some distance away. Serana had shown her skill with a blade, but Alva was fighting with a gleeful grace that was fully a match for Serana's methodical blows. Each time the Volkihar woman moved towards her sword, Alva would intersperse herself with a giggle and resume the fight. Neither was tiring, and his best course of action—

THUNK!

Lydia, unseen by Velandryn or, apparently, the battling undead, had managed to line up a shot on Alva. It did no more than graze the woman, but in that moment of broken focus, Serana grabbed a handful of hair and pulled the other woman to the floor. With a blow that Velandryn thoughts should have set the house to shaking, Serana slammed her fist into Alva's gut, and she doubled over retching. Velandryn left Hroggar where he had fallen and moved over, ready to assist as needed. However, the Volkihar vampire needed no help, and dragged Alva off of the ground. She slammed her into a table viciously, and the battered vampire collapsed to her knees. She raised her hands, palms towards Serana, who merely took the opportunity to grab Alva by the hair once more and drive her knee into the kneeling woman's belly. Alva retched again, and vomited out a great gout of blood. Velandryn jumped back as the repulsive mess splashed off of the floor.

"Serana, enough!" She turned at his words, and he froze at the look in her eyes. He had expected bloodlust or the wild abandon of her earlier episode, but her golden eyes were cold. Furious, yes, but he could see that she was in control. "We need to interrogate her, and we can't do that if she dies."

Serana gave a derisive laugh. "She's a vampire, and she's been feeding well. A few taps won't break her." Alva tried to regain her feet, but Serana raised a hand. "Stay, or I put you back down as many times as it takes."

Velandryn drew her aside, though they both kept one eye on the vampire. Lydia was binding the unconscious Hroggar with a bedsheet, though her crossbow was still close to hand. He looked at her; they were of a height to within an inch or less. "It isn't bloodlust this time. Care to explain?"

Serana's eyes blazed. "You saw what she was doing to him. What she did to him? How can you not? She's evil!"

Velandryn considered her words. Of course, what Alva had done was horrific. She had, it seemed, seduced Hroggar, destroyed his family, and then taken advantage of his grief to turn him into little more than a mindless slave. He just hadn't expected Serana to be so…violent in her displeasure. As a vampire she would likely have seen such behaviors before. Ah, of course. He looked over at her, at the set of her jaw, at the slightly narrowed eyes, shining so bright amidst her pale skin and bold features. He wondered what she had seen. Or done. "There might be more vampires in Morthal. We need to know."

Serana nodded, then strode over to Alva and stomped on her hand. There was a crunch of bone beneath her boot, and the vampire screamed. "Talk! Are there others in Morthal?"

Alva gasped out her words while cradling her shattered hand. "Laelette! I turned her when she found out about me! No others, I swear!"

Velandryn felt his own hand twinge in sympathetic memory. For a moment, he was in the stink of a different swamp, and heard rough laughter from a lizard's mouth. He stepped forward, putting a hand on Serana's shoulder. "We have Laelette. The jarl is questioning her now." He forced himself to smile at the whimpering vampire. "How do you think we knew what you were?"

His story wouldn't hold up to scrutiny, but hopefully Alva lacked the presence of mind to poke holes in his narrative. They needed to get this done quickly, at least until they could determine for certain how many of the bloodsuckers they were liable to encounter. He looked up at Lydia and gestured towards the open doorway and the step leading into the blackness behind it. His housecarl nodded, and moved to investigate. She paused at the doorway, looked into the blackness, and shrugged. "It looks to be a basement, my thane. Kill the vampire and we can investigate."

Alva crawled towards him, apparently having decided that he was her best chance at survival. The sad thing is, she might actually be right. Not that she would live out the night in any case, but Lydia would just kill her now, and Serana's fury looked to have Alva screaming until sunrise. "Please, I've told you what I can. I turned Laelette—"

"On whose orders?" Priests should speak quietly, taught the Temple, trusting their words and position rather than crass volume to command respect. This was a slightly different situation, but he was one step away from this entire thing spiraling horrifically out of control, and there was no harm in trying a familiar trick.

Something changed in Alva's eyes. Velandryn was no master at reading vampires, but he would hazard a guess that he had just given her something. It only flicked across her eyes for a moment, and was gone so quickly he wondered if he had imagined it. "Nobody's, I swear it! I only…Laelette discovered me, and she would have gone to the Jarl! We fought, and I…I…" She began weeping, great wracking sobs that shook her body. She reached out for his feet, and he stepped back slowly, not wanting to accidentally tread on the regurgitated blood that stained the floor.

Velandryn nodded at Lydia, and gestured at the dark doorway. Lydia pointed her sword at the vampire. Velandryn simply gestured slightly towards Serana. He wasn't entirely certain how Lydia would take that, but if she had been watching the same events he had, she should also have come to the conclusion that, in this case at least, he was not the one in danger from the Volkihar. With a glare, Lydia stepped into the blackness, and was soon lost from view. Alva, he hoped, would have noticed none of this, though Serana looked at him with amusement dancing amidst the gold of her eyes.

She bent down and gripped a handful of Alva's hair, then brought the vampire's head up while keeping one knee on her back. "And who turned you, hmm?" He voice was soft and sweet, and made Velandryn's skin crawl. This was a new side of Serana, and he had to face the reality that despite the good qualities she had shown so far, and how easy she was to talk to, she was fundamentally an unknown, and these events only reinforced that. He still planned to attack the Volkihar den she was leading them to, of course, but he had come to enjoy her company thus far. Lydia was still suspicious, however, and if tonight had proven anything, it was that his housecarl might well be wiser than he was. Lydia will never let me hear the end of it.

Alva's eyes rolled in her head as she struggled to no avail. "It was on the road! I never saw their faces. There were three. They held me down, and one of them…he…" She began to cry again, and Serana sighed.

"You think I can't smell a lie, you wretched little mongrel? Speak!" That last word was punctuated by Alva's face slamming into the floor as Serana drove her hand, still gripping the vampire's hair, downward. She pulled Alva's head up again, and leaned in close. "Speak, or I will make you beg for an ending to your miserable existence. Who turned you? Tell me!" She had started speaking softly, but ended up screaming into the other vampire's bloodstained face.

Velandryn reached out gently, barely brushing her shoulder, but she spun, wrenching Alva bodily across the floor. "What? More mercy for this one? Want to ask her nicely about how she raped a man and slaughtered his wife and child?"

Velandryn raised a hand. "Physical pain, while crudely effective, is rarely the surest way to unveil the truth. My people spent a very long time policing their own, and the interrogation techniques of the Ordinators, while officially renounced by the New Temple, remain effective." He squatted down, looking full in Alva's eyes. "We may lack time for the more…elegant…of their ministrations, however, so why don't you make it easier? Tell us everything, tell us the truth, and I swear by the name of Nerevar that I shall command Serana to let you go free. If you don't, well…these are crude facilities, but they should suffice." In truth, while he probably hadn't explicitly lied, he also had no idea how the Ordinators under the Tribunal had carried out their questioning of dissidents and heretics. Those records were either sealed or destroyed, and not even the Ordinators-Defiant would dare risk the wrath of the Great Council by allowing those pieces of the past to once more see the light of day. So, Velandryn was left with horror stories and fragments of histories. Fortunately, so were the Nords.

Alva's eyes had opened wide, and she tried to break free of Serana's grip once again. "Wait, wait! I can tell you what you want to know—"

"No need, my thane." Lydia had returned, her heavy footfalls and voice preceding her return to the room above. "She kept a journal." She waved the small book in front of their faces. "She was turned by someone named Movarth. He's planning on attacking the town, and she was to turn guardsmen in preparation. Hroggar was just to protect her, and she gave the order for Laelette to kill his family."

Velandryn turned back to Alva, wondering if there was anything more he could get out of her, when pain lanced through him. Something slammed into his leg, and the ground rushed up to meet him. He got an arm out, but a cold grip was already around his wrist, and when Alva pulled, he collapsed. Serana had been thrown halfway across the room, a bloody chunk of Alva's hair still in her hand. Alva, bleeding from where she had torn free, bolted at his housecarl. Lydia yelled an alarm and reached for her weapons, but Alva's superhuman speed gave her an edge the housecarl could not hope to match.

Velandryn's fireball was quick and sloppy, but it did the job. The burn blossomed immediately across her naked back, and her run turned into an awkward sprawl in Lydia's direction. The Whiterun Nord was armed only with the diary, but her blow sent Alva spinning to the floor once again. She rose, spitting blood and curses, but this time Velandryn was on her, one hand gripping her by the throat, the other grabbing what was left of her hair to keep her head still.

"Thank you, Alva." Once more he spoke quietly, and he could see the confusion blossom in her eyes. "You made this easy."

Flame, like anger, was never far for Velandryn Savani. In times of great turmoil, both might rage freely within him, but usually he kept them as valued tools to be pulled forth at their master's command. He exhaled, and the smoking, screaming thing that had once been Alva collapsed to the ground. It twitched once, feebly, and moved no more.

Velandryn had been aware of some noise from outside, and when he looked through the windows he was confronted by a small crowd of townsfolk, milling about uncertainly. None had approached the door, though if the shouted commands from somewhere off in the darkness were anything to go by, that was liable to change with the somewhat late arrival of the Morthal Guard, or whatever they called themselves.

In fact, it was two separate groups who broke through. There were four in Morthal colors, but from the other direction came twice that number in Imperial reds and leathers. They both began shouting commands and inquiries, and managed to achieve a cascade of speech that was completely impossible to understand, let alone answer.

Velandryn decided to take charge; this could all get out of hand, and somebody needed to direct this mob to constructive action. "We need to speak with the jarl immediately." He pointed to the Morthal contingent. "See us there at once." He stepped forward and gestured at the Imperial commander, an Orc in the intricately layered steel plates that marked rank in the Legion. She looked at him suspiciously from beneath her crested helm. "I need you to contain that house."

She looked down at him. "And why would I want to do that?"

He sighed. Imperials loved their ranks; anybody not in the Legion would have a damn hard time ordering them around. Fortunately for him, he had a trump card. Lowering his voice, he leaned in close to the Orc. "There was a vampire in there." He pointed at Lydia. "She took a journal from the body, detailing an imminent attack on Morthal. The jarl and your superiors need to know about this, now." The bit about her superiors came to him only as he spoke the words; it might help sway her. "For now, though, we don't know who we can trust. I don't want word getting out or to even hear the word 'vampire' until we have half a legion smoking out their lair."

The commander nodded slowly. "I'm sending two of mine with you, make sure nothing happens. This is above my level, and if what you're saying is true we need to hammer them fast. I'll hold the house, contingent on orders otherwise." She began barking commands to her troop, and two peeled off to flank Velandryn. He gestured at his companions, and together with the waiting Morthal Guard, they headed off into the night.

---

"Movarth?" The old woman's voice was thick with emotion, and she nearly flung herself from her chair. They were in the small chamber again, though each time they came it seemed to grow more crowded. Now, a dark-skinned and mustachioed Imperial in ornate Legion armor was leaning over a map of the region spread on a nearby table and frowning. A one-armed Nord with a bristly beard leaned against a wall; his tabard slashed with the colors of Morthal and military bearing likely meant he was the captain of the Morthal Guard. He grimaced at the jarl's words, and rubbed his beard thoughtfully. The old steward and the jarl's housecarl completed the little crowd, though neither had reacted to the name.

"Do you know who that is?" Her thane's voice conveyed little more emotion that it usually did, but Lydia could tell he was tired. She had been looking forward to a warm bed and a good meal before setting out for Solitude. And instead we get this. She glanced over at Serana. Of course, maybe not all of us wanted exactly the same thing.

"A vampire thought killed over a hundred years ago." Gone was any of the old jarl's distance or grandmotherly affection. Lydia hoped that this news had shaken her out of the odd disinterest that had plagued their first meetings. "But this..." She paged through the journal, and her brow wrinkled. "Disgusting. I know where he was found the first time, and can point the way. I would see him dead, and his threat ended once and for all."

The Imperial saluted, fist on his chest. "Jarl Idgrod, I have only a few units detached from duties at the moment, but I can have two centuries ready within three days, if you give the word." He glanced down at the map. "Give me a week and I can pull another from Dragon Bridge and maybe two from the Pale, though Tituleius'll howl like a stuck pig if I grab so many of his."

Velandryn turned to look at the soldier. "There are less than two hundred soldiers guarding one of the holds of Skyrim?"

