All you know how to do is eat, sleep, and break things. Stop being a deadweight and contribute to the family! When your brother graduates from the College of Sapiarchs, the whole family will rely on him!
Cobenwe awoke to cold darkness, something that was becoming distressingly familiar. The air was damp, and chilling. Perhaps it only felt that way because of the feverish heat of her body.
She shivered. Cobenwe didn't know how long she'd been here. Days? Dead friends haunted her incessantly. How many of those fever dreams had been nightmares, and how many had been waking memories? Her consciousness ebbed and flowed, much like her ability to maintain a coherent thought.
But she was lucid. For now.
A few things came into focus. She had a damp cloth upon her brow. If it had been cold at one point, it was no longer. Not compared to the air. The hardness of the stone beneath her back came next. Her hands twitched and she felt dust beneath her fingertips. She was still in a cell. Her cell.
The last was…
"You're awake again, friend."
A male voice. A familiar male voice.
It belonged to her caretaker, a Nord whose face she had never seen. Not clearly, at least. Her vision hadn't been clear in a while, but it recovered with every lucid moment. Perhaps she'd know her caretaker soon.
The cloth was removed from her forehead, replaced by a rough palm. Her eyes wearily tracked to his hazy face.
"Your fever is almost gone. A good thing too. We're the only ones still in a cell."
He moved from her, then came back.
"Here. Drink."
Her head was gently lifted, and something pressed against her lips. Cobenwe drank greedily.
She wondered where he'd been getting the water for a moment. This hadn't been her first drink. Then she registered the sounds of dripping water and the smell of moss, perhaps for the first time, or perhaps she just couldn't remember the last time. It didn't matter. Water quelled all other thoughts and concerns as it slid down her throat and into her belly.
The Nord stood up and said something else, but by then Cobenwe was drifting off.
The next time she woke up she was alone.
Cobenwe groaned, and rolled onto her side. Dust and small bits of stone rubbed harshly against her face, but she didn't care. She needed to sit up.
With arms trembling from the exertion, Cobenwe pushed herself onto her elbows and knees first, then finally into a seated position.
With clearer vision, the cell felt smaller, more oppressive than before. What had seemed like deep darkness now resolved into a small stone room, not even tall enough to stand up in. At least for an Altmer. There was no bed, or even straw, only rubble from whatever this damp place had been repurposed from. A small trickle of water seeped through a crack in the ceiling. What she must have been drinking. If she hadn't been transported from the upper Nibenay, then she could only be underground.
With clearer mind, the hopelessness of her situation began to sink in. She had been down here for a while. How long, she wasn't sure, but certainly at least a few days.
She was still here, wherever this was. Nobody from the army had come for her.
Cobenwe looked at the bars that barred her from freedom. Make-shift, iron affairs, but the cell floor had been connected to a magicka draining enchantment. She wouldn't be escaping of her own power.
Who had captured her? Why had a Nord been with her?
…Where was he now?
Cobenwe wanted to cry, but at least she wasn't dead. She sniffled and brushed some hair out of her eyes.
Belatedly, she realised that her helmet was gone. Was she here because they mistook her for an Imperial? But if her own people were the captors, why was she being held in a place like this? And why alone?
Despite the cold, she found herself sweating again from stress. It was an awful habit. At least there was water to drink.
Ah, there was also the smell of urine, she realised. She touched her groin trepidatiously, then breathed in a little relief. At least it didn't seem to be coming from her.
What began as collecting her bearings turned into worrying about her future. She was the only occupant of any of the cells. Time stretched endlessly as she sat there, accompanied only by the dripping of water. The isolation gnawed at her, worsening her anxiety.
It was a long, long time before anything interrupted her.
Footsteps. A pair. Cobenwe clenched her hands in unease, and her heart clenched painfully.
It felt like an eternity before the newcomers reached her cell.
Two hooded figures wearing ominous skull masks.
"Oh? So the Outsider is up," one said. "Then it's time for the finale."
They abruptly opened the cell and were upon her before she could react. She struggled on reflex but quickly stopped when a wicked dagger scratched her throat. Blood.
With a laugh, the other thrust a rough jute bag over her head.
"Walk," he commanded.
Cobenwe's breathing quickened as coarse plant fibre scratched against her neck. The smell of onions was overpowering. Had this been an onion sack?
A hand on each shoulder compelled her to march, but to where, she didn't know.
"It's about time you woke up," the one on the right said, almost conversationally. "You're the last Imperial left, you know? Save for one. And we've gotten bored of pitting him against Daedroth."
Wait!
"He's been getting tired," said the one on her left. "Maybe one of you will actually survive the fight this time."
This was just a misunderstanding!
"I-I'm not an Imperial!" she protested. "I-I'm from Auridon!"
To her dismay, both of them laughed.
"It doesn't matter at this point," one said ominously.
