The warm, orange glow of the lava from the Deadlands was gone, replaced instead with a cool blue lighting. The territory was unfamiliar, and quite cold, unlike the rest of the realm. Perhaps she had finally reached the corner leading off to the void?
Along the dark path, Cura saw people impaled on spikes, truly dead. Disgraced individuals, used and cast aside by Dagon. Many of the dead bodies wore the red robes of the Mythic Dawn. Some had the spikes penetrating through their backs, and others were effectively seated on them with the spikes shooting up from their mouths. Some were freshly dead, others rotted corpses and skeletons, gone for centuries, perhaps.
This forest of bodies extended further and further and further. Cura saw Nobles, Beggars, Guards in white tunics with a black wolf emblazoned on the tunic fabric, yellow ones with a black eagle, red ones, and several others. She wondered if they were city guards from Cyrodiil centuries ago, slain during the Oblivion Crisis. The Daedric Prince perhaps wanted to make an example of, or display their bodies as trophies in a twisted show of power.
This lane of spikes proceeded onwards and onwards and onwards, perhaps for over a mile. The smell was unbearable. There was little wonder as to why the Daedra avoided this sector of the aptly-named Deadlands.
Among the corpses hanging were Vonos and Priestess Enakain. Used, and cast aside. Mehrunes had no mercy for his faithful servants. Cura smirked and shook her head. "Serves you right."
Mirabelle and Savos looked at the corpses and surmised who they were immediately.
"I suppose that fool must be Vonos." Savos Aren sneered at the other Dunmer. "I suppose the idea that Dagon would have turned against him never dawned on him."
Mirabelle shook her head. "Arrogant types tend to think that nothing in their plans could go wrong."
Cura took a few more moments to look upon the dead souls. She had no care to spare for the fiends who caused her to die. Perhaps Mehrunes Dagon had realized the mistake too late and punished them. Seeing the horrified expression on the smug Vonos' face was mildly satisfying to say the least. At the end, he was the one who was truly dead.
The half-spirited Dragonborn with her allies had created something of a passing storm through the Deadlands, killing many Daedra. Hopefully, since Cura had fought her way through many Dremora, it would slow things down a little in Skyrim.
She explored much of the endless, dark terrain of the Deadlands. Eventually, using her Detect Life Spell, and with Mirabelle's and Savos' direction, located what appeared to be a small campfire at the center of a crescent formed of giant, sharp crags that extended upwards like obelisks. Within a gathering of these crags was what appeared to be a madman, without garments save for a loincloth, and a strange, golden, cone-shaped helmet that covered his entire head. He sat before the flame, and behind him was a table with intestines strewn about upon its surface.
Cura was disgusted, but unsurprised. However, it was unthinkable that she would need this man's help to get to Coldharbour. Clearing her throat, the Vigilant approached him with caution. "Er... hello?"
The man turned his head upwards from the fire, facing Cura, though she could not see his face, nor was she certain that he could see her anyway.
Her ghostly companions had disappeared, and it was just herself and the madman. He slowly stood up and walked over to Cura, and began to touch her face. "An Elf... but a Woman... Manmer. Yes, a Breton? No. Perhaps." he muttered as he felt her features, prompting her to instinctively close her eyes as his thumbs traced over them. "A spawn of duality - complete, not yet whole. Ah, how your life sings to me."
"Are you the Sacred Anatomancer?" Cura asked, though, judging by his assessment, it would be hard to argue otherwise.
"Love is violence. Hatred is peace. Do you not feel the change within the planes of Oblivion? The Dragon runs wild, tearing the Lizard's Belly." The Anatomancer pulled back from her and gestured to the skies. "The Deadlands live, and the living world dies! I divine all, and all do I know! And yet, I know nothing. All is nothing."
Cura backed away, herself and looked at him with great concern. He was speaking utter nonsense. Did he read an Elder Scroll, too? Maybe he's actually Septimus Signus under that cone helmet? Cura collected herself, preferring not to get lost in the details. She'd spent possibly days searching these eternal lands at this point. Though, how long it's been on Tamriel was far less comparatively. She was not going to screw this up now that she found the fool.
"My name is - "
"You are Cura Stormcloak, the heiress of the North and friend to the cunning Stendarr." the Anatomancer declared. "I know you. I do not know you. You are not the Dragonborn, and yet you are the Dragonborn. It is my greatest displeasure, and my greatest honour to meet you. I am many. I am a Piper - a servant of Stendarr, once. I see the truth. The true falsehood and the false truth!"
"I must reach Coldharbour." Cura informed him. "A source tells me that you may be the one who can send me there."
"No, I cannot. But I can." the lunatic professed. "I am one with the Void. I have achieved truesight. I know all. I see all. Even the lost Prince Ithelia whispers to me from beyond nothing."
Cura was confused. "'Ithelia?'"
"The Daedric Prince of Paths, the Mistress of the Untraveled Road, the Unseen, the Fate-Changer. She weeps, her voice a somber harmony, a whisper. Lost, gone. Here. There. Everywhere. I serve her not, but hear her voice. In the silence. Dagon's victim. Fated dead, unable to see beyond him-her-self. Deadlight glows bright with demise." the Anatomancer proclaimed as if entranced. "The Dragonborn now participates in such a destiny. To Coldharbour you must go, and must not. Light, darkness. All is one. Fates mingle and wind around one another. Life is death. Death is life. Yesterday is tomorrow. Tomorrow was yesterday. Today... is nothing."
Cura was growing tired of the nonsensical rambling. "What are you talking about? Could you speak a little more clearly, please?"
"You will enter Coldharbour by using my intestines." the madman handed Cura a dagger and walked over to his workbench, where he shoved off an old set of entrails and lay flat on his back. "I submit to your greatness, Stendarr's Dragon! Show me your love. Tear me open and the portal shall be opened simply. The Dream no longer needs its Dreamer. Worlds are breaking, tales are weaving. The Dread Father's pipe sings loudly! You. Must. Go. Through!"