The legate laughed. "We're at war, Dunmer, in case you hadn't noticed. Tullius can harp on about Ulfric's 'little rebellion' all he'd like, but the Stormcloaks are fielding a damned army. There's likely half a legion of ours in Hjaalmarch alone—border hold, you know—but they're strung out along the passes, making sure Galmar Stone-Fist or Sindra Shield-Biter doesn't sneak a few hundred of those blue-cloaked bastards past the mountains and hit us in the ass." He snorted. "Best way to protect Morthal, after all. The mountains are covered in our camps, and nobody's fool enough to bring forces through the swamp. Control the choke points, and the town's safe." He glanced down at the map again. "Except for, well, vampires. We didn't account for the gods-damned vampires." He gave one final laugh. "Add in another Legion's worth of bodies bogged down holding what they can in the Pale, and you're damned lucky I can get you as many as that." He glanced at the jarl and the guard captain. "In any case, the guard exists for a reason."

Serana's voice took Lydia by surprise. She would not have thought the vampire would want to call attention to herself. "You have to strike tonight."

The one-armed man growled through his beard and stomped towards her. "Attack vampires at night? You addled, girl?"

Serana held her ground, despite being overtopped by a good span or more and outweighed by what was likely several stone. "If this Movarth has sent an agent to turn people, you can wager he has other watchers as well. By now, everyone who cares to will know something happened at Alva's home. Thanks to him," she nodded at Velandryn, "they won't know exactly what, but if Movarth has any wits, he'll have suspicions. Right now he could well be learning about it, and that means our window of opportunity is closing."

Lydia glanced around. The guard captain still looked skeptical, but the Imperial legate was nodding. She looked at the two commanders. "How many can you have ready to attack now?" She might not trust Serana, but after her brutal fight with Alva, Lydia didn't believe for a second that the other woman would make common cause with these vampires. A monster, but a principled one. For her part, Lydia had exulted with each blow Serana had landed on that wretched creature's flesh, and when her thane had finally turned that smug face to smoking ruin, she had felt kinship with the Dragonborn like never before. He was a good man, she knew, but sometimes he skirted the boundaries of what she considered proper. That ending, though…she smiled to herself. Killing vampires was a good night's work.

The guard captain looked thoughtful. "I can have the town well-ringed, nearly two hundred if I bring up the volunteers. To go after them, in their own lair, though…" He glanced at the jarl. "Forgive me, my jarl, but no more than ten or so who I would trust."

The legate laughed. "Ten? I've got a bare-bones garrison, and I can give you fifty who'll charge into those crypts or caves or whatever, no questions, no fear. Just say the word, Jarl Idgrod, and the Legion stands ready!" Lydia wondered if Velandryn's jibe earlier had kindled this enthusiasm within the man.

"And when the vampires block out their minds and turn them on each other, what then? When each man could be a liability if his mind holds secret doubts or fears, how many brave soldiers do you have in that case?" Serana's tone was so pleasant, Lydia wasn't entirely sure if she was mocking the man or if she might actually be genuinely concerned.

The Imperial sputtered out a few words, but Lydia had approached the jarl, who had simply been watching the proceedings. This is getting nowhere. "Jarl Idgrod, my name is Lydia of Whiterun, formerly of the Hold Guard." She spoke softly, not needing the room to hear her words.

The old woman smiled. "It is a pleasure to speak at last, Lydia of Whiterun. I suspect you have some wisdom of your own to offer?" She waved around the room. "Everyone else has done so, why should you not take your turn?"

Lydia bowed slightly. A jarl was deserving of respect, true, but she was housecarl to the Dragonborn, and thane of Whiterun besides, so she would offer a warrior's respect rather than a subordinate's. "Jarl Idgrod, against vampires you would be better served with five true warriors than fifty common guards. They must be skilled, but also driven, and understand full well what it is they face." A thought occurred to her. "Are there any in Morthal who call themselves Dawnguard?" however, she saw the jarl shaking her head before she had even finished her sentence.

"I have heard of this new Dawnguard and its mission, but there are none of that order here so far as I know." She smiled, and stood. Instantly, all discussion in the room ceased. An odd one she might be, but Idgrod Ravenscrone was, by the grace of Morihaus Breath-of-Kyne, Jarl of Morthal and the Hjaalmarch, Keeper of the Pale Way and Warder of Labyrinthian. While she stood, none spoke.

"I have made my decision." She smiled at Lydia and bowed in her direction. "Ready your forces to march at once. And I thank these brave adventurers for their courage in joining the attack!"

Lydia had known that it was coming, but even the most dedicated part of her quailed a bit at the thought of a direct assault on a vampire stronghold. However, she would rather die than show such fears to any present, so she merely turned to Velandryn and awaited his word. She had long since given up any hope that they would be quit of Morthal before seeing this through to the end, and it would have felt wrong besides to abandon this town to Movarth and his vile schemes.

Velandryn stepped forward, and offered a bow nearly identical to Lydia's. It would seem he remembered her lessons from Whiterun. "Jarl Idgrod, we would of course be delighted to assist." When he smiled, it was indistinguishable from a natural one, perhaps the best she had ever seen from him. "After, of course, a discussion on the going rate for vampire slayers."

---

Serana could not for the life of her recall the name of the vast marsh through which she now traveled, and it was Velandryn's fault. Lydia had used the proper name once, but Velandryn had called it the Hjaal Marsh, and that admittedly terrible pun had stuck like a burr in her mind. Now, tromping through it, she glared at the back of the Dark Elf's head, willing him to feel shame for forcing her to endure such mind-numbing idiocy. When the column slowly ground to a stop, however, she found her attention arrested by what lay before her.

To Serana's eyes, the cave was a poor abode for a master vampire, but the documents Jarl Idgrod had sent for were clear. This path into the side of a hillock jutting up from the damp earth was the only known aboveground entrance to a series of caverns beneath the swamp, the onetime lair of the master vampire called Movarth. One hundred and fourteen years ago, according to Jarl Idgrod, three full centuries of the Imperial Legion and a mob of townsfolk had descended on Movarth and his fledgling army, purging these caves and putting an end to the threat.

Or so they had thought. Serana could smell blood wafting up from the tunnel, and it was fresh. Around her, twenty or so members of the Imperial Legion and as many of Morthal's guard readied themselves, all of them nervously checking armor and weapons. Behind them, a small clump of townsfolk watched nervously. Four of the legionaries wore blue-slashed robes over heavy armor and hummed with latent magicka; presumably they were the Imperial Battlemages Lydia had mentioned once or twice. That woman, as well as the Dunmer she served, were off to one side, conferring in quiet voices. Serana tuned out the other sounds from all about her, and listened for their words.

"—on our way." Lydia's voice sounded weary, as though she had said much the same thing before.

"I'm not abandoning a town to vampires, and neither are you. I don't like Nords either, but that's a bit excessive, don't you think?" Once she had thought the elf's voice merely a monotone growl, but enough time listening to it had clued her in to the depths of emotion swimming in those deep tones. Right now, amusement warred with exasperation. "For shame, Lydia, shirking your duty to the people of Skyrim."

"It's not Morthal I'm talking about. Once we reach Solitude—"

Just then, Velandryn turned and caught Serana's eyes in his. He held up a finger, and Lydia fell silent. He held her gaze for a long moment, and more out of reflex than any actual desire, she began maneuvering her magicka in the patterns that would open a mortal mind to her whims. Instantly she realized what she was doing, but in the heartbeat where her power reached out for him, something stirred. For the briefest of instants, in his eyes, there was something else. Something old, and angry, and she smelled for the merest of moments the tantalizing scent of his blood. She pushed it away, lest she relapse into a state she preferred not to think about, but the memory remained. Velandryn's eyes were back to normal, and he kept looking at her, as though nothing had happened. Or did it? Could she have imagined it, her hunger projecting something onto the Dark Elf? He had been in her thoughts too often of late, and even when she could not smell his blood, the memory lingered.

To drown out such troublesome thoughts, she listened to the talk around her, as the commanders planned their incursion and the troops traded gossip and rumors. A word caught her ear, dragon, and she focused on that.

"—near Rorikstead, they're saying. Flew over the town, heading north."

"Some of Duro's lads saw on out in the Pale. Didn't attack or nothing, but must have been a hundred feet at least!"

"Whiterun could kill one, so can we. Let the battlemages off the leash, bring in a few of those siege engineers from the Sixteenth Legion down in Falkreath, and the lizard wouldn't know what hit it."

"Hah, you Imperials always think you know what's best? The Dragonborn will stop them, just you wait!"

"You believe that rubbish? Hasn't been a Dragonborn since the Septims. We'll deal with those dragons the Imperial way, with tactical superiority!"

Dragons again? Come to think of it, Velandryn and Lydia had mentioned them as well. Was something going on with dragons in Skyrim? She had heard muttered whispers at some of the places they had passed, but she had never paid the mumblings of passers-by much mind. And this talk about a Dragonborn was…worrying. She had heard the stories, of course, and rumors would occasionally reach her family of this Tongue or that jarl claiming the title. Generally, it had ended in blood. If there was a Dragonborn running around…

A movement from the front diverted her away from that line of thinking. The Imperial commander, the Orc from Alva's home, was standing in front of all of them. "Listen up, you lot! I'm Garzog, decanus of the Morthal garrison, and I'm taking point here. You'll all listen, or you'll wind up dead!" She pointed to the man beside her, fully armored in Morthal colors. "Captain Franding's my second in command for this purge! We're working as one unit, so forget about rivalry. You can all argue over how many bloodsuckers you killed over drinks when we're done!"

The armored Franding stepped up, and held aloft a piece of parchment. "This is a map of the caves. We're going to go through slowly, and clear each passage. We're maintaining line-of-sight for this entire operation, so don't go running off to play hero. If you think you see something, shout it out. We brought enough torches and arrows to kill a whole city of the monsters!"

That was ill-done. Franding had chosen his words poorly. The mere notion of a city of vampires beneath the ground was unnerving many of the soldiers, Serana could tell. All had volunteered, but here, at the threshold of the vampire's lair, many found their courage lacking.

Velandryn moved forward, Lydia a less-than-silent shadow at his side. He walked right up to the entrance of the cave and peered in, then looked back at the assembled host. "It's your town, your families, your honor on the line. I already killed a vampire tonight." He shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. "If you lot want to go home, and wonder who's next to be turned…"

The orc strode towards him. "Legionaries, form front! The elf has the right of it; we won't be outdone by some adventurers! Into the cave, and cleanse it for the Empire!"

Barely a step behind was Franding. "Morthal Guard, for the jarl and for honor!" His soldiers' cheer was less than hearty, but it was something, at least.

Velandryn watched as the two groups filed into the cave, and then gave her a small nod. "Shall we go kill more of your kin?"

That irked her. It might be a joke to him, but she was nothing like Alva or Laelette, or this beast Movarth who would make them his playthings! Stiffly, she nodded. "Let's go."

---

Velandryn had to give credit where credit was due, the Imperial forces were doing a fine job of sweeping the cave. They might be only a shadow of the Red Legions that had conquered most of Tamriel under Tiber Septim, but these soldiers knew discipline and skill at arms. At every branching, the Orc would consult the map and dispatch a number of troops down one of the tunnels. There were at least two of the battlemages with every group, and at no point did any soldier not have at least one other in sight. A line of communication ran back to the commanders at all times, and even surprise attacks were quickly cut off and eliminated. There were thralls, of course, and a few vampires, but superior numbers and the occasional burst of magic brought them down in short order. If vampires thrived of shadow and unease, the purging of this cave brought light and solid certainty, and seemed to be prevailing.

Once Garzog saw Velandryn's fireballs cut down a scrawny vampire who had tried to sneak behind them, the commander had decided she had an additional battlemage, and from then on the bark of "Dark Elf!" was commonly heard echoing through the halls. The Orc knew how to run an operation, he had to give her that. That little show at the entrance had been her idea; both Morthal guards and Imperial Legionaries seemed united in their desire not to be shown up by the strange Dunmer. Use their prejudice to drive them. He had entertained the idea before, but never been able to put it into action until now. A cunning one, for an Orc.

With each chamber cleared and tunnel investigated, Velandryn's unease grew. These vampires were paltry things. Even Laelette had been more dangerous, to say nothing of Alva. Serana confirmed it, when he spoke with her.

"This Movarth is a weak leader, if these are what he commands." She was kneeling over the body of a thrall, checking for something. "He would never be able to threaten Morthal with a force like this." She looked over to where one of the Morthal guards was side by side with a Legionary, talking amiably over the remains of a vampire. "The soldiers are getting complacent, and that's the kind of mindset that gets you killed."