"Please! I'm a soldier of the 7th Army!" she cried.
Left laughed. "Then you'll have no problem killing the Nord."
What Nord?! Where were they taking her, and what was happening?! Cobenwe's heart pounded in her chest, each beat a drum of impending doom.
She tripped over rubble a few times, and a staircase once, eliciting laughter each time. Not once was she allowed any reprieve, as each fall was followed swiftly by a mean prod of a dagger to continue moving.
Cobenwe's ears began to pick out the echoes of distant jeering, as well as distant combat. After the second set of stairs, those sounds became clearer. Her mind raced, every possible outcome more terrifying than the last.
Her captors definitely weren't normal! Obviously!
Nobody who wore a skull mask could be!
After the fifth time she tripped, Cobenwe began sobbing. The earlier chuckles turned into belly laughter. The cacophony of jeers and fighting grew louder as they approached their unknown destination.
Eventually, when the sounds of the audience grew to a crescendo, the two masked men ripped the bag from Cobenwe's head. Instantly the smell of onions was replaced with blood. She was still blinking, less from the unfiltered light, and more from the friction of the bag's removal.
Cobenwe was standing in the centre of a large, cavernous arena. Torches illuminated the room from sconces on engaged columns built into the stone walls. More figures in skull masks, like the two who had marched her here, stood above her on elevated stands, mocking and heckling.
Down in the arena, bloodied weapons and slain Imperials littered the floor, staining the earth dark red.
As Cobenwe regained her bearings, something clattered at her feet. They'd tossed her a sword.
Across from her stood another figure. An unknown Nord, broad-shouldered with his own blade in hand.
"Ah, so it is you, friend."
She knew his voice, though.
"At last, the elf awakens," somebody pronounced. Cobenwe's head shot up towards the source. In the position of honour was a Dremora. It didn't look like he was taking orders.
Oh Divines, this was a Daedric cult. Cobenwe's eyes began watering again. Was this where she was finally going to die?
"You look well. That's good." Cobenwe's eyes shot to the Nord. His voice had been barely audible beneath the hollering of the audience.
"There's two of us, and only two dozen of them. What say we break out of here?"
She felt her eyes widen. The words registered and her heart dropped deeper into her stomach. Was he crazy? T-there were two dozen of them! B-but the only other option was to fight the crazy Nord who'd taken care of her.
"I-I…!" she blubbered.
The man's lips pulled into a fearless smile.
"Former Navy, huh? Shame what happened to your brethren. I had a friend who served."
W-what?
"As for me, I'm Tyr, a Blade."
Whatever else he meant to say was interrupted as the crowd above began to roar.
The Dremora lifted its sword.
"Fight well, mortals, and my Prince may favour you in the afterlife," it announced.
"You heard it," was all Tyr said before his foot blurred and an axe was thrown at one of the cultists. The eerie skull mask presented next to no resistance when the axe buried into its wearer's skull with a grotesque crunch. At once, spells began to fly.
By the time Cobenwe had come back to herself, the cultists were dead, the Dremora had fled, the sword in her hand was bloodied, and her underclothes were a little moist.
It was only by taking deep breaths that she avoided throwing up.
"Come help me strip this mask off," Tyr called, fiddling with one of the more intact corpses. "Reinforcements might never come, or they might come at any moment."
Cobenwe shakily made her way to do as she was asked.
"O-oh Divines…!"
When the skull mask finally came off, underneath was a distant, but familiar face.
Tyr clicked his tongue.
"It's like I thought. Swordmaster Irrumaborn, one of Naarifin's right-hand thugs. I was investigating suspicious deaths beyond the usual killing and looting by those Dominion dogs when I was captured. Looks like I was on the right trail."
Cobenwe shifted anxiously, and the enemy spy noticed.
"Aye," he said with a nod. "Things are never good when a Daedric Prince gets involved. Come. I need to alert the other Blades, and I could use your sword, friend." He paused. "I never did get your name."
She floundered.
A/N: According to Kellen's semi-fictional account, it probably went like this instead:
Oh Divines, this was a Daedric cult.
The Dremora noticed her gaze.
"That is right, mortal. It is I, Reive, of the Bloodwraith Clan, right-hand daedroth of Kinlord Naarifin of Karndar, who led the invasion of the Imperial City and is also the leader of a hidden Boethiah cult that is secretly plotting to ritually sacrifice not only the citizens of the Imperial City, but also the Aldmeri armies and the forces of Titus Mede II by transforming the entire city into one large free-for-all Arena where all are compelled to fight for the glory of Lord Boethiah."
Tyr's foot blurred, and then an axe was thrown at one of the cultists. The eerie skull mask presented next to no resistance when the axe buried into its wearer's skull with a grotesque crunch. At once, spells began to fly.
"These mortals must not be allowed to reveal Lord Naarifin's plans. Destroy them!"