Cura dropped the dagger immediately and protested. "You can't be serious!"
"I hear the call of the Dread Father's pipe... I am called to the greatest of loves." the madman proclaimed. "My sacrifice will be sufficient to open the portal you seek."
Cura looked at the fool, at the dagger on the floor, and then up at the sharp crags above. A familiar figure sat above them, looking down at the display. His red and purple attire and pale hair and skin was unmistakable.
Sheogorath.
"Mirabelle! Savos! Martin!" As soon as their eyes locked, Cura attempted to contact Mirabelle and Savos, but there was no response to be had.
"Silly girl. You're alone. Ye've always been alone. Or, well, not ever reaaaalllly alone..." Sheogorath informed her from his perch above. He shook his head sadly. "All there is here is you, me, and our little friend, here. And ol' Marty, but he's quiet right now." he gestured downwards to the Anatomancer.
Cura shook her head in response. "What are you talking about? They were with me this entire time! I just spoke to them!"
She had. From the moment she arrived in the Deadlands, her former Master Wizard and Arch-Mage have been her guiding hand through the rough terrain. If this was his attempt at confusing her, it was not going to work.
"Did they? Or did I?" Sheogorath chuckled lightheartedly as he slid down the sharp rock and landed beside her. "My dear, I've missed ya! Ye've grown so... eh..." he sized Cura's short frame up and down before continuing. "Eh... it's been a while."
Cura sighed and decided to embrace the Daedra. What difference did it make at this point? After a quick hug, Sheogorath let her go.
"It has been a while, hasn't it." Cura chuckled lightly.
"Aye, an' when I saw ya bendin' over backwards to help those poor, dreadfully dull folk in Wretched Spire, I had to help ya out." Sheogorath admitted. "Yer sweetness just tugged on this old Daedra's heartstrings... practically had me tear 'em out of my chest!" he motioned with a gripped fist against his chest.
Cura furrowed her brows as she began to reevaluate every interaction she'd had with Mirabelle and Savos. It seemed so real. So convincing. They recalled every event; every experience they'd shared. How? "If... if it was you all along, then... how..."
"I'm a Daedric Prince, lass. I can make you see whatever I want! Make you think whatever I want, too! It's a lot of fun - like beatin' a Saber Cat to death with a fork! Whoo-eee!" Sheogorath exclaimed joyously as he clapped his hands together like an excited child.
Cura felt uncomfortable with the entire situation, though a nagging feeling persisted in her chest. Could she really trust him? Though, it's not like Sheogorath had actively tried to sabotage her in the past. Every encounter she's had with him up to this point had been surreal, sure, but not very harmful.
"Sheogorath, you want me to slay the Anatomancer to open the portal to Oblivion?" Cura needed verification.
"Aye, that's right. Look at this poor fool!" the Daedric Prince gestured wildly towards the man who lay there, face still obscured by the cone helmet. "He's wearin' a cone on his head, for Sithis' sake! He's just beggin' for death! Have mercy on his poor soul! He looked where he ought not an' now someone must pay the piper!"
Cura was uncertain about it, still. She was effectively put in a position where she was about to perform a Daedric sacrifice. Sheogorath seemed to pick up on her thoughts and reacted accordingly. "Ay, what's wrong with a bit o' Daedric sacrifice, huh? Are yer feet growin' cold, Vigilant? Want me to cut 'em off?"
The thought of that sent a shiver down Cura's spine. The Daedraa placed a hand on her head. "Ye have to reclaim the Amulet O' Kings. It's what Marty would have wanted! It's there - just beyond that portal. Ripe for the taking! Ye have to reach yer hand out an' take it."
Cura continued to stare at the Anatomancer, and she grew focused. She knew what she was about to do was wrong, but he was right; there really was no choice to make.
"Think o' yer poor little friends back home! They're missin' you terribly!" Sheogorath stated. "An' once that big black beast is loosed, they're gonna be beggin' ya to come back! Though it'll be hard to scream with their lungs filled with blood."
That did it. Cura drowned out all thought; all feeling. It was the Abandoned Shack and the three bound prisoners all over again.
Stendarr, forgive me. was the last thought that entered Cura's mind before she robotically and methodically shoved the dagger downwards into the menace's stomach, to Sheogorath's surprise.
"Wow! Ye're really goin' at it!" the Daedric prince observed as Cura began to vivisect the Sacred Anatomancer, who was simply laughing as the pain consumed him. "Ye're really, really goin' at it. Wow."
Cura thoughtlessly pulled the entrails out and the Anatomancer huffed and heaved in anguish as he began to mutter something in a foreign language before passing away.
When the blood dripped onto the floor below, a blue spark burst forth and the burning blue blood snaked along the floor and collected in a whirling vortex of pale blue energy.
Sheogorath tapped Cura on the shoulder. "Ye did it, lass! Nobody said it'd be easy, but ye did it! Now ye can go from one horrible dimension to another! Lucky you! Since ye brought the Dragon Breaks to a realm where time ain't supposed to pass, ye've caused quite a stir! I'm impressed!"
None of it made any sense. Not the action, not the statements, nothing.
As Cura returned to her senses, she looked at the blood coating her hands and staining her Apprentice Robes. She was disgusted with herself more than anything else, but she could see that the portal was open now. On the other side, she saw what looked to be a sludgy black and green corridor beyond the portal. "Lucky me..." she parroted nauseously as she stepped into the portal. Every fiber of her being fought with her, but she pulled herself through in the end.
As Cura passed through the vortex in a flash of blinding light, she began to see a great variety of things as she slipped between dimensions. She caught glimpses of Nirn, but from various perspectives. Cyrodiil was a wide jungle. Cyrodiil was a wide, grassy plain. Skyrim was a wasteland, Skyrim had massive cities.