When they brought their concerns to Garzog, however, the decanus wasn't particularly receptive to their worries. "We caught him with his pants down, is all. He's probably got some tougher ones around him, but we'll get them too, don't you worry."

Serana was not mollified. "Or, he's making you careless! Your soldiers are less alert, easier to ambush. I saw some of them digging through chests for trophies, never mind that there was an unsecured room not twenty feet away. If he strikes, how many of your will die?"

Grudgingly, the decanus allowed that they could stand to tighten up their front lines, though Velandryn didn't need to draw too deeply on his skill reading expressions to see how little it pleased her.

Of course, when Movarth's counterstrike came, Velandryn realized it wouldn't have mattered a whit if they had been on their guard or not.

They were in one of the tunnels, acting as a relay to the force clearing the gallery before them, when a gust of wind flapped at Velandryn's cloak and set Serana's hood to flutter. It took a moment for Velandryn to realize how impossible it was for wind like that to manifest underground, and in that instant it returned, this time as a gale. Ahead and behind, the torchlight vanished, and the lantern in Lydia's hand was wrenched from her grasp and shattered against the wall. Velandryn was thrown to the ground, the wind nearly a physical thing in its strength. He looked up, but the darkness around him was absolute.

For a moment, a terribly long moment, he was terrified. He could hear Lydia shouting out for him, and Serana yelling an incoherent warning, but panic overwhelmed him and his breath would not come. He would die down here, in the dark, unable—

Oh, of course. The magicka that activated his night-eye must be tinged with his embarrassment at his taking so long to recall that he was a mage. Pitch blackness unnerved him, one of the reasons he had mastered the spell in the first place, but that was no reason to be so unmade.

At once the tunnel was lit by the grey tones of his magically enhanced eyes, and he met Serana's steady gaze. She seemed perfectly at home in the darkness, of course, and if anything there might have been a hint of amusement in those golden orbs. Upon noticing him, she smiled. "I told you, you know."

Lydia was crouched with her back against one wall, shield raised and sword at the ready. Velandryn began preparing a ball of light that he could have hover above her in lieu of a torch, but it was an unfamiliar configuration, and he needed to give some thought to how best to anchor it without using her magicka as a tether. She didn't have much, and the last thing he wanted was to inadvertently put his housecarl on the ground by sapping her energy.

As he focused on the magicka, he heard Serana's sharp intake of breath, and the incongruity of a vampire doing that made him look up. He froze. A figure was creeping along the hall, blade in hand, and most definitely not of the Legion or Guard. He moved surely in the dark, eyes fixed on Lydia.

Serana was in motion before Velandryn had time to process what he was seeing. Her blade left a shimmering trail in his magically-enhanced vision as it tore a gash through their assailant's chest, parting the thin hide and leathers like so much cloth. The speed with which their foe spun confirmed it was no mortal and its counterstrike was lightning-fast, though Serana parried it and launched a blinding riposte of her own. The two of them were moving so fast that Velandryn dared not interfere lest he miss and hit Serana. He could do nothing but watch, and hope for an opening.

They clashed in darkness, and Velandryn felt a moment's pity for Lydia, who had to be completely helpless without her sight. Indeed, she was staring into nothingness, mouth set into a grim line. The enemy vampire took note, and darted towards her. Velandryn began to shout a warning, but he was too late. The vampire had closed, and—

---

Now!

Her shield lashed out, catching her unseen attacker and eliciting a cry of shock. Doubtless they had thought her helpless.

Lydia had first fought blindfolded at the age of ten, when her father led her into the barracks training yard and beaten her twelve shades of bloody with a wooden sword. That had happened for three days. On the fourth, she had listened for his footsteps, and by the end of the first week she was giving the old man a bruise for every one that rose on her.

Velandryn's voice sounded from her left. "Lydia! Watch out for..." His voice trailed off, as he doubtless realized she was far from disarmed without her eyes. She smiled grimly. It was good to know he cared.

She gave them no time to react, smashing her shield again and again into the unknown enemy and driving it to the ground. She drove her fist down, causing a pained grunt from below, and called out to Velandryn. "My thane, I await your command."

It was Serana who responded. "A vampire, one of Movarth's. Kill him."

Lydia did nothing. "My thane?" Beneath her, the undead stirred. She delivered another blow and heard the crunch of bone. An armored gauntlet would do that to a chest. Or a face.

A sigh. "We have no time. Kill him and let's be on. We need to know the extent of this attack." He sounded frustrated, as though Movarth was personally inconveniencing him with this ambush. Wordlessly, Lydia drew her blade, felt for the neck, and pressed down.

The Imperial who had been their forward contact was dead. Velandryn had summoned an orb of light to hover above Lydia's head, and the pale golden glow gave the blood running from the man's throat a strange sheen.

Serana shook her head. "I was right. They're isolated, and doubtless confused. Movarth's attack will destroy them."

A noise came from ahead. The clash of metal, and a war cry. Wordlessly, Velandryn took off down the hall, with Lydia on his heels.

Serana passed them both easily, and by the time they gained the room ahead, she had already engaged their enemies. The vampire looked to have been Imperial once, judging by his stature and the cut of his rusty armor, but death had lightened his skin and Serana was quickly adding broad strokes of red to the palette. The thrall was a bearded Nord, growling incoherently as he clashed with one of the Morthal guard. Lydia felled the already-engaged thrall easily, and her thane reached out, igniting the vampire's cloak with a wave of his hand. The creature spun, its cry of alarm ending abruptly as Serana removed its head with a single smooth stroke.

The guard gave a great heaving sigh and lowered his heavy mace, which dripped with unidentifiable bits of some foe. A corpse on the ground nearby looked to have donated the necessary materials, though another body in Legion armor argued with mute insistence that the battle was not without cost.

"Thank you, friends." The guard had no helm, and his armor was scaled bronze. Interestingly, Lydia could see no wounds on him. Judging by his nonstandard armor he carried some rank in the guard, and his survival suggested he had the skill at arms to go with it. "I was in a bad place there. I'm Valdimar." He didn't seem particularly curious about their names, but he did stoop to close the eyes of the fallen Legionary. "Go swiftly to Sovngarde, brother."

Velandryn was kneeling over each body, placing a hand on their chest and summoning flames to consume the corpses. Serana looked on with something like faint disapproval.

"Let me raise one. We could use the extra help."

"And when our own side attacks us upon seeing us command the walking dead? There's a time and place for reanimation, but I don't think this is it." Her thane pulled a purse from the vampire and peered inside before placing it into one of the pouches on his belt.

The guard nodded. "Leave the dead be. We should go and find the others." Lydia agreed with both of those statements, and in fact felt that this Valdimar might well be a kindred spirit. A good sensible warrior who didn't need to try out new magic or reason through every little thing. For tasks like clearing a vampire's den, you wanted men like Valdimar at your back.

He paused at the edge of the light cast by Velandryn's spell. She expected him to plunge ahead into the darkness or produce a torch of his own, but he simply stood there muttering to himself. "Let's see now…" With a gesture of his free hand, he conjured a humming ball of light that floated down the hall. Of course, I could be wrong about him. There was nothing wrong with using magic, as her thane had proven time and again, but still…

Back home, she had known where magic stood. It was a useful tool for priests and the like, but it was not a popular field of study for Nords save the odd ones like Farengar. Here in Morthal, however, it seemed that warriors used magic without shame or reservation.

For some time now, Lydia had been attempting to crush a growing and uncomfortable suspicion that her dislike of magic might be more akin to prejudice than something backed up by sound thinking. However, that line of thought was wholly unsuitable for their current situation, and so she did not humor it with further consideration. Maybe later.

She followed the magic-users—all three of them—out of the cavern, feeling very far from home.

---

Movarth's counterstroke, if this had indeed been such, had been executed masterfully. The organized purge of the den had devolved into a dozen individual battles where one or two guards or Legionaries fought off vampires and thralls striking from hidden alcoves and tunnels that had been cast back into shadow. Wherever they went, they helped turn the tide, and soon there were more than a dozen of them making their way towards the sounds of combat up ahead.

Velandryn could feel that the momentum had gone out of the offensive, however. Each group wanted nothing more than to find the others and get out of there, and the shaming of a Dunmer wasn't going to be enough this time. Valdimar began speaking of leaving the cave and getting reinforcements, but Serana disagreed.

"If we leave now, Movarth wins. He can flee and regroup as well, and I guarantee he's been at this longer than any of you." She looked out over their little group, none of whom seemed too eager to go on and beard a vampire in its lair. Velandryn noted with some amusement how carefully she had excluded herself from those who were younger than Movarth, and wondered how old she considered herself.

Valdimar had, by what was apparently silent and unanimous consent, become the spokesman for both the Morthal and Imperial contingents. Decanus Garzog and Captain Franding were still missing, and he had been the first to join Velandryn and his companions after the attack. So, when he spoke, it carried some weight despite that ridiculous accent.

"They are tired, and need to rest. We should find as many of the others as we can, and send some back for reinforcements." The Nord wasn't wrong, however much his hesitation clearly aggrieved Serana.

Velandryn looked at Lydia, who shrugged. "It's generally a bad idea to leave vampires to their own devices if they know you're coming." She glanced over the ragged band resting and binding wounds, and Velandryn could guess her thoughts. They had found only one of the battlemages, and of the Morthal contingent Valdimar alone had any magical skill. Everyone looked tired; these were clearly garrison troops unused to pitched battle.

Lydia stepped close to Velandryn and lowered her voice. "This lot mostly deals with petty thievery and drunken brawls. Valdimar's not useless, but I'm not sure many of the others would fare well. Send them for reinforcements, let us hold the entrance with those who want to stay behind."

Serana had come up behind them, her enchanted ears likely having heard every word. "Send them back, but we can't give Movarth time. I can feel power, my kind of power, from a tunnel we passed not long ago. The three of us head that way, we find Movarth, and end him."

He looked at her, trying to figure out why she would suggest this, but Lydia spoke first. "Three? Against the Nine-only-know how many vampires down there? Have you lost your mind?"

Serana ignored her and looked at Velandryn. "How adept are you with invisibility?"

He could feel the potion resting in his hip pouch. "Not at all. You want to use the retreat to cover our advance?"

She nodded. "They fall back, clearing as much as they can, and making a huge racket all the while. Movarth will doubtless assign his underlings to monitor and harass them. I can feel the old blood from below, and know where we need to go. Get me close enough, and we can take him down." Not for the first time, Velandryn wanted to understand her true nature. He had yet to see her afraid, as evidently the prospect of killing a potentially centuries-old vampire fazed her not at all.

"You're risking a lot on him not noticing us." If they were seen, or if Movarth called his followers back, they would be overwhelmed.

Serana gave him a measuring look. "Feel free to join the others in their retreat. I am going to end this threat once and for all."

There had never been any doubt as to what he was going to do, Velandryn knew, and he and Serana had too much in common for her not to have known that as well. It was a good plan, barring all of the ways they could die horribly, and he did trust Serana's assessment of these vampires' capabilities. She claimed not to know Clan Cyrodiil, but she had yet to be wrong when combating their abilities.

Only one obstacle remained, but when he turned towards Lydia, her features were already set in that grim line of resignation. "Lead the way."

Velandryn nodded, and beckoned Valdimar over. The Nord did not like the plan, but agreed to do his part, ordering the troops to fall back. They took a route that led them past the tunnel which Serana claimed led to Movarth, and the three detached themselves from the column as it passed.

They soon found themselves scuttling through abandoned galleries and hallways lined with crates of weapons and food. Velandryn had cast a spell allowing him to detect the living, and Serana could smell the blood of any vampire; between the two of them and Serana's well-crafted illusions they managed to conceal themselves from the infrequent thralls and vampires that hurried past. From behind, they could occasionally make out the sounds of battle.

Finally, they found themselves in a narrow passage that had branched off from the larger hallway seemingly at random. Serana was adamant, however, that this led to Movarth, and Velandryn could see no reason to stop trusting her now. Lydia was forced to crouch and scuttle along like some variety of armored crab in the narrow confines, and Velandryn could only make out the faintest emanations of life through the rock walls. Still, Serana urged them onward.

Finally, they emerged into a larger room, and Velandryn noticed three things at once. First, there were two other paths leading out of the room, one in each direction. Second, the exit from their narrow tunnel had clearly been unused for some time, judging by the amount of junk piled in front of it. And third, that the pair of thralls who were just entering the room had most definitely noticed the crash as their exit brought everything piled before them tumbling to the floor.