The familiar Winterland caught her attention and she briefly tried to peer into the world, though it was constantly changing. She saw unfamiliar faces - other Dragonborns. One was an Orc, in icy Stahlrim armour, who travelled with Aela by his side. Another was of a strange race that she couldn't recognize, and he seemed to be travelling with a very voluptuous version of Lydia, it looked like. All it told her was that she was nearing the Dragon Break. Perhaps on the way to Coldharbour, time itself became distorted. A vision of a Nord Dragonborn with a horned helmet Shouting at a Dragon. A vision of an Imperial thief breaking into a House in Riften and assassinating Maven Black-Briar? A vision of Dragonborns congregating together in one place, laughing with delight as they made crude jokes.
A vision of a Dragonborn with a comically-large sword slung over his shoulder rolling around an enemy and hacking them from behind. He looked as if from another universe entirely.
An Argonian Dragonborn travelling with three unrecognizable female companions who looked as if they'd been practicing the Dibellan Arts. Cura averted her virgin eyes from the scandalous sight.
A great rumble shook the fabric of reality. More and more flashes of other lives surrounded her from top to bottom within the space she wandered. Akatosh was angry. His power thrashed and tore the fabric of time and space, thinning the veil between the worlds. It was incredible, and terrifying at the same time. Thousands upon thousands of worlds were opened up to her in that instant; she saw everything from Farmers to clothesless deviants to flying Cartoonish Trains spewing Dragonfire. Millions of worlds. Millions of possibilities. Millions of Dragonborns. Millions of not-Dragonborns. Millions of worlds destroyed by external forces, corrupted by missing pieces.
Her mind expanded on such a grand level that she could barely hold onto her sanity. It was madness, everywhere. So many worlds - several versions of herself, even. Millions of copies of everyone she'd ever known.
Visions of what looked like external beings; human in nature - Redguards, Nords, Imperials, and possibly Bretons? All speaking languages she could not understand. Was this beyond the Aurbis? They observed the worlds, holding strange mechanisms in their hands, pushing on buttons.
Some sat at a table, moving their fingers across a board with letters inscribed upon it. Dwarven technology, perhaps? No. It was something else. Something else entirely.
Numbers. Scrolling numbers. From top to bottom. Zeroes and Ones, trailing. Words unknown. What was "player . additem 0000000f 1000" supposed to mean?
What was happening?
She was afraid, so very afraid. She wanted to curl herself up into a ball and stay there but the currents would not allow for it.
Was this why Elder Scrolls were the way that they were? Unable to be coherently read? The sound; a singing of sort - like the bellowing of a sharp horn or pipe. Was this what the Anatomancer was talking about?
Make it stop. Make it stop. was all that Cura could whimper to herself.
One vision that caught Cura's eye, which she could retain her focus amidst the cloud of madness, was a female Bosmer who was accompanied by a Khajiit who was a very large, bluish Khajiit, similar in his looks to Inigo, as she saw it. He had two Saber Cat cubs sitting at either side of him and they were in the middle of what appeared to be the fields of Whiterun.
Due to her whimsical curiosity, Cura made the great error of stepping forward to speak to him before he could disappear. As she did so, she tore the veil binding the dimension and the dimensional tunnel she was in.
"Now, I am curious about Brynjolf; did he try to pull you into a scheme or so?" the large Khajiit inquired of his ally.
"Oh, yes. He sure did. When I had started - " before the female Bosmer could finish her explanation, a great flash of light boomed on the nearby field, catching them both off-guard.
"Fiona! Watch out!" the Khajiit pulled his friend back instinctively.
The Wood Elf quickly drew her bow and the large Khajiit placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. His saber cats began to growl and arch their backs as a figure made itself manifest in the doorway of swirling light before them.
"What is this? B'lushona, you're very knowledgeable - care to explain?" Fiona asked her companion.
The big Khajiit stared at the figure as she slowly manifested, revealing herself to be a blonde half-elven woman with emerald eyes, dressed like a Vigilant of Stendarr, though covered in drying blood and sullen with exhaustion. Their eyes locked for a few seconds before she grew embarrassed. "Oh! You're not Inigo."
B'lushona looked at Fiona for a second before asking. "I've heard of Inigo before, sure. He is a very popular modded follower."
"A what?" Cura was confused.
B'lushona continued to examine Cura's presence and then came to a realization. "Oh, I see." he waved a hand to his Saber Cats, Hanni and Nanni, and the pair of them seemed to calm down. "I think I've heard of you somewhere before; are you Vigilant Cura the Dragonborn?"
Cura felt as if the Fingers of the Mountain struck her from this shattering revelation. She slowly backed away. Was this the Dragon Break causing people from other worlds to know her? Was he a foe? Was this yet another of Sheogorath's games? She slowly backed up, half in the portal and half out of the portal. She held a hand to her mace. "Who's asking?"
"Balu. Don't worry; I'm not an enemy." B'lushona read her body language and surmised the tenseness in her. It was clear that she was fearful of something. What, exactly, he could not know - but he knew he wasn't going to be it.
Cura watched as Fiona lowered her bow and this gave her some pause.
A Bosmer Dragonborn? How curious. It was fascinating to see that the Gods had a variety of options to defeat the fell Dragon. All things considered, the variant Dragonborns were vastly different, but they were all sworn to the same duty. "Have you slain Alduin yet?" she asked.
Fiona was surprised by the question, though it was the least shocking thing in this scenario. She shook her head. "No."
"I wish you the best of luck." Cura gave her a genuine smile. "And whatever you do, keep a safe distance from him." she looked at B'lushona. "You're her friend, then, right? You seem to have uncanny prescience, or some sort of divine insight. Guide her well, and keep your Skyrim safe. Stendarr and Akatosh and all the Divines be with you."
Balu laughed. He was chosen to aid Skyrim by the Divines, after all. It would seem Cura had a little bit of 'Divine insight', herself.
The more Cura thought about it, seeing as Whiterun looked very similar to her world, perhaps the others she knew existed in their world as well. She hated the idea of a world where they could be harmed, even if it wasn't her own. Pressure cracked down on her as thunderous blue energy tugged at her robes, attempting to grab her and drag her inside the vortex.