Immediately, both thralls began running, one down each of the main corridors, all the while shouting alarms. With a curse, Lydia brought her crossbow to bear, but the bolt missed her target and the man vanished down one of the tunnels. The other was making in the opposite direction, but Serana was hot on her heels. Velandryn took off after the one who had fled Lydia's shot, his housecarl just behind.

They sprinted down the tunnel, the thrall vanishing around a corner and raising an unholy racket all the while. As Velandryn rounded the same corner, he thrust out his hand and pointed a fireball at the indistinct blur of life force that was the thrall. He was rewarded with a curse and the sound of a crash from up ahead. He hadn't hit the thrall, but the eruption of flame had sent the man stumbling, and Lydia was able to fire off another shot that took the man in the back. Breathing heavily, Velandryn closed with the thrall, now trying to crawl away, planted a foot squarely on his back, and drew the dagger he had taken from Lokil. He was exhausted and likely to be facing still more foes, and while he was no vampire, this blade's enchantment meant the thrall would give his life for a good cause. He grabbed the thrall by the hair and wrenched his head back.

The moment the dagger's tip pierced the flesh of the thrall's neck, Velandryn felt energy pour into him. As the thrall's desperate thrashings subsided, Velandryn rose, feeling as fresh as though he had been resting for hours rather than performing this mad vampire chase. Life for life. He wiped the dagger on the thrall's fur armor and slid it back into its sheath at the small of his back. A cruel weapon, but well-made. Fitting it should serve my cause rather than the foul machinations of vampires.

Lydia, unaware of his newfound energy and its somewhat morbid source, came up to stand beside him. "Do you think anyone heard, my thane?"

Doubtless if she knew of the blade's properties she would raise a great fuss about foul magic, something he had no interest in enduring. "I hope not." He glanced around. A great wooden door stood some ways down the hall, but there was no sign of any further foes roused by the ruckus they had caused. "We should go and find Serana, and then be on our way to hunt down Movarth and kill him."

Just then, the doors ahead swung open with the creak of wood and dull screech of old hinges. "Wouldn't it be easier to simply come in?" The voice was pleasant, speaking Imperial Common with rich tones flavored by a hint of a Nibenese accent. Of their own accord, Velandryn's feet obeyed, leading him to the threshold. Beyond, the room was deserted save for an Imperial in dark clothing inlaid with silver scrollwork who sat at the head of an empty table. He was very pale. "Please, enter."

Velandryn's body stumbled forward before he could even think to do otherwise, and Lydia followed. Deep within, Dov screamed in rage at this violation. Behind them, the doors slammed shut.

Movarth smiled.

---

This thrall had legs, Serana was soon forced to admit. The ensorcelled woman had already alerted one other, though that one made the mistake of trying to engage Serana rather than fleeing as well. He had received a spike of ice that crushed most of his skull for his efforts, and she had hacked off his head for good measure, not having time to check whether he was vampire or thrall.

Every moment she pursued this one pulled her farther away from Movarth. And Velandryn. Why that should matter was beyond her, but it felt wrong to leave him alone down here. Lydia, as effective as she was at being a blunt instrument, would pose no help against one of Movarth's stature. She needed to get back to him, but first she needed to kill this one. This one, with the hot blood running through her veins, now breathing heavily, blood pumping—oh, Lord, not again!

The thrill of the chase and her foolishness in invoking Molag Bal to aid her created a cocktail of lust within her. When she closed on the thrall, she did not stab with the sword in her hand, but gripped the woman by the arm, pulling her close. Blood thrummed beneath the skin, and each pulse ignited a spasm of ecstasy within her.

At this moment, Velandryn and Lydia could well be in trouble. Perhaps they had found Movarth, or lost their way. Perhaps—

She was drinking before she even noticed biting down, and the bliss of blood cascading down her throat filled her agonizing joy. The thrall had gone still; some part of Serana recognized that this response had been imbued into the enchantments that held her, so she could be easily be used as feeding stock by the members of the coven. It should have repulsed Serana, but she could not deny the call of the blood, the irresistible wanting that was even now exulting in her victory over circumstance. Velandryn Savani was not here to condemn her, nor Lydia to look upon her with hate and disgust. This was how she had to be, the inevitable consequence of the choice she had made when she spread herself upon the altar and accepted her new Lord's blessing.

Oh Lord you have blessed me such sweet succor such release as I have never known I praise your name Lord Molag Bal for this gift of blood within me. She drank, and hated how much she had needed this.

All at once, she felt the sweetness lessen in the rich liquid that poured into her throat. She raised her eyes, and saw the face of the thrall glazed over. The blood came only feebly, and the woman's stillness had nothing to do with the enchantment that held her. She's dying. Serana had drunk too deeply, and the body in her arms was as good as a corpse. Unless she gave of her own blood and raised the body in her own image, Serana had slain this thrall. Death's blood was never so sweet as that taken from the living, but in her thirst Serana did not care. Some part of her whispered that it would do no good, the thrall would die anyways, and that all she could do now was drink deep, that there was no evil here. She listened, and loved that voice for letting her drink without remorse. She bit deeper, and her magic pulsed through the unfortunate mortal, forcing out the blood, all of the blood, all for her.

However, as she raised her eyes one final time and watched the thrall take her terminal breath, so insubstantial that mortal senses might well have missed it, she saw something unwelcome. She saw Helgi and Hroggar, victims of the vampires. She saw Laelette, maddened in undeath, turned into a minion and leaving a grieving husband behind. She looked down at the body in her arms, deathly pale and cooling fast. Did she have a family? A lover who waits for her return, a mother or daughter who sets a place at the table in case she comes back through the door?

In the void left by her hunger, conscience and reason returned in a rush, and she flung the body to the floor in her haste to be free of it. It was intolerable to hold, a grotesque reminder of what she was. She had never regretted her choice, not truly, but in moments like this, after a feeding that went too far, she was repulsed by the reality of her existence. That she had to feed, either constantly on one who was no more than a slave to her hunger, or like this, taking the blood of another forcibly even unto death, a crime in the eyes of every nation that had ever been.

It was an affirmation, she knew, of why it was imperative that she return home. She had enjoyed this time spent among the world, probably more than she should have in truth. However, these were not her people. She left the body where it lay, and began retracing her steps.

Why am I doing this?

The thought came to her unwelcome and unbidden. Why kill Movarth if these were not her people? Why had she been filled with such hatred for Alva, why had she been overcome with helpless grief when trying to comfort Helgi? Now is not the time. Regardless of reasons, she needed to end Movarth. She could analyze the why later, but this was a time for action.

She ran down the hall, trying to reach the place she had left Velandryn. It was a long way, though, and she had only the omnipresent pulse of Movarth's blood to guide her. The contrast between them was fascinating, in its own paradoxical way. Her bloodline ensured she was all but certainly the more powerful vampire, but Movarth had made himself the spider in the center of a secret web, commanding lesser vampires and thralls for decades, possibly centuries on end. His power was realized in an army of loyal followers, where hers was largely potential, known but not bought forth.

She had never needed to be mighty, and before waking in this time, she would have scoffed at the notion of depending entirely on her own strength. She was of the royal bloodline Volkihar. When human, it had meant that there was a nation of loyal servants eager to leap to her bidding, and in the wake of her transformation it meant that she stood only a small step below her father and mother, who commanded the full power of their clan. Now, save for the reluctant and calculating aid of mortals, she had none to rely on but herself.

She reached the room where they had first encountered the thralls, but there was no sign of Velandryn or his housecarl. She could feel Movarth down the path her companions must have taken, and knew it was likely they were already falling into a trap of some sort. Velandryn might be clever for a mortal, but he had shown only the shallowest understanding of the subtle snares of which her kind was capable. She did not know this Movarth, but he clearly had the power to dominate lesser minds with ease, and she had no desire to fight either one of her allies. Well, maybe Lydia, just to prove to that self-righteous bitch where she stands in the world.

As she took the first step, however, something else intruded into her mind. The pulse of Movarth's arrogant power flickered, and she felt her legs lose strength as a chasm of boundless age opened within her. Impossible! Whatever was happening was far removed from her, but she felt the thundering roar of…of something. She recalled the conversation she had overheard outside the cave, and in a brief, idiotic flash wondered if there could be a dragon down here.

It was over in a moment, her world righting itself and strength flowing back into her limbs. Her first step was shaky, her second hesitant, but by the third she had found her balance once more. What was that? She still felt the reverberations, but there had been neither sound nor physical movement. Whatever had happened had been carried solely through some other mechanism.

She reached a corner, and turned, checking briefly to see if there was anyone in the hallway. It was clear, and she headed further down. Ahead, she could feel Movarth's presence, a subtle resonance in her blood. There was something else, however. The roar had faded, but in its place remained a constant echo, an almost-sound that hinted at untold age and impossible power. She shivered as she proceeded, and looked around, almost hoping for some foe to take her mind off of this unnerving sensation of standing on the edge of the abyss.

There was nothing there, however, save her, her thoughts, and a sensation she could not place. Shivering, she ran on.

---

From the first word out of the vampire's mouth, Lydia's body had refused to obey her. She could, with great effort, keep herself from moving, but she could no more take an action unbidden than she could have tunneled her way through the rock with her bare hands. She had deflected Alva's seduction by focusing on the monster she truly was, but it seemed a master vampire needed no subtle infiltration to dominate a mortal. Fortunately, Movarth's attention seemed entirely focused on her thane.

"You are the one who killed Alva, aren't you? My agents mentioned a Dark Elf giving orders at her home." The vampire was sitting in his high-backed chair, fingers crossed in his lap, looking perfectly at ease.

"She needed to die." Likewise, her thane appeared relatively calm, though Lydia knew that could well be nothing more than an attempt to trick the vampire into lowering his guard or weakening the spell he had laid on them. They were standing not five paces in front of the door through which they had entered, but it might as well be ten thousand leagues for the chance she had of reaching it. "If you are angry that I killed her—"

"Oh, not in the slightest!" Movarth gave an airy wave. "I merely wanted to make sure you were the same person. You have done very well, for a mortal. Come closer to disrupting my plans than any in, oh, a hundred years or more. You and your associates, that is." He nodded respectfully to Lydia. "Well done, the both of you!" He clapped with apparently genuine good cheer.

"Is this a game to you, then?" Velandryn's voice was harsh. "Destroying the lives of so many for what, your own amusement?"

Movarth rose, hands clasped behind his back. "Something like that." He began to walk towards them, slowly traversing the length of the table. "Tell me, as an elf, what do you think of human lifespans?"

Velandryn shook his head. "They deny you true mastery of the more subtle skills, and cause rashness in your leaders."

Movarth looked pained. "Please, them. I have not been human for some time." He stopped and poured a dark liquid from a silver carafe to a stone mug, drank, and smacked his lips. "But where are my manners? Would you care for some refreshment? From my personal collection, no less. Killing vampires is thirsty work." He smiled, and his long incisors caught the light.

He was turned so Lydia could see only half of his face, but she doubted even in perfect light that she would have been able to make out much movement on her thane's face. "Let me guess. The blood of virgins?"

The vampire roared with laughter, and poured another glass. "Half wrong, I'm afraid. The only blood in here is that of the grape. A Skingrad vintage, from the high vales in the western country. Pre-War, of course, as the Nineteen Days quite devastated that region."

"Unbind me, and I'll gladly drink." Her thane seemed calm; he was good at that.

"Oh, I think not. Not that I doubt your word, of course, but I get the feeling you'd try to kill me first, and I'm enjoying our little parlay. It's rare to have a chance to talk with someone who isn't bound by blood to be your eternal servant, you know." Movarth sat at one of the many places laid out on the table, and sipped his wine. "You've made a very good show, and I'm feeling magnanimous, so ask, and I'll tell you what you want to know. You do have questions, I hope."

Lydia, for one, did not. Her thane, however, spoke immediately. "Why this plan? Even if you succeeded, Morthal would be liberated as soon as word reached anywhere else in Skyrim." He paused. "Are you trying to weaken the Empire, give the Stormcloaks an edge?"

Movarth waved his hand. "Oh, don't talk to me about the Empire! A thin reflection of a worthier predecessor, trying desperately to hold onto a vestige of their former glory. No, I don't have any love for them, but I certainly wasn't thinking politically when I tried this." He smiled. "Keep in mind I've been doing this for over a hundred years."

"Why then?"