"...And, sorry about the Dragon Break. That's... technically my fault." Cura massaged the back of her neck nervously. She could feel the powers that be trying to pull her back into the endless corridor to Coldharbour. She gripped the corners of the portal in attempt to hold herself in place. "If the Vigil of Stendarr exists in your world - please, help them! ...Hng!" It was beginning to greatly strain her to clench the portal, and her body was increasingly being pulled backwards with each passing second. "Don't... don't let... don't let the Vampires win! Help... the Keeper... help... the... Dawnguuaaaaarrrrrd!"
The portal effectively vaccuum-sucked her back inside, and the light imploded upon itself, leaving a small hail of sparkles before erasing the traces of its existence and leaving B'lushona and Fiona awestruck there in the field.
[Author's Note: Here is a friendly Shout-out to DrWandel! ;) B'lushona and Fiona are characters from his "Balu in Skyrim" series. It's a fun tale and definitely worth a read!]
As soon as Cura's foot passed backwards, she tumbled down into the black and green sludge, and began to see that the world was spinning. Gone were the friendly faces and gone were the beautiful plains of Whiterun. She found herself in what could possibly be the void itself.
It smelled like hard rot within, and her disgust was immeasurable. It was worse than the hanging woods in the Deadlands. And much, much darker. She could not see what she was standing in, but it was cold and wet.
Though, she was not undeserving of it, considering what she just did. She effectively broke time.
When she looked up, she was greeted with the horrifying sight of a black, shadowed figure comprised of many skeletal remains, and with five skull heads and two large skeletal arms stretching out from its sides. It was dark as the void and seemed to blend in with the background as it loomed over her. It was s stationary amalgam, simply staring at her with hollow eye sockets.
Cura nearly felt herself die at the mere sight of such an abomination. Before she could turn back, the portal had vanished once she'd passed through it, leaving herself and this bone-laden entity in the hallway of nightmares.
"Enter the belly of the lizard, little mortal. Curse you, bless you, father Sithis be with you." the odd entity spoke with five, childlike voices in unison.
Around them began to form black, shadowlike figures shrouded in dark mist with glowing red eyes. One of them spoke intelligibly. "To sleep... to dream of Tamriel... unsullied by Anui-El..."
Cura was beyond unnerved. A sharp feeling of dread filled her. "Sheogorath? You can knock this off, now! This isn't funny!"
"Man-ape, tell us. Marukh, guide us. What child of Man could fail to be in bliss if Nirn were Elven-free?" another hissing voice recited.
"Man-ape, tell us. Marukh, guide us. We willing march to heed your call, devoted, pious, one and all."
The voices seemed to swirl around her as Cura ran for dear life. It was as if her elven blood itself were afraid of the voices surrounding her, coming for her. A primal fear; a deep-rooted nightmare. Death. Death to the elves. Death to all their kind, to all who shared in their blood.
"Man-ape, tell us. Marukh, guide us. Your mandates we embrace."
The voices were serpents slithering through her ears, coiling around her lungs and constricting her breath.
"Curse me. Bless me... Curse me, Bless me..." another of the dark entities kept repeating to itself in a dark whisper.
Cura maneuvered around the dark beings and ran, though her steps were slowed by the dark sludge. She rushed, and rushed, and rushed, but her legs kept getting stuck. She gasped, she panicked, she ran, but it did no good. The dark entities were drawn to her, reaching, slithering, approaching.
The more Cura struggled against the dark currents, the more she was growing stuck. It were as if she were being swallowed up into quicksand. "HELP!" the desperate Breton screamed with horror as the dark entities surrounded her and she blacked out.
Rynkyus and the Bladebearers cleaved through Dagon's camp as they led the stray people through the fields past Kynesgrove. As the Daedra were recovering from the skirmish with Inigo and his allies and Paarthurnax's onslaught, it was quite easy to clear a path through for the carriage.
There were many sharp turns, but they managed to secure the landing into the winterlands.
The bridge and stone walls of the City of Windhelm could be seen over the River. Tarvyn looked at the ancient city and sighed. "So that's Windhelm. Looks friendly." he scoffed loudly.
They had just come from an eternity in Oblivion, and yet Windhelm felt a little improvement.
Faltonia and Decanus were a tad nervous to go there, considering the political climate these days. They had to trust that Cura's name would be enough to allow tolerance of them, at least for a short while.
Stighelm tilted his head. "It's... not what I remember. The buildings used to be more box-like, I guess. And there wasn't ramparts surrounding it." He briefly wondered if they had still kept the cruel old asylum in the southeastern side of the city.
As the carriages pulled up to the bridge stables, the people disembarked and followed the Dremora up to the city gate, where Stormcloak Soldiers immediately drew their weapons.
"You are definitely not getting into this city, beasts!" Ralof shouted as he readied to attack.
Lyranth scoffed. "I knew this was going to be a problem."
Rynkyus reached into his pocket, prompting the soldiers to take to their weapons. Then he withdrew the Amulet of Stendarr. "We were sent by the Dragonborn Cura to bring these refugees into the city. You can verify it with her allies within the city."
Rolf Stone-Fist was hiding in the back, and Ralof turned to look at him, and then at Avulstein and Thorald Gray-Mane. "What do you think?"
"I think we search every one of these weirdos before we do anything. They've got Dremoras with them, for Shor's sake!" Avulstein declared.
"And some o' them filthy Dark Elves and Imperial bastards, too." Rolf spat and gave a thumbs down. "I say throw 'em off the bridge. Let 'em try and enter the city by the docks if they can swim like them dirty Argonians."
Rynkyus grit his teeth in annoyance. This was the very sort of mortal he'd come to expect from their kind, and disdained. Thankfully, Thorald diffused the situation. "One more word out of you an' we'll throw you off the damn bridge." he admonished the flaring bigot. "If what the Dremora says is true, then all we've gotta do is ask Cura's friends."
Avulstein nodded. "They went under the city, eh? I'll wait for 'em at the Palace. Unde rno circumstances can the Dremora be let into the city, though." He slowly walked back into the city.
"Look who finally woke up. I hope you found that sarcophagus comfortable. What's wrong? You're making a face as if your every bone hurts." a snarky, muttled voice swabbed Cura's ears as she lay in the darkness.
With a few blinks, Cura came to. Though her vision was blurry she could make out a strange figure with a golden mask obscuring hideous tentacled face underneath, donning a red hooded cloak and hunched over.
He stood before her in what appeared to be a small chapel of sorts with a long, ornate red carpet. The walls were of an unfamiliar stonework - cobblestone in nature, and there were boxlike pews with braziers beside them.
At the center of the carpet was a small statue of a monkey missing an eye on a pedestal.
Cura was shocked at the man's appearance, but compared to what she'd seen already, it was not particularly alarming.
"Well, who are you? You can't be a member of the Alessian Order." the man spat.
Cura grew defensive and blurted out. "I'm a Vigilant of Stendarr."
"Stendarr... So you serve that scheming god of righteousness? That would explain your downfall. Did you kill a beggar and take his clothes? Or did you use an innocent child for a shield?" the priest snarled.
"I would never - !" the mere accusation horrified Cura.
"It's enough to end up here. You swam in the blood of others, didn't you? Blood on your hands is proof enough." the weird cretin gestured to the drying blood on Cura's gauntlets and robes.
Cura was angered by the assertion. "You don't know me. You don't know what I've been through; what I've had to do, as a Vigilant and as the Dragonborn." And the fact that she'd just seen the whole of creation spanned before her eyes, and other universes existing. But never mind that; right?
The robed man stiffened up in that moment as what she said seemed to register. "You? You want to tell me you're of the same lineage as Saint Alessia? Heh, heh. Don't make me laugh. You're out of your mind!" When he noticed her grimace, he reiterated. "And even if that were true, it has no meaning in this wasteland."
"I can prove it. My Dragon Soul wanders the plains here, somewhere." Cura tried to salvage her point, but she wasn't even entirely certain where to even begin to look. "Ugh. Just... this is Coldharbour, right? Where is Molag Bal?"
"Probably at the top of the Tower in the center of the Imperial City. Why do you want to know?" the man answered in exchange for another answer.
The Imperial City? In Coldharbour? Just what was he getting at?
Having heard nothing but horrors about Coldharbour, Cura looked to the doors. She feared what lay beyond them.
"You'd better not ask him for a favour, believe me. You'll just end up like the ones outside." he warned her.
"Or like you, I suppose." Cura noted his accursed appearance, but he paid the comment no mind.
"Praying to the Divines is useless, too. The Alessian Order burned all their priests and servants." the deformed man shrugged.
The Alessian Order. Just great. Cura'd heard her share about them from history. They turned Tamriel into a theocratic nightmare for centuries due to their Monkey Prophet, Marukh.
Cura was determined. "I am going to that Tower, and then I am going to crush Molag Bal." she owed the Daedric Prince some sweet payback for what he did to other Vigilants, and what he put her through back in Markarth.
"That's madness, no mortal can do this." the odd figure tried to dissuade her for her own good, seemingly. "He's a playwright of this tragedy and we're all just his puppets."
Cura saw a map laying on a table nearby and picked it up. She paid no mind to his negativity. She was a woman on a mission. No matter what horror she would encounter, she had no choice but to overcome it if she was to return to her friends. They were all working so hard right now, and she worried about them.
As Cura glanced over the map, her finger traced the encircled space. "This area is called the Waterfront District... what can you tell me about it?"
"It's to the east of the priory. It's a place where the good-for-nothing louts like you get to hang out." the priestly man snarled scornfully. "Who knows, maybe you'll meet a familiar face there. And you'll get to be good-for-nothing louts together."
"Says the man who has the face of a squid." Cura scoffed.
"Oh, and don't try to leave this place by going north. You'll just end up as food for the flying Worm." he added.
"Who's in charge of the Waterfront District?" Cura wondered.
"Lord Vernaccus. Calls himself 'He Who Cannot Be Touched' and the 'Bane of Kynareth', but, well... he's completely incompetent." the religious man scoffed with amusement. "I've never seen such an incompetent Daedra. It's a miracle he wasn't destroyed in the Battle of Weye. He just sits on his throne in the fort Verin and brags about his glory days."
Cura wondered, then, just how incompetent this Daedra really was. Perhaps his defeat would allow her to leave. It's all just been one nightmare after another, but hopefully she had some sort of influence, herself.
But the Flying Worm was another matter entirely. "What is the 'Flying Worm' you speak of?" it sounded like he was referring to a Dragon. Could it perhaps be her Dragon Soul? If so, that would be appreciably convenient, all things considered.
Of course, the priest responded in his snarky manner. "A Daedroth who learned to fly. He's called Menta Na, I think. He eats everyone trying to leave the Waterfront District. If you don't want to die like that, quietly wait for your end here. You'll rot away in any case, but at least it won't hurt if you stay here."
Cura sat down on one of the pews and looked at the giant statue of a woman holding the Amulet of Kings. She looked at the red priest with curiosity. "My name is Vigilant Cura. You never told me who you were."
"It doesn't really matter who I am anymore. But if you must know, I am Inquisitor Pepe of the Alessian Order." he responded in kind.
"Tell me about the Order." Cura requested. She was intrigued to learn directly from the source if what he said was true.
"They were the ones blessed by the True God and Saint Alessia and they still ended up in this wasteland." Inquisitor Pepe said dryly. "The Imga Prophet Marukh created the Order. Sometimes I wonder why they believed that monkey's foolish tales..." he glanced over at the monkey statue on the pedestal.
Cura gestured towards the space surrounding them. "I suppose this must be a Chapel or Priory of their Order?" she played along in addressing the group in the abstract. Perhaps it was hard for Pepe to console himself knowing he too was part of that era of darkness.