A shrug. "Why not? The town has never been well-warded, and there is power out in the mists if you know where to look." He rose. "Besides, what else was I going to do with my time?"

"You did it because you were bored?" Velandryn's voice mirrored Lydia's incredulity.

With quick strides, Movarth closed on him. "And what would you know of boredom? How many years have you? A hundred? Less? Come to me when you have lived for five centuries, and tell me how you fill your days." He turned away. "While I was human, I was convinced that I had a purpose, a calling that must be fulfilled. I was wrong, and given an eternity to ponder my mistakes." He turned back. "Well, I have pondered, and found nothing. Life, whether as mortal or vampire, is what we make of it. And, I have an infinite number of lifetimes to experience all that the world has to offer!" Another smile. "I am enjoying the life of a warlord, I think."

"You've lost." Her thane's words were flat, no hint of mockery or gloating to be found. "Morthal knows you're out here, and whatever you think of the Empire, they'll flood these caves with so many soldiers that your army will be reduced to nothing."

"And you think that matters?" Movarth was pacing now, emphasizing his words with gestured hands. "They flood the tunnels, and I have a dozen back paths out of here. I cannot die, Dunmer. Perhaps I'll go somewhere else, and try again. Or maybe I'll go live among humans for a while. Grow rich, wed some beautiful young thing with delusions of splendor, and make her mine. I can begin feeding on the populace, and see how long it takes until they find out." He smiled. "Usually they catch on within a few years, but once it took almost twenty."

"So it is a game. All of it. That's how you see us."

"Can you blame me? I discovered after a frankly disgusting amount of moping over my new condition that I could either agonize over what I had become, or…not." He pointed straight at Velandryn. "You'd come to the same conclusion, given enough time. The gift of blood outstrips any sensation a mortal can experience, and these meager lives are meaningless compared to mine. Besides, it's so much more fun!" He laughed again, long and loud. Then, he sobered, and looked at them with something that Lydia half-suspected was pity. "You probably think me a monster, and I think you hopelessly naïve. We are simply too far apart to understand one another, and that pains me." He stood between them now, close enough to touch either her or her thane.

Lydia tried to do something, anything to break this spell upon her, but it was to no avail. Movarth had her completely at his mercy. The vampire's eyes were on her, and Lydia felt her hand begin to move towards her blade. It took every drop of willpower she had to keep herself from obeying his foul command.

Movarth blinked, and the pressure in her hand was gone. "You are strong." He glanced at Velandryn. "Both of you are. Most beings would be mine by now. First the mind, then the body, and finally the soul." He stepped back, and clasped his hands behind him. "It would be a shame to break that, make of you no more than a trifling slave. So, I think I shall try something…different."

He strode to stand in front of her thane, and clasped him on the shoulder. "There is something I have always lacked, something necessary for this grand adventure of mine to become truly…mythic, and that is a worthy foe. Someone who will hunt me, not because of whatever incidental scheme I have concocted for that decade, but because they have the burning desire to see me ended. If I kill them, it is a victory all the sweeter for its resonance, and if they foil my plans or, gods forfend, kill me, then I have the satisfaction of knowing that I was undone at the hands of someone who took the time to hunt and hate me on a personal level." He stepped back. "So, what do you think?"

"I think you've read too many bad romances, Movarth." Velandryn's smile was ghastly, far too many teeth. Lydia was so used to his half-successful attempts that it took her a moment to realize that he had done exactly what he wanted to, and bared his teeth at his foe.

"Probably, probably!" Movarth waved a hand. "Tell me, Dunmer, do you care for that woman?" It took Lydia a moment to realize that he was talking about her.

"Something like that." Lydia wasn't sure what to make of that answer, though it did not seem to phase Movarth.

"Good! You're smart enough to see where I'm going with this, aren't you?" Lydia had to confess that she was not, or else the twisted reasoning of elves and vampires was closer to each other than it was to the thoughts of Nords. "I simply wanted to make sure that her death would leave a gaping wound in your soul, one that leads you to hunt me down." Lydia felt something else settle on her, a cold so intense that she could barely feel her body, let alone move it. She understood now, what he had meant by making himself a nemesis. If by her death Velandryn could live, however, then it was her duty as a housecarl to lay down her life.

"Dunmer, this is my final command, one I lay upon you with the full strength of eight hundred years. Kill her." He smiled, and turned away.

No. No it couldn't be. He would command Velandryn to kill her himself? It was a perversion of the bond between thane and housecarl, a wretched crime. Movarth couldn't know, of course, but it hardly mattered. Once more she strained against the bonds that held her, but still she was as helpless as a newborn before this magic.

She looked at her thane, terrified of what she might see. However, he was standing stock still, eyes fixed on Movarth's back. "No."

The vampire spun back, lips twisted in a smile beneath cold eyes. "That's not the answer I was looking for. Kill her!"

Velandryn laughed then, and the harsh and grating sound was music to Lydia's ears. "Command me again, vampire." He shivered as he stepped forward, and raised a hand to point at Movarth's face. "You speak of mahfaeraak, of immortality, but you are nothing more than joor that has been stretched beyond its time."

The room seemed to tremble. Movarth's eyes blazed red, and he raised his own hand in furious command. "Be silent and obey! You are nothing before me!"

"Such arrogance. You challenge me, unheeding of the folly into which you have stumbled. The forest does not command the storm, and joor does not command Dovah!" That last word was spoken in a guttural roar from deep within her thane's throat, and Velandryn's hands burst into flame.

"Impossible!" Movarth stepped forward and drove a fist at Velandryn, who stumbled backwards. He brought his fire-wreathed hands up, and Movarth danced back, nimbly dodging the haphazard blow. "Fine." He turned to Lydia. "Kill the Dunmer. Do it!"

"No!" Her thane's shout came as Velandryn was already moving towards her, and Lydia managed to reduce the speed with which her body obeyed Movarth's command. She shuffled on each step, and her hand inched incrementally towards her blade. Velandryn, upon reaching her, reached up and placed his hand on her shoulder. Magicka pulsed through her, and her arms and legs locked in place. Stunned, she nearly fell, but Velandryn held her upright with a grip far stronger than she expected from the elf. "She is mine, vampire. None but I command her!" He released her, and her limbs suddenly worked again. She still could not move, but neither was she being commanded. The elf stepped away, and that unnerving Daedric blade was suddenly in his left hand, while his right arm burst into flame. "Kill me yourself, coward."

Lydia felt an unexpected and ill-timed rush of affection for Velandryn. He had paralyzed most of her body and claimed ownership over her, to be true, but she was fairly certain that was merely a combination of whatever dragon nonsense was going on in his head and his own natural sense of superiority. She would taunt him mercilessly for it later, but his actions were well-intentioned. The fact remained, however, that he had stepped forward and stood between his housecarl and a master vampire. It was nice to know he cared.

The vampire clapped his hands. "Very good! Though I must say, you are armored entirely wrong for a battlemage."

Velandryn twitched the fingers on his right hand; the fire around them danced through the air. "I'll take it under advisement. Maybe the reward for killing you can get me some good bonemold spell-plate."

Movarth opened his mouth, but paused before saying anything. Suddenly, he spun again, this time towards the shut door through which the two of them had entered so long ago. "So, that is what I was feeling." He looked at the two of them, and Lydia was suddenly free. "You brought a Volkihar with you, and a powerful one at that. Was it deliberate, a counter for my power? Like can sense like, you know, and no other breed feels quite so…cold."

With a crash, the doors slammed open, and there stood Serana. She had a sword in one hand and her other glowed icy blue and radiated frost. She looked ragged and half-feral, and Lydia had never been happier to see her.

Movarth looked at the three of them, and smiled. "What an interesting group. A Volkihar vampire of exceptional bloodline, a Nord of uncommon willpower, and a," he paused, "well, I'm going to need to figure that one out." He stepped back, and began ascending the stairs that led to a balcony overlooking the room. "Consider this round yours, my friends. We shall meet again, sooner or later, of that I am sure. After all, don't you want to kill—"

Lydia had had enough. One major advantage of the crossbow was that it could be stored with the bolt nocked in place. There was actually a clip that held the bolt so that the bow could be turned any which way and it wouldn't fall out. Truly, a marvel of engineering. So, when she drew it, there was no need to load. Only to raise it, take aim, and send a few inches of wood and steel into Movarth's chest.

"Yes." It came out a growl, and she began to reload. She was going to put him down for good. Her body still ached from the stress it had undergone, and she still felt the chill of not being in control of her own motions. Never again!

Velandryn pointed with his burning hand, and tiny drops of fire fanned out, filling the air between him and the vampire with a burning sideways rain. Serana gestured as well, and great shards of ice lanced across the room towards Movarth. The vampire, however, placed his hand on a pillar, and a shimmering blue barrier enclosed the balcony. The projectiles impacted harmlessly against it.

"I was not expecting that." His laugh was more a pained exhalation than anything else, and each word was punctuated by a gasp of air. "A good weapon. I'll have to get my hands on one." He stood tall and gestured. "Maybe you should bring me that one. Nord!" Once more Lydia felt the coldness settle over her, but she was ready. She raised the crossbow to point straight at him, and as her hand began to take on the familiar sensation of an attempt to dominate, she pulled one finger back.

The bolt careened off of the shield Movarth had raised, but it was enough. It raised a cascade of sparks, and the vampire flinched. She felt the weakness recede from her limbs, and she reloaded with grim satisfaction. She might not be the Dragonborn or an ancient vampire, but she could throw off this bastard's attempts to control her at least!

Movarth hissed some curse, but Lydia's focus was on Serana. She had begun laughing, and it was laughter that set the housecarl's teeth on edge. On the road, the vampire had been reserved but not unfriendly, and once or twice Lydia had heard her laughing softly at some joke or observation Velandryn had made.

This was different. It was a cruel laugh, bleak and mirthless, hinting at unwelcome and sleepless knowledge. "Nice shield. Where did you steal it?"

Lydia couldn't make out Movarth's face, but if he was unnerved by Serana's behavior his words hid it well. "From a vampire with more knowledge than wisdom. I wrested the knowledge out of his hands, then killed him."

Velandryn caught Lydia's eye and pantomimed aiming a crossbow at Movarth. She did so, wondering what Serana was going on about.

The golden-eyed vampire looked at once healthier from the last time Lydia had seen her and more haggard. "One of my people?" She was speaking with less than her usual eloquence, short sentences that were uncharacteristic for the intelligent immortal. "That spell is ancient, created by the founders of my line. Unfortunately, it is not without…drawbacks when used by one of lesser blood." Of course, not necessarily. In the instant it took Lydia to have that thought, Serana raised her hand and bit into her wrist. The shield above shattered, shards of glimmering light and what was likely raw magicka spinning through the air and vanishing. Into the space where it had been, her thane sent another barrage of fire, thought this one was made of great fireballs, each the size of her head or larger. Serana sent a cascade of lightning forward as she ran towards Movarth, and Lydia aimed her crossbow at what she thought was his outline amidst the magical cacophony and pulled the trigger once more.

Watching Serana, Lydia was half-certain she would outstrip the crossbow shot. The vampire nearly flew up the steps, taking them three or four at a time. Behind her, Velandryn was charging, and Lydia was doing her best to keep up. Her body was sore and parts of it were unnaturally cold, but she would not let mere discomfort keep her from her duty.

When she and her thane achieved the balcony to which Movarth had fled, it was to find Serana and Movarth locked in an odd dance. The Clan Cyrodiil vampire was fighting unarmed against Serana and her single blade, and by the look of things was getting the better of her. While Serana had demonstrated that she was a fairly skilled duelist, Movarth was clearly a master of his style. Every one of his blows either landed solidly on Serana's body or deflected one of her slashes. Besides which, he was retreating towards a tunnel set into the far wall. All the while, he was talking, an endless stream of taunts and nonsense.

"I killed a Volkihar, back when I was still human. A friend of yours, do you think? He reached through the ice, didn't even break it. Nearly got me, but I saw the shadow and moved just in time." He struck her wrist in a clear attempt to disarm her, but Serana held onto her sword and brought her other hand around in a broad and sloppy blow that he ducked under with ease. "Like that. Your kind is fast, and strong, but that means you don't think. You assume that you can overpower your enemies, and when you can't you're at a loss."

With a hiss, Serana caught one of his wrists and head-butted him square in the face. "Shut up." She spoke softly, as though she were very tired.

Movarth staggered back, clutching his face, and Lydia had her chance. She fired one final time, and Velandryn sent a great stream of fire out of his hands, surrounding the vampire. After a moment, her thane stopped, and slumped against a pillar, but waved her off when she began to move towards him. In the midst of the fire, Movarth was cursing and tearing at his burning clothes as he ran for a tunnel in the far wall. Lydia began to reload. He was clearly a very dangerous combatant, and only the twin surprises of facing a Dragonborn and whatever kind of special Volkihar Serana was had gotten him to this point. They were so close to victory, and she would not let him escape.

She needn't have bothered, however. Serana ran and lunged forward with impossible grace, and this time her blade was not turned aside. Apparently there was nothing she wanted from Movarth save his death, as she didn't worry about interrogation or even the small restraint she had shown against Alva. Instead, while Velandryn and Lydia watched mutely, she methodically disemboweled the other vampire. By the time she was done, the ruin of what had been the ancient master vampire Movarth could scarcely even be termed a corpse.

Serana turned to Velandryn. "Burn it." She hoisted Movarth's head in her hand. "The jarl might want this." She made her way down the stairs, sure-footed but with an air of great distraction.

Velandryn moved towards the body and ignited his hands. "Whatever he may have had in his pockets, I'm in no hurry to find it. Lydia, would you like to do the honors?"

She wasn't sure if that was a joke or a command. "Are you going to burn it for her? I thought you didn't take commands from vampires, my thane."

He looked down at the body. "The problem with that is, I'm not sure she knows." He waved, and what remained of Movarth the master vampire erupted into flames, and the sickly sweet smell of roasting flesh filled the cavern. He sighed. "She saved us, you know."

There was no point in asking who he meant. "I know, my thane." There was nothing else to say. They owed their lives to a vampire.

---

Serana came back to herself as the battle receded into the past. She had fought like an animal, still raw from the feeding, but now she had the presence of mind to think on how best to behave. Velandryn had noticed for certain, and Lydia was never one to miss the vampire acting oddly. She could explain it away, if they even asked. If she was lucky, it would become just another thing that was never remarked upon, an unspoken casualty in their attempt to keep this odd companionship free from overt hostility.

In that vein, Serana had an idea, and now was as good a time as any to put it into play. She found Lydia rooting through one of the chests that lined the walls of the room in which they had found Movarth. The vampire had amassed quite a collection of odds and ends, it would seem. She was inspecting a silvered armband inscribed in the shape of a serpent. "That one's Shor, I think."

The Nord looked up, startled, but quickly regained her composure. "Aye. A strong piece, worthy of a crafty master." She held it out to Serana.

A peace offering? She took the trinket and turned it over in her hands. "You resisted Movarth. That's impressive." She honestly did not know how to talk to this woman. Warriors were generally commanded; she had never needed to play diplomat with one.

Lydia replied with a snort. "Apparently he wasn't as great as he thought. You should have heard him talk." She had resumed her rummaging, this time surfacing with a bolt of what looked like silk and a small stone knife. She whistled. "I know a few merchants who would sell their firstborn to get at what's stashed here." She looked over the treasure again. "Well, maybe second-born. Certainly a niece or nephew."

Serana was tempted to accept the implicit offer and talk about nothing of consequence, but first she wanted to offer the damned complement. "No, he was very strong, but you resisted. That's rare, and you should be proud."

Lydia turned slowly. "Look, I'm grateful that you helped, but…" she paused, and Serana waited for it. The inevitable barb, the half-hearted thanks that would somehow cast her as manipulator or villain.

Then, the other woman shook her head. "No, you came and saved us. Whatever we did, you turned the balance. Thank you." She held out an arm, and Serana reached out tentatively. When Lydia did not retract it, she clasped the other woman's forearm stiffly. They held like that for a moment, until Lydia released. Without a word, both turned away.

Was that progress? Serana thought it might be, tense as it was. She would likely never be close with Lydia, but she was sick of feeling on edge all the time. It doesn't matter anyway. My time with them is all but done. Still, she was glad she had tried.

Velandryn was similarly engaged, though his interest was more focused on Movarth's library and what appeared to be a rack lined with enchanted clothing and armor. "Anything interesting?"

The Dunmer did not jump up as she approached. Rather, he carefully closed the book he was perusing and slipped it back onto its shelf. "Only insofar as Movarth has some horrifically poor taste in literature. His collection on magical theory, while rudimentary, is at least fairly complete, and I wouldn't have a problem directing a neophyte in its direction." His eyes met hers, and he held the gaze for a long moment. "I do not think you sought me out to discover that Movarth was an aficionado of Nibenese bodice-rippers, however."

He was right. "You got lucky, you know, bringing down Movarth that easily." She still didn't know how the two of them had resisted his control for so long. Strong minds were one thing, but…

"Lucky? We brought you, so I'd call that good planning. How did you break that shield of his?"

She had broken through Movarth's shield because her mother had designed it, and Valerica's magic had always been attuned to the blood of Volkihar royalty so that it could never be turned against them. In fact, she would doubtless be overjoyed that her forethought had given her daughter such a dramatic victory. She always did stress our superiority over lesser vampires. "Vampire magic. Secrets I won't reveal." She tried for a mysterious smile, but had no idea if she succeeded.

"Fair enough." He gave her a look that she felt was unnecessarily piercing. "Something else you want to say?"

"This is going to sound strange, but…" She had to ask, even as she knew what the answer would be. Whatever she had experienced in the tunnels had been some sort of vampiric feedback. Her fancies about a dragon were just that. "When you were facing Movarth, was there a moment where something interrupted his power? Something strange, like…" Gods, she did not want to say it. The mere thought of him laughing at her caused her a strange pain in her chest.

"Like what?" His eyes were serious now, at least, and she could see worry in there. She made up her mind.

"Anything like a dragon?" The moment she spoke, something flashed through his eyes.

He adopted a look of mild puzzlement. "I don't think so. What was it you felt exactly?"

She shook her head. "It's not important." She was on the verge of turning away when something occurred to her. He has to think about facial expressions. It was a trait she had noticed, but it was rarely relevant. Here, however…He wasn't surprised. He wanted me to think he was. Why would he lie about that? More interestingly, making a false facial expression wasn't the kind of slip he made often. He doubtless was hiding almost as many things as she was, and both of them were reasonably skilled at it. For him to have played it so clumsily…

He returned to his perusal of Movarth's things, and she noticed it then. A knife in a sheath nestled in the small his back. He had several, but this one looked oddly familiar. She looked closer, noticing subtle details. It was slightly curved, and looked to be made of orichalc and corundum, but could be mistaken for ebony with its dark and mournful sheen. The handle was wrapped in soft leather, harvested from a newborn calf. She knew that if it were drawn, the blade would have a wickedly sharp edge, and any wound it inflicted would sap the victim and revitalize the one who held it.

Serana realized that she was too close just as he backed up, bumping into her. Instantly she was standing, trying very hard to look nonchalant. His red eyes were quizzical. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Answer my questions truly and in full. "Where did you get that dagger?" She supposed it wasn't inconceivable that in the millennia since her sealing someone else had crafted a weapon similar to—

"You recognize it then?" Well, apparently not. "Did it belong to a friend of yours?" From Lydia, that would have been mocking, but Velandryn sounded almost grave, as though he was sorry if that were the case.

"Doubtful. My father gave—gives— them out as tokens of esteem, or trust." Some of those who had received them—no, she did want to remember those faces. Better to let such as them lie undisturbed.

"Such as to the one he sent to retrieve you?" His eyes were intense.

She nodded. "I don't know who it was—"

"Would you like to? He wasn't shy about shouting his name."

She froze. Did she want to know that? If Velandryn and Lydia had killed someone she knew, was that something she needed to face?

Yes. She was returning home anyways, and would doubtless be interrogated about what had transpired. She might as well have the truth of it. "Who was he?"

"Lokil, or so he said."

She had never heard that name before. Her relief must have shown on her face, because he nodded gravely. "Good. I am glad I did not kill some beloved friend."

Clearly he doesn't know Clan Volkihar very well, if he thinks there are many of those. Something else was bothering her, though. "How did you get the dagger? I mean no offense, but any who carried it should have been able to slay you with ease."

The red eyes were laughing again. "I won through unfair means, of course."

That told her nothing. "Meaning?"

He arched a single eyebrow, something she had not known his face was capable of doing. "You wish me to reveal my secrets?"

Yes. "No, of course not."

Velandryn's true smiles, the good ones, only came when he was amused or deeply content. It was subtle, but the change in his eyes transformed the whole of his face. "Liar."

---

They encountered their reinforcements as they left Movarth's chamber. A veritable tide of soldiers, dozens or more, pouring through the hallways. Garzog, sporting a rather nasty gash down her cheek that looked to have also taken off the end of one tusk, snorted when she heard about Movarth. "Guess we could have stayed home, huh?"

Valdimar, who had apparently taken control of Morthal's contingent of the combined force after Franding's death, drew Velandryn aside. "Jarl Idgrod would speak with you upon your return." He spoke quietly, and the Dunmer nodded.

"What about?"

The warrior gave him an odd look. "She did not tell me, friend. I got the message from her housecarl, who insisted that it be relayed to you and you alone." He looked around. "We can handle cleanup down here, so I'd like for you to get back as soon as possible."

Velandryn looked around at the caves, so recently the home of a vampire army. There were doubtless more treasures secreted away down here, but just as certainly a few more vampires who had not yet heard that they were defeated. Besides, he had already secured from the jarl a promise of five percent of any treasure recovered to split among his band of three. It didn't matter who found it. "I'll be going then." He clasped the Nord on the shoulder. "Hunt well, and don't get bitten."

Lydia was as happy to be gone as he had expected, though Serana's eagerness to be out of the tunnels surprised him somewhat. When pressed, however, she simply replied that she had spent more than her share of time in caves. He wondered, though, about what exactly had happened to her before their fight with Movarth. She had been different upon her return, and he suspected he knew why. She had fed down there, and now was feeling…something. He couldn't say what, but she had been carrying an air of almost remorse, and that unnerved him. Serana was many things, but he had yet to see her apologetic. If she had fed on a thrall and now regretted it, however, that could perhaps be termed progress.

Morthal had, in the time they had been gone, awoken with a roar. Guards patrolled the predawn streets, and hundreds of torches had been lit. Scouts and hunters were penetrating into the swamp, and the lifting of the heavy fog meant that the three of them had been accosted long before reaching the town proper. Upon seeing who it was, however, they were escorted with more than a little deference to the jarl's hall and ushered into the old woman's presence.

Jarl Idgrod had seemingly regained her air of genial detachment, and her court had something of a restive atmosphere. The people milling around the throne's dais parted quickly enough, however, and fell silent respectfully when the old woman opened her mouth.

"You have not only my thanks, brave adventurers, but the thanks of all who live in the Hjaalmarch. I name the three of you friends of Morthal, and offer each of you the choice of one weapon from my personal armory." She smiled down from her throne. "The Long Wind's Laugh is leaving for Solitude two hours after sunrise, and you shall continue on your journey with all of the aid Morthal can give. Once more I say to you, well done, and our thanks!"

The hall applauded, albeit somewhat dutifully, and Velandryn could not help but wonder at the effusive praise and reward they had been granted. What the old woman had said seemed fair enough, but on top of the five percent he had already secured, it became almost excessive generosity.

One of the guards tapped him on the shoulder, drawing him out of his thoughts. "Follow me." Startled, he glanced up and did as he was bidden. They went to a familiar door on the side of the hall, and the guard opened it. "Only him." This last was said to Lydia, who looked none too happy about being left outside. At Velandryn's nod, however, she crossed her arms and leaned against a pillar, eyes hard and every line of her stance screaming out the havoc she would wreak should anything happen to him. Smiling to himself, Velandryn passed through.

Jarl Idgrod had gotten there before him, and he could not help but notice her lack of housecarl or steward. In fact, once the guard shut the door behind Velandryn, the two of them were alone. In the sudden silence, a thought that had been itching at Velandryn's brain rose again and clamored for attention. Did we ever tell her we were headed for Solitude?

The old woman rested her elbows on her desk and gave him a broad smile. "So tell me, Dragonborn, how fares Whiterun and that young man Balgruuf?"

Velandryn could only stare at her, trying desperately to figure out how he had been so easily uncovered.

Still smiling, the old woman rose, neglecting her stick, and produced a letter from somewhere in her fur-lined clothing. "I've been jarl of Morthal for forty-nine years, you know, and for more than half of those, Balgruuf has been taking care of things down in Whiterun. We write, from time to time." She waved the letter. "I would have thought you were on your way to High Hrothgar, though."