"This is the Mathmalatu Priory. Back in its glory days it was the monastery of the Alessian Order. Countless pilgrims used to come here to pray to the one True God and Saint Alessia. But that was a few thousand years ago." Inquisitor Pepe exposited graciously. In that moment, he seemed to have lit up from his somber mood.
Cura recalled hearing about the 'Temple of the One' in Cyrodiil; it was where Martin Septim broke the Amulet of Kings. Perhaps... perhaps the Dragonbreaks may have caused something to coincide.
Inquisitor Pepe took a seat beside Cura and sighed. "It was a long, long time ago."
Cura tried to make pleasant conversation. "I've always found Saint Alessia to be very inspiring. Her story, a slave woman who, with her faith, overthrew the Ayleid Empire with Pelinal Whitestrake and Morihaus Breath-of-Kyne."
Her foot shifted back and kicked something, catching her attention. When she reached underneath, Cura found a torn book, discarded in the corner under the pew and dusted it off. The title read: "Vindication for the Dragon Break"
"Vindication for the Dragon Break
by Fervidius Tharn, Arch-Prelate of the Maruhkati Selective
A Marukhati edict instructing the expungement of the Aldmeri aspects from Auriel
It is the first of the Exclusionary Mandates that the Supreme Spirit Akatosh is of unitary essence, as is inconclusively proven by the monolinearity of Time. And clearly, the Arc of Time provides us with the mortal theater for the act of Sacred Expungement. Thus it is our purpose upon Mundus to reverse the error of Sanctus Primus and restore Ak-at-Osh to humanadic purity. To say otherwise is vain and empty persiflage.
Therefore let the Staff of Towers be prepared for the ritual that will cleanse the protean substrate of the Aldmeri Taint. All Selectives are to initiate chants of Proper-Life and maintain them until a state of monothought is achieved. Then each shall Dance, duration-forward then volteface, till the Roll of Time winds withershins.
Prophet-Most-Simian guide us! Misplaced Shezarr bless us! May our Wills in this be Enacted!"
They tried to rewrite history. Cura was mildly amused. She could disprove the lot of them by simply showing them Auriel's Bow. The Empire has it right with the Pantheon as they know it. Akatosh and Aur-El are one and the same, just appearing in different forms to different people. She supposed it was like how Daedric Princes would appear differently sometimes to different people.
"You thought to separate Akatosh from his Elven roots? Are you mad?" Cura asked. Was it even possible?
Inquisitor Pepe cleared his throat. "The Exclusionary Mandates, to explain simply enough that a fool like you could understand, are as follows, and all Are Equal:
1: That the Supreme Spirit Akatosh is of unitary essence, as proven by the monolinearity of Time.
1: That Shezarr the missing sibling is Singularly Misplaced and therefore Doubly Venerated.
1: That the protean substrate that informs all denial of 1 is the Aldmeri Taint.
1: That the Prophet Most Simian demonstrated that monothought begets Proper-Life.
1: That the purpose of Proper-Life is the Expungement of the Taint.
1: That the Arc of Time provides the mortal theater for the Sacred Expungement.
1: That Akatosh is Time is Proper-Life is Taint-Death."
"I could understand if it made any sense." Cura remarked. "Akatosh is Time is Proper-Life is Taint-Death? That doesn't make any sense." She had an easier time understanding Septimus Signus and the Sacred Anatomancer comparatively. "And why is Shezzar doubly venerated? Didn't Akatosh - Auri-El kill him by tearing out his heart?" That was, of course, if she recalled the history correctly. As much as Cura had learned about history, she had begun to develop a weaker memory over the last couple of years, be it due to stress or blunt trauma, or both. Some details could not be retained, to her chagrin.
"Of course you would believe that, you disgusting half-Elf piece of heathen trash!" Inquisitor Pepe snapped at her brutally. Those words cut deep - Cura, of all people, would be the last to ever want to be considered a Heathen.
Though, she had done questionable things, she still held Stendarr encaged within her heart's root. Evidently not a concept this hypocrite would know about. Cura was prompted to let loose a little snark of her own. "Then how does it feel, being stuck in your little priory in Coldharbour with a-" she made a quotation gesture with her fingers. "-'disgusting half-Elf piece of heathen trash?'"
The Inquisitor had no real response, but he relented. He shifted awkwardly in pause as the realization of his callousness and rudeness set in. "I apologize for my words; it was uncouth of me to call you that. It doesn't change anything."
Cura decided to forgive him and let it be. "So... the One is a culmination of Akatosh and Shor/Sheor/Lorkhan/Shezzar, if I understand correctly?" But didn't Talos take Shor's place in the pantheon?
No; they viewed the Aedra as spirits, not as gods.
Inquisitor Pepe seemed to sigh hopelessly as he tried to explain once again. "Akatosh is the One. Shezzar is Akatosh."
Cura tried to understand it once again. "So... Akatosh is Akatosh, and Shezzar is also Akatosh, but made manifest in our world?"
"..."
"..."
The two grew silent as they sat there for a while. Inquisitor Pepe looked at her, dumbfounded, and Cura was growing frustrated. So she was wrong about that, too? What about this was she not getting?
"I suppose your Order wanted an Akatosh without any ties to the Elves. I understand, given when they did-" Cura tried to empathize.
"You could not possibly understand." Pepe protested immediately. "You know nothing of the Ayleids! Though, perhaps in time you will learn." his tone was very revealing towards the end there. He clearly knew something that she didn't, but she was sure to find out sooner or later. Of that, he was right.
"I know my share. Where I hail from we're sitting at the end of the Aldmeri Dominion's sword and the Cyrodiilic Empire is near to collapse." Cura informed him. "That is why I need to regain my Dragon Soul."
"Wait... you were serious? You... really are Dragonborn?" Inquisitor Pepe asked.
Cura nodded. "Yes. My soul came from the Amulet of Kings when it was destroyed centuries ago."