"I got sidetracked." His mind was racing. "So you've known who I was—"

"I had my suspicions since you walked through the doors to my longhall. There are few Dark Elves of consequence in Skyrim, and fewer still who travel accompanied by a warrior of Lydia's stature." She chuckled. "Balgruuf was quite put out at losing her, so I hope she has served you well."

Velandryn was still trying to figure out the events of the past day and night. "Your visions, then, they were false?"

The old woman smiled. "My visions are very real, but it never hurts to have some help from this world as well." She moved toward a side table, empty but for a silver flagon and a pair of chalices. "I knew the Dragonborn would come to Morthal, though I did not know why. And thanks to the jarl of Whiterun, I knew more or less what to expect." She poured a measure into each of the chalices; the honey-sweet smell and deep golden color of the liquid put Velandryn uncomfortably in mind of mead. He still had not acquired a taste for the wretched drink.

"So if you knew who I was, why did you have us investigate the fire?" He thought back to her strange behavior and requests. "I thought you half-mad at the time."

She smiled again. "You and much of the town. I like it that way, though. Life is hard in the Hjaalmarch, and Nords are wont to complain. I do as I can, lead as my visions and wisdom tell me, for I can do no more. The people are forgiving when misfortune befalls us, for all that they grumble, and more than one boasts in his cups of 'Idgrod the Long-Sighted.'" The smile left her face. "Or so my husband tells me. Perhaps they do think me mad." She shrugged. "Ah, I am old, and rambling."

Velandryn suspected that however old this woman might be, she knew exactly what she was saying. "So, why did we look into a house fire?"

"It was supposed to be simple! Look into the incident, find whatever evidence was there, bring Hroggar in for questioning, and determine his guilt. Or innocence, though I'm not sure there's anyone in Morthal stupid enough to think it was actually an accident." She offered him one of the chalices, and he took it reluctantly, already dreading the mead within. "You do a good deed for the town, and the both of us benefit by having the Dragonborn establish himself as a friend to Morthal."

"Until it turned out to be vampires?" It wasn't necessarily how he would have gone about it, but…

"When it was just Alva, I thought that was even better, to be honest." She took a sip of her drink and smacked her lips. "Have the Dragonborn bring a vampire to justice and solve the murder as well? A true-blooded hero in our midst. Of course, things spiraled out of control somewhat once we learned about Movarth, but it did give me an opportunity to see if you were worth all of the trouble I was going through."

"And?" Trying to appear nonchalant, he took a sip of the mead. To his relief, it was far lighter than anything he had been subjected to thus far. Merely an inoffensive beverage he had no liking for rather than a viscous tide of honey and sickly sweetness.

"Valdimar spoke to one of my runners, and he speaks well enough of you. Our fine Imperial friends also do you credit."

Something in her tone there… "You do not support the Empire? I thought Morthal—"

"Bah! Morthal stands with the Empire because it would be suicidal to do otherwise! Our border to the east is defensible, and it would be difficult to bring an army up through Labyrinthian or the Hjaal Passes, but the forces stationed in Solitude could crush us inside of a week, and that's with time to march factored in." She shook her head. "Besides, Tullius knows what's he's about. He and that pet queen of his ask little of Morthal, which is just how I like it. The Thalmor get too noisy, someone tips them off to a Talos shrine deep in the swamps." She grinned with wicked glee. "They don't come back from that."

"So why is Balgruuf staying neutral, if the Empire asks so little of you?"

"Jarl Balgruuf." She chuckled. "They'd ask more of him, you can be sure! Money, trade deals, allowing the Thalmor access and letting the Legion tramp all over his fields." She spat on the ground. "Also, Balgruuf is more sympathetic to that wretched upstart Ulfric than I am. Not to mention, he can be neutral because Whiterun has more trade than it knows what to do with and a hundred miles of tundra any invader would have to cross before laying siege. I doubt Ulfric's Thu'um is enough to bring down Whiterun's walls, and would you want to drag your catapults and ladders along for days on end through hostile territory? The Empire has the same problem, plus either one invading would have the other side coming down on them before the first stone is thrown. Not to mention Whiterun's breeders are doubtless training up war mammoths and fitting them for saddles. It's been thirty years since mammoth riders broke the Dominion lines at Red Ring Road, and I bet many a young buck is itching to try his hand at the craft."

Velandryn had heard of the Nords' mammoth cavalry, of course, but had not considered that Whiterun must have some of its own. "I spoke with the jarl, and he seemed less than secure in his position."

"Eh, he's standing in the thick of it, so the bad looms large. Besides, I'd wager he was asking you for help at the time."

Velandryn couldn't deny that. "Are you saying Balgruuf lied to me?"

"Jarl Balgruuf, please. You may be Dragonborn, but a lack of respect will win you nothing but scorn. And does it surprise you?"

It didn't, not really. It did, however, increase his respect for the man. "Or, you're lying to me now."

She clucked reproachfully. "You are not very good at this, are you?" A brief smile. "You don't tell someone to their face that they might be lying. You find out through other sources, and if so, use the discrepancy in what you know and what they think you know to leverage yourself a more advantageous position." She took a drink. "Another useful tactic is to serve someone a beverage they dislike, so that any time they take a sip you know it was calculated."

Velandryn carefully placed his chalice on the table. "This has been a very informative meeting, if nothing else."

The old woman chuckled again. "I like you, Dragonborn. What else did you want to know?"

Something occurred to him. "How did you know we would be headed to Solitude?"

She blinked. "You are? I had assumed you were headed to High Hrothgar. Why in the name of the Eight would you be going to Solitude?"

"Wait, why would you charter us a ship to Solitude if you thought we were going to High Hrothgar?" They stared at each other in mutual incomprehension. Finally, Velandryn sighed. "Like I said, we were sidetracked. I need to route through Solitude before returning south. But explain the ship, and why we would be in Morthal otherwise."

The Ravenscrone nodded slowly. "I had assumed you had journeyed to Labyrinthian. It sits on one of the most significant strongholds of the old Dragon Cult, and I've been told there are ruins that date back to before the Dragon War."

Well, that's certainly worth knowing. "You still haven't answered. Why the ship?"

"Misdirection," the jarl stated simply. "If a letter was enough to clue me in, others could have the same or better resources. Thalmor, Imperial, Stormcloak, it only takes one to spread word. I thought I'd have them looking for you in the wrong hold entirely. It seems I outsmarted myself."

"Well, you made our road swifter, so thank you."

The old woman shrugged. "The ship is waiting for you, though they have orders to watch your cabin and act as though you are aboard regardless. I trust you are doing what needs to be done, so I won't stop you, though I must add my voice to what I am sure is a chorus insisting that you speak with the Greybeards as soon as you can. My scouts have reported seeing three dragons in the last week, and similar reports are coming in from the other holds." She stood. "Skyrim needs the Dragonborn now more than ever!"

Velandryn put up his hands in an attempt to mollify her. "I agree. After my business in Solitude is completed, the Greybeards are the next on my list." It wasn't a lie, so long as 'business in Solitude' was interpreted very broadly. He had no idea where Serana's family might be located, but he got the feeling it would not be in the city proper. The Volkihar didn't seem the type. "I take my duties as Dragonborn seriously."

"Good. I have been exceptionally generous with you, even going so far as to promise you a percentage of a vampire's treasure, and I plan to see my investment repaid." She rose. "Speaking of," she opened a hinged box and slid it across the table. "Five thousand septims until we have a chance to appraise the whole of Movarth's possessions?"

Once more, Velandryn tried his hardest not to let his shock show. He had never actually seen that much money in raw coinage before, and even broken down as it was into hundred-septim Imperial Crowns, it still made a pretty sight. "You are very generous," he managed at last.

The jarl frowned. "I do hope not. I told you, I plan to recoup my investment in you."

"How?"

"The moment you take that money, I am yours and you are mine. This is enough to purchase a plot of land in Morthal, or perhaps even a home—well, a small home— in the lower districts of Whiterun. You can do much with this, and I can already tell you are the sort who remembers his friends."

"So this is all to ensure a good relationship with the Dragonborn?" What exactly did she have in mind, that she felt the need to secure so much allegiance? "I'd rather avoid making enemies if I can, but this kind of help may be richer than I can allow."

She smiled. "Suspicion is the beginning of wisdom, but there is no need to worry. I stand in Morthal, as I always have, a big fish in a little pond. In the wider world, my person matters not at all, and my people are at best an afterthought for those on their way to somewhere else. I have seen the chance to, for once in my life, stand not just in the shadow of the mighty, but to aid a hero in his rise. When you bestride the world, I ask only that my people be ever in the back of your mind."

He did not know how to take that. On some level he understood the larger significance of the Dragonborn, but the idea that he could…well, that he could influence larger events had not sunk in on any level that mattered. "What have you seen?" He still did not know how much of her apparent foresight was visions and how much carefully crafted subterfuge, but he had no intention of underestimating this woman again.

She laughed. "Visions are not so clear as that, my dear! I see much, but little that is obvious to a simple woman like me." She closed the box and pushed it in his direction. "Perhaps you come to nothing or turn away in our time of need, and my daughter inherits a Morthal that is all the poorer for my folly." She gave him a keen look, one eyebrow raised. "Or perhaps, when the Dragonborn hears of Stormcloaks, or a dragon, or the very mountains themselves falling on Morthal, he rushes to the aid of an old woman who took a chance on him long ago."

He understood then. Trust. It was carefully couched and ringed in gold and half-joking lies, but that was what she wanted. He put one hand on the box. "Azura has not blessed me with vision as she has you, but I swear to you that I shall hold your kindness and faith close to me through whatever trials may come."

She stood. "Velandryn Savani, you who are Dragonborn, I offer you once more the friendship of Morthal. May the trials ahead temper your courage with wisdom, and give you the strength our people so desperately need." Then unexpectedly, she laughed long and loud. "So noble, standing there! If I had a year with you, I would train you so you could hold your own in every court from Daggerfall to Necrom. And if I were twenty years younger…" She gave a throaty chuckle. "Well, no sense in mourning what-ifs, is there? I wonder if my daughter…" She broke off with a laugh and then gave him another of her piercing looks. "One more thing I must mention. You do know you travel with a vampire, don't you?"

He couldn't help the laughter that he was sure had made its way into his eyes. "She's the one that ended Movarth, and I'd not trade her for a hundred common soldiers." A bit of an exaggeration, perhaps, but Serana was tremendously useful when her impulses could be kept in check.

With another smile, the jarl bowed to him. "Then I have no more to say. Go in peace, Dragonborn."

He bowed back. "May the Triune keep you, and the Four Corners turn away."

When he reentered the main hall, it was to find his companions waiting for him. Lydia looked as though she had been considering tearing through the door, and the two guards flanking it, with her bare hands. Serana, by contrast, was smiling slightly at nothing, ignoring the Morthal guard vainly trying to engage her in conversation. Velandryn nodded slightly to both of them, and then began making his way to the main doors. They had a ship to catch.

---

The Long Wind's Laugh was an odd name, but Serana had to admit it seemed an able enough vessel. She had little knowledge of seafaring, but the captain was obviously proud of his vessel, and the crew was making ready to cast off with what appeared to be true competence. Most were Nords like the captain, though a few of the smaller humans seemed to be of Manmer or Cyrodilic descent. There were two Bosmer as well, and one of the green-skinned Orcs like the Imperial commander from before.

There was also one human unlike anything she had ever seen, with skin as dark as Velandryn's, though this woman's was an earthy brown rather than grey. When she asked Velandryn, he called her a 'Redguard,' though he also mentioned that Serana likely knew the race as Yokudans. It was true that Serana had heard stories in her time of the mysterious continent to the west, and the fierce sea-faring warriors who hailed from its shores, but she had never seen one. The woman was, except for her skin, disappointingly mundane, however, and Serana soon found her attention drawn by one of the small Bosmer, who was speaking excitedly to a blue-tattooed Nord, naked but for a strip of cloth around his loins, stacking crates.

"It's true, you know! I was talking to a merchant up from Whiterun!" At the mention of the city her interest was caught. She knew that Lydia hailed from there, and Velandryn seemed to have something to do with it as well.

"So? Dragonborn or not, we got to work." He pointed. "Go get that rope. We need to have these lashed down of Yonnuk'll have our hides."

"Not just a Dragonborn," the lithe little worker insisted. "An elf!"

Instantly, the Nord spun on the Bosmer, sending the crate crashing to the deck and looming over the elf with cold fury in his eyes. "No! Shor wouldn't do that! The Dragonborn's a Nord!" He noticed her watching them then. "What're you looking at?"

Serana murmured an apology and moved away, mind racing. An elven Dragonborn? There was no reason it couldn't happen, she supposed, though she had certainly never heard of one. She wondered how Velandryn would feel about that. He'd probably be thrilled. The Dunmer had a tendency to cast himself as the lone enlightened elf in a province filled with ignorant Nords, and the idea of an elf as Dragonborn would fit right in with that.

What would it be like, though, a true Dragonborn? They were said to have the very blood and soul of a dragon. Would it be obvious, talking to them, that they were different? How did a dragon wear mortal skin? Would—

Would it be only sometimes, like a tide come upon you? Would they change, and a hint of their true nature reveal itself? She was back in the tunnels, the roaring all around her and the abyss beneath her feet.

Would they resist the domination of a vampire, and offer no explanation as to how? She saw his eyes, different for the merest of instants as she tried to exert power over him.

Would they defy an ancient vampire, breaking his power and creating an opening to exploit? She recalled Movarth saying that he would have to 'find out' what Velandryn was.

Would he be named thane of Whiterun for killing a dragon? Lydia followed him with impeccable loyalty, and she had heard the soldiers speaking of a dragon slain in Whiterun.

Would he fear a vampire newly-awakened, or would he react unlike any the poor girl had ever met, making her wonder and filling her with turmoil? Gripped by sudden resolve, she opened the door to the cabins, needing an answer now.

"We can get the horses when return to Morthal." Velandryn's voice was a constant in this strange new world. It had the harsh accent she assumed was native to his homeland, but underneath the richness of tone and subtle humor that marked him. If she was right, if he was the Dragonborn, surely he would shake Skyrim to its core.

"Those are Whiterun mares, my thane." Lydia, ever the stolid Nord. Serana still did not truly like her, but she thought she could respect the woman for what she was. "Fine horseflesh, and worth a princely sum."

"If the jarl of Morthal cannot vouch for the security of two horses in her personal stables, then Skyrim is in worse shape than I thought."

A sigh. "Very well, my thane. I'm going to go above, get some air."

"You do realize we are still in Morthal? If you want to breathe deep the swamp air, be my guest."

A thumping echoed along the corridor, and Serana realized Lydia was coming, as her heavy boots meant she went nowhere silently. The vampire stepped into a doorway, and pressed herself against the rough wood. She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering magicka.

From a few talks with Velandryn, she was coming to understand the idea of 'Schools' of magic. It made sense, in a way, that someone had codified them for easier study. She had not had that luxury, however, and so viewed each spell for what it could do, not as a member of some arbitrary category. The magicka now swirling around her not only bent the light so she would appear to be invisible, but it entered the mind of any passing by and encouraged them to overlook her hiding place. It could backfire against a powerful spellcaster, but for most purposes it was an exceptional way to hide.

Lydia tramped past silently, not even slowing to look in her direction, and Serana continued on towards the cabins. The jarl had given them two, and while she may have intended for the women to bunk together, Lydia had wasted no time in consigning Serana to bunk alone. In truth, however, she couldn't begrudge the Nord that. A housecarl would do nothing less to protect their charge. And if he is the Dragonborn…She pushed open the door to Velandryn's room.

The elf who might be Dragonborn was looking through the window, watching the morning light trickle in. A book lay open on the desk before him, and his armor was piled on one of the cots. He turned as she entered, and the morning light cast the angles of his face in sharp relief, as the setting sun once had, back in some tiny town whose name she could not even remember. Now, though, she saw more. She saw the fatigue in his eyes, but she also saw the fire there. She saw—

"Did you need something, Serana?" She jumped as he spoke, but had regained her composure by the time he turned to look at her.

"I wanted to ask you something, actually." Until that moment she had been prepared to—well, she actually wasn't sure. Ask if he was the Dragonborn, or demand that he tell her. Try to get him to reveal it perhaps.

He rose and slid the wooden shade down over the window. His shirt and pants were of simple cut, greys and blacks with his red hand on the breast. "Then ask. And there's no need to hide your face in here."

"Thank you." It was strange. Had he always been so conscientious? "I wanted to know…" She started the question, but it wouldn't come out. Why? Why was she so afraid of asking?

"Why did you help me?" It wasn't what she wanted, but it came out, and it was something.

Confusion did not so much blossom on his face as it did tinge his words. "Help you when? I would say we've been aiding each other for some time now."

"No, not them. The first one. In the chamber, when you knew what I was. You've said your people have all but wiped out your vampires, and Molag Bal is one of your hated enemies! Why did you help me? You should have killed me, but you didn't! Why? Did you want something from me?" It was coming out, and she couldn't stop it. The questions the secrets, the frustration, she couldn't hold it back. On some level she knew she should be proud that he hadn't spoken her whole mind, but even this little bit emptied a sliver of the tension in her stomach.

"Why? At the time, I didn't know." Velandryn, however, seemed not to have noticed her near-loss of composure, so consumed was he in his own thoughts. "There's plenty of reasons I'm helping you, but in that first moment it was a mad impulse. I am not a very good priest, you know."

"What?" That last line had been so strange that the word simply slipped out.

Those red eyes were fixed on the book before him. "I'm not a good priest." His lips twitched. "I have always been, on some level, convinced that I know what the Triune really wants. Common enough among the acolytes, but it has lived as a niggling voice in the back of my head for decades now. It whispers that the Sermons are fine for placating the masses, but that in the moment, I am the only arbiter of my choices. The pernicious idea that the Triune must respect rebellion, for did the Chimer not rebel against the Aldmer, and so become enlightened?" He looked up at her. "I wax and wane in my orthodoxy, but in the moment I allowed you to wake, to speak with you and satisfy my curiosity rather than destroying you, I did so because I wanted to. I chose, that's all."

"And do you regret your choice?" Once again, the words slipped out before she could take them back, and the moment was gone.

His face regained its usual composure; the odd vulnerability he had displayed vanished as though it had never been. He leaned back, eyes glimmering brightly. "If I did, do you think I'd tell you about it? I'm no expert at dealing with vampires, but I'm pretty sure telling them you wish you'd murdered them in their crypt isn't how you get along."

"You might want to let Lydia know that."

"I think for Lydia, your issue is less about knowing, and more about caring." He slumped down into the chair. "Your actions with Movarth helped, though." He turned back to his book. "The captain said we'll reach Solitude around nightfall, so I plan to at least try to stay awake until then." He tapped the page gently. "I picked up this book on my second day in Skyrim, and I'm still on the first chapter. I'm going to read it, I'm going to enjoy it, and while you are welcome to stay, I won't have much to say."

"What's it about?" She wondered how the novels of this age were written. Had styles changed since her time? There's so much I need to learn.

"It's called The Refugees, and concerns a historical figure called the Camoran Usurper, following the majority of his rise and fall through the eyes of those around him."

"Who was he?" She had heard of the Camorans, of course, as their royal line had been famous across Tamriel even in her time. They had ruled since the Year Zero, it was said, before even she had been born. This Usurper, though, was unknown to her.

He placed a thin strip of paper in the book, marking his place, and closed it. "His name was Haymon Camoran and, going by what I have read so far, he was a lesser son of the dynasty, one whose lust for power and feeling of inadequacy spelled doom for his family."

"Is the book well-written?" She had nothing of her own to read, and if he was willing to talk…

He smiled thinly. "I have not yet read enough to know. Would you like me to update you every time I finish a chapter?"

She realized he was annoyed at her, something she had never seen from him. It wasn't anger, though righteous fury seemed to be one of his principle motivations. This was different.

He was being taken away from a promising book, and wanted nothing more than to shut the world away for a bit. She knew the feeling well, and hastily, she left the room. Wrapping herself up again, Serana made for the deck, leaving the Dunmer below.

They had cast off, and the swamps of the Hjaal Marsh swept by on either side. Lydia was leaning over one of the rails, watching as a farmhouse perched on the edge of the water swept by.

"Glad to be leaving?" The Nord glanced up, and Serana was relieved to see her nod.

"Aye. This town makes me uneasy. I'll come back for the horses, but after that I've no wish to see this place ever again." She looked sidelong at Serana. "Almost home, aren't you? How's it feel?"

Was Lydia inquiring after her mood? This was too strange. "I don't know what I'll find."

Lydia nodded. "More like you, if nothing else. Be among your own kind again."

Was that it? Was Lydia merely cheered by the thought of Serana soon being gone?

They spoke no more, watching Morthal recede behind them. Serana watched the water, and the land, and even chanced a glimpse at the sky before her eyes began to burn. Everything was strange, in this new age. She should have been overjoyed at the thought of her home waiting for her. But her thoughts kept turning to a cabin beneath the deck, where an elf who might be the Dragonborn was reading a book in peace.

Serana watched the swamp pass by, beautiful in its own way, and thought of dragons.

---

So, we leave Morthal, and the rather interesting Movarth Piquine the onetime vampire hunter, behind.

Mangahero18: Of our main three, none are really looking for romance right now. Lydia is laser-focused on keeping Velandryn in one piece, Serana—leaving aside the considerable baggage she carries—is mostly trying to make sense of this new world, and Velandryn is so far out of his depth it's a wonder the poor bastard remembers to eat. He and Serana are fascinated by each other, though.

Naruto Loves FemKyuubi: There is plenty to come regarding the powers of vampires. I will mostly be dealing with the Volkihar, and the powerful members of the clan have some serious tricks up their sleeves. I would be reluctant to use the term 'Son of Coldharbour' simply because of the uniquely horrifying place Daughters hold in Molag Bal's schemes, reminiscent as they are of Lamae and the Original Corruption. There are male Lords, of course, but they lack some of the prophetic significant, at least in my c0da.

I am very leery of doing a crossover, just because they can so easily go wrong. Maybe someday, but for now I have enough on my plate.

With regards to music, I mostly listen to instrumental stuff while writing, and would recommend anything by Jeremy Soule. His Elder Scrolls stuff is great, of course, but his Guild Wars 2 soundtrack is phenomenal. His Norn Theme feels like it should be playing over an epic dragon fight or a clash of armies. At this point in the story, I would also recommend Jia Peng Fang (Faraway has been a go-to for some time) along with Inon Zur or Bear McCreary. I'm gonna stay away from anything with lyrics (that I can understand, I'm fine with McCreary using Irish choral accompaniment in "Wander My Friends') for the most part, since I find them either distracting or obnoxiously on-the-nose, and my stories already suffer enough from that.

ShadowZenith: Thanks for letting me know! I agree that area was a bit clunky on review. If you don't mind, on my next revision I'll steal your formatting tips and pretty it up a bit. I make no claims to being a gifted editor, I'm afraid.

Guest: Thanks! I'm glad to hear that the slog is worth it (and I know I suffer somewhat from a love of my own words).

Moorhhn1989: Glad you are liking the lore. There is an awful lot of it, and striking a healthy balance is not always easy. Let me know if you think I am glossing over things too much or getting a little too invested in the minutiae of politics. (Full disclosure: I'm really looking forward to diving into the fascinating situation in Solitude, with the Empire, the Thalmor, and Elisif all pulling in their own directions.)

Last of the Ancients: I thought the Morthal quest was well-placed to pop up on their journey. Geographically, of course, but also to draw some interesting distinctions between Serana and Movarth's little pack. And yeah, they kind of stumbled into it, but this chapter should have shown that, while accidental, their investigation was not entirely serendipitous. In terms of my story, blood is a function of the soul, and so a dragon soul would spike the blood something terrible. As to what it does, I'm sure Serana is also asking herself that question.

Tylerbamafan34: I actually really like Morthal. I tried to capture the feel of being the last town on the edge of the wilderness, and I fully plan to explore the swamps further.

Serana would really like to find out what dragon blood tastes like. I don't imagine Velandryn would find the question too terribly flattering, however. And Serana, for all that she accepts her condition, has some reservations about free will that many of her kind don't share. As you saw, she doesn't respond super well to being shown what vampires can do, though admittedly Volkihar are a bit different from the Cyrodiil strain.

Perpetual Dreaming: Glad to hear it. I have a lot more to go, so I hope it lives up to the potential.

Pietersielie: Yeah, what Serana is and who she wants to be aren't always exactly the same. She does try though, and I think even Lydia is becoming aware of that.

Magnor: I appreciate the review! I am an unabashed fan of the Dunmer, so I'm glad I made you see them a little differently. And feel free to leave short comments. I like getting feedback, and there's no minimum word count on that.