The Inquisitor froze like he stood in the Sea of Ghosts upon hearing this. He stared at Cura, and examined her up and down before he broke out into hysterical laughter. "Is this a joke? A Half-Elf? A Dragonborn? A chosen of Akatosh?! Hahahahaha!"
Cura wished she had her Dragon Soul so she could use Unrelenting Force to shut him up right about now. Though, in his day, most Nords could use the Thu'um, right? It probably wouldn't mean much.
"Get out of the Priory." Inquisitor Pepe ordered, thrusting a finger to the door. "I won't have that kind of blasphemy in here. There's no way Shezzar would come in the form of a Half-Elf. He just wouldn't. You'd better hope Abbot Cosmas never sees you, for your sake. If what you say is true, you are a complete mockery of everything we've established! Scat with you! I hope the Worm eats you alive."
After all the work they'd done into separating Akatosh from his Elven roots, to see him be mantled by a woman who was half-Nord, half-Ayleid would be an insult to any decent adherent to Marukh.
Feeling insulted, Cura was more than happy to oblige, and to leave this fool to his own accord. Never before had she met someone so cynically sanctimonious.
As Cura walked towards the entrance, she noticed a small Eye on the floor, matching the single eye in the Statue of Marukh. She pocketed it. If Pepe cared to want it back, he would have to come to her. This wasn't over.
Inigo, Lucien, Mjoll, Carcette and Serana entered the main hall in the Palace of Kings, and Ulfric saw the lot of them from his throne and quickly descended and approached from the right side of the banquet table. "Ah, you're alive. So I take it the cultists below the city are slaughtered?"
"There were only vampires below; ancient vampires, dating back to the first era." Carcette spoke on behalf of the group, as the former Keeper of the Vigil. "The Vigilants... didn't make it."
"My condolences." the Jarl sympathized with her.
Inigo wore a sad expression as he came up from the underground networks. Lucien observed that the Khajiit hadn't smiled since they fought Lamae. Whatever she did to him must have been something, because he never imagined the blue cat so miserable before.
Though, in hindsight, it could just be because of a mix of things. Cura's death, rumours of the Doom Strider, the Daedra, Molag Bal, Lamae Bal. Yes; that was more likely the case.
Nobody smiled in the group, even though they emerged triumphant. A bitter taste lay on their lips.
"I suppose it can't be helped." Carcette responded sadly. "It... it's the life of a Vigilant. Death is almost a certainty." she could speak for others, but she herself seemed to have been quite fortunate, considering all she'd gone through for the past few years.
Ulfric looked to Mjoll and Inigo. "And I suppose this is the second service you've done for Windhelm. Thank you, on behalf of my city."
"It is an honour, Jarl Ulfric." Mjoll bowed politely and Inigo silently agreed, even if he wasn't the biggest fan of Windhelm.
The memory of their time with Cura; her birthday party at Candlehearth Hall. It was precious to them. And now, seeing what was happening, it warped those memories; mangled them. Now, all they remembered was that it was a time when there was relative peace, even with the Dragon scourge.
Carcette tapped Inigo on his shoulder. "Now is the time where we part ways, Inigo." She still had to perform her third and final task for Jyggalag, and that task would take her to his Shrine near the seas of the Pale. West of Dawnstar.
Inigo was stunned to hear it. He looked at the older Breton sadly, but gave her a light smile. "I understand. Good luck to you, Carcette." he shook her hand firmly.
Avulstein Gray-Mane entered the Palace of Kings in that moment and saw the group. The timing was excellent. "Thank the Gods I caught you!" He held the Amulet of Stendarr in his hand.
"They're here already?" Lucien exclaimed with shock.
Avulstein was surprised, but elected to elaborate further regardless. "A band of Dremora leading humans and elves to the city gate gave this to us. Says it's Cura's and says it was her idea. This true?"
Carcette quickly took the Amulet of Stendarr and peered inside. A nostalgic smile made itself clear on her lips and she nodded, reading it aloud:
"Cura 4E 188 - May the light of Stendarr guide your path"
A great warmth washed over the Breton as she beheld the Amulet of sweet Cura's. She clenched it against her breast tenderly. "It's her's." It was just as Cura told them during their meeting.
Lucien confirmed it as well. "Yes - there were people lost for millennia in the Deadlands, and Cura asked Rynkyus and the Bladebearers - a band of Dremora who serve no master - to bring them here for the meantime. She hopes they can settle in Winterhold."
Jarl Ulfric was confused. "Cura asked them to? What..."
"Her body is dead, but her soul is wandering Oblivion because she was killed by the Mythic Dawn." Mjoll stated, nearly causing Ulfric's legs to buckle.
"Bastard rats... the whole lot of them! They sent my daughter to Oblivion?!" the bear of Markarth roared upon hearing the despicable news.
"Yes, but there was a reason for it - she's going to help us beat them from the other side." Lucien tried to console him with that news. "We have reason to believe that the Daedric Prince Meridia is protecting her."
The Stormcloak leader was both perplexed and disgusted at the thought of his blood being caught in the middle of a Daedric war. He shook his head. "No. If any god is protecting her, it is mighty Talos." He would hear no alternative. He gestured to Avulstein. "Let these refugees in. If there is no room for them at the Candlehearth Hall, pawn them off at the New Gnisis Corner club."
The Stormcloak soldier nodded in adherence to the order and headed out.
Carcette fastened Cura's spiritually-spawned Amulet of Stendarr around her neck with care, now that it was within her possession.
Wearing the Armour of Jyggalag and an Amulet of Stendarr. That would be an interesting story to tell.
Inigo and Lucien went with Serana and Mjoll to go and see these new refugees.
Before Carcette could leave, Ulfric called her attention. "So, I take it you intend to keep Cura's Amulet?"
He noticed it around her neck, and due to its spectral nature it gave off a faint glow.
"I do. I believe it will give me good fortune in the battles to come." she stated softly.
Ulfric nodded. "Good. Here's hoping for a little luck on my side, eh?" He would have wanted something of Cura's himself, but it was just as well; Carcette undoubtedly spent more time with Cura than he had.
Carcette left the Palace of Kings and readied to return to the Hall of the Vigilant. Perhaps she could warn the Vigil to keep their guard up against the building Daedric Army.
Vilja sat at the bar counter with Lilian, who was drawing on a paper with charcoal. She made a cute little sketch of herself, her mother and a knight in gray armour with one eye riding a boat over water, and an angry witch in a pointy hat was yelling at them on the terrain on the left side of the picture.
"Ooh, that looks very nice!" Vilja laughed. "I like the angry witch there; reminds me of a woman I served once when I worked as a Waitress at the Winking Skeever."
"That was the mean witch who wanted to eat mommy and me, but Carcette saved us and brought us here!" the girl narrated the picture. It was now worth 980 words, Vilja thought.
Carene was alone at the moment, mourning the loss of her husband in the corner of the bar, facing the wall in the eastern back room.
Thankfully, some of the refugees were corralled outside as the city guards and the Skyguard searched and processed them. Elda Early-Dawn slapped herself on the forehead as she saw the small town's worth of people piling into the city before the Candlehearth Hall. "By Ysmir, how do you expect me to handle all of these people? I'm just one Innkeeper here!"
Tarvyn moved aside as Faltonia walked past him and raised her hand quickly. "I have many, many, many years of experience at running an inn. More than you. I'll help you out for some free lodging."
A few of the other refugees nodded as if to confirm that she was telling the truth, and some made utterances in favour as well. However, Elda seemed to only take offense to the idea. The hardy Nord woman leaned against the tough stone wall. "An Imperial work at my Inn? You must be joking!"
And there it was. Exactly what Cura had warned them about.
The Imperial woman was about to speak in her own defense, but Stighelm stopped her. "What's the problem? Nobody makes a better Ale than her - I can tell ya that much!"
Immediately one of the Stormcloak soldiers piped in. "Yeah, sure; the Imperial dogs are bad enough to have in the city, but what about these Gray-skins? Don't we have enough of 'em?"
Tarvyn was taken aback by the insult. He was aware of the disdain held against his kind here, but that could not have prepared him for this. "Did you just call us 'Gray-skins?'"
Rolff Stone-Fist interjected immediately, puffing his chest out. "Don't like it? Too bad. This is our city. Ours!" He shoved Tarvyn backwards, causing him to stagger into Lilvas Gadar, a female Dunmer who stood with two others directly behind him. When her back hit the wall, Tarvyn grew angry at Rolff. "You damn Gray-skin. Go back to Morrowind!"
"Touch me again, I dare you!" Tarvyn growled angrily as he dusted his green tunic off. He was trying to maintain his composure, given that he was in a foreign land in an even more foreign era, but this man was trying his patience.
Decanus seethed nervously through his teeth, and Sunel and Ninette seemed about ready to start placing bets, two minutes in. Though, given that they didn't bring much with them from Wretched Spire, what did they really have to bet to begin with?
"An' I see filthy Orcs, too, hiding in the back." Rolff pointed at Ruldzara and Ordurzog, two of the orcish villagers who seemed perturbed by the gray city. "And a gods-darned Argonian too! An Argonian! You're not even supposed to be in these city walls!" He thrust an accusatory finger at Deetum-Makka, a silver-green scaled Argonian outlaw who followed the group out of the Deadlands. He seemed to laugh in mocking disbelief at the display. When he saw the Altmer, Nafyromir, it blew him away. "Altmer too! We got Imperial scum, Orc bastards, Redguards, Dark Elves, pansy Bretons, and a blasted Argonian! Do you know where ya are? This is Windhelm, the true capital of Skyrim!"
Stighelm shrugged. "Well... can't argue there. It was when I was a lad."
Thorald Gray-Mane looked at the group and then at Rolff. "We'll see what Jarl Ulfric says. Quit bein' a shit."
Rolff sneered and continued to shoot off his mouth. "We ought dig a big hole, throw all them dark elves and Argonians in it, and let 'em tear each other to pieces."
Before Tarvyn could react, Thorald spun around and punched Rolff across the face. A resounding 'crack!' filled the mountainous air and echoed off the steep walls. Everyone gasped as Rolff's body spun around from the sheer force and he plummeted to the ground, unconscious.
As Thorald massaged his knuckles, Tarvyn worked up the nerve to express his gratitude. "Thanks for that."
The Gray-Mane scoffed. "I was sick of hearin' him shoot off his stupid mouth."
Ralof, who was waiting for Avulstein to return, signaled as much to his brother-in-arms. He accompanied the other Gray-Mane to meet with his brother and discuss what the Jarl had said. "They're allowed in. We can spread them between Candlehearth an' the Cornerclub in the Gray Quarter."
Inigo and the others followed him closely from behind and met the refugees. Rynkyus and the other Dremora were nowhere to be found, though it was more likely that they were denied entry altogether.
"Oh, my. That is quite a group, isn't it?" Lucien remarked when he saw the big gathering. "I don't think Candle thought this through."
Elda Early-Dawn was overwhelmed by the large group and looked to Delphine and Vilja, who were peeking outside with the expression of dread wearing down their faces. She knew that it was going to be difficult to manage this new entourage, and then she looked at Faltonia, who sincerely offered to help before and swallowed her stubborn Nord pride. "You wanna help me handle this rabble? Fine. If you can, by all means, be my guest."
Little did she realize, it was practically another Morndas for this innkeeper. Faltonia nodded and walked past the Stormcloak soldiers to join Elda in preparing the basement area to be inhabited temporarily and to prepare meals and drinks with Vilja and Delphine.
Serana was silent, though it was mainly due to her confusion for how comfortable these mortals seemed in her presence. It was almost as if they were used to Daedric presences. What a depressing thought.
Lucien shrugged and followed them inside to lend a hand, as well, and gestured to Inigo and Mjoll. They deserved a rest, themselves after all they'd gone through the past week.