"The Monomyth
A theological book containing the common creation myths
"In Mundus, conflict and disparity are what bring change, and change is the most sacred of the Eleven Forces. Change is the force without focus or origin."—Oegnithr, Taheritae, Order of PSJJJJ
Simply put, the schism in the Human/Aldmeri worldview is the mortal's relationship to the divine. Humans take the humble path that they were created by the immortal forces, while the Aldmer claim descent from them. It doesn't seem like much, but it is a distinction that colors the rest of their diverging mythologies.
All Tamrielic religions begin the same. Man or mer, things begin with the dualism of Anu and His Other. These twin forces go by many names: Anu-Padomay, Anuiel-Sithis, Ak-El, Satak-Akel, Is-Is Not. Anuiel is the Everlasting Ineffable Light, Sithis is the Corrupting Inexpressible Action. In the middle is the Gray Maybe ('Nirn' in the Ehlnofex).
In most cultures, Anuiel is honored for his part of the interplay that creates the world, but Sithis is held in highest esteem because he's the one that causes the reaction. Sithis is thus the Original Creator, an entity who intrinsically causes change without design. Even the hist acknowledge this being.
Anuiel is also perceived of as Order, opposed to the Sithis-Chaos. Perhaps it is easier for mortals to envision change than perfect stasis, for often Anuiel is relegated to the mythic background of Sithis' fancies. In Yokudan folk-tales, which are among the most vivid in the world, Satak is only referred to a handful of times, as "the Hum"; he is a force so prevalent as to be not really there at all.
In any case, from these two beings spring the et'Ada, or Original Spirits. To humans these et'Ada are the Gods and Demons; to the Aldmer, the Aedra/Daedra, or the 'Ancestors'. All of the Tamrielic pantheons fill their rosters from these et'Ada, though divine membership often differs from culture to culture. Like Anu and Padomay, though, every one of these pantheons contains the archetypes of the Dragon God and the Missing God.
The Dragon God and the Missing God
The Dragon God is always related to Time, and is universally revered as the "First God." He is often called Akatosh, "whose perch from Eternity allowed the day." He is the central God of the Cyrodilic Empire.
The Missing God is always related to the Mortal Plane, and is a key figure in the Human/Aldmeri schism. The 'missing' refers to either his palpable absence from the pantheon (another mental distress that is interpreted a variety of ways), or the removal of his 'divine spark' by the other immortals. He is often called Lorkhan, and his epitaphs are many, equally damnable and devout.
Note that Tamriel and the Mortal Plane do not exist yet. The Gray Maybe is still the playground of the Original Spirits. Some are more bound to Anu's light, others to the unknowable void. Their constant flux and interplay increase their number, and their personalities take long to congeal. When Akatosh forms, Time begins, and it becomes easier for some spirits to realize themselves as beings with a past and a future. The strongest of the recognizable spirits crystallize: Mephala, Arkay, Y'ffre, Magnus, Rupgta, etc., etc. Others remain as concepts, ideas, or emotions. One of the strongest of these, a barely formed urge that the others call Lorkhan, details a plan to create Mundus, the Mortal Plane.
Humans, with the exception of the Redguards, see this act as a divine mercy, an enlightenment whereby lesser creatures can reach immortality. Aldmer, with the exception of the Dark Elves, see this act as a cruel deception, a trick that sundered their connection to the spirit plane.
The Myth of Aurbis
Subtitled "The Psijiic Compensation," "Mythic Aurbis" was an attempt by Artaeum apologists to explain the basics of Aldmeri religion to Uriel V in the early, glorious part of his reign. It quietly avoided any blame or bias against the Lorkhan-concept, which was still held in esteem by the Cyrodiils as "Shezarr", the missing sibling of the Divines. Despite this, the Psijiici still give a nice summary of the Elder view, and it will serve our purposes here. This version comes from the archives of the Imperial Seminary from the handwritten notes of an unknown scribe.
Mythic Aurbis exists, and has existed from time without measure, as a fanciful Unnatural Realm.
'Aurbis' is used to connote the imperceptible Penumbra, the Gray Center between the IS/IS NOT of Anu and Padomay. It contains the multitude realms of Aetherius and Oblivion, as well as other, less structured forms.
The magical beings of Mythic Aurbis live for a long time and have complex narrative lives, creating the patterns of myth.
These are spirits made from bits of the immortal polarity. The first of these was Akatosh the Time Dragon, whose formation made it easier for other spirits to structure themselves. Gods and demons form and reform and procreate.
Finally, the magical beings of Mythic Aurbis told the ultimate story - that of their own death. For some this was an artistic transfiguration into the concrete, non-magical substance of the world. For others, this was a war in which all were slain, their bodies becoming the substance of the world. For yet others, this was a romantic marriage and parenthood, with the parent spirits naturally having to die and give way to the succeeding mortal races.
The agent of this communal decision was Lorkhan, whom most early myths vilify as a trickster or deceiver. More sympathetic versions of this story point out Lorkhan as being the reason the mortal plane exists at all.
The magical beings created the races of the mortal Aurbis in their own image, either consciously as artists and craftsmen, or as the fecund rotting matter out of which the mortals sprung forth, or in a variety of other analogical senses.
The magical beings, then, having died, became the et'Ada. The et'Ada are the things perceived and revered by the mortals as gods, spirits, or geniuses of Aurbis. Through their deaths, these magical beings separated themselves in nature from the other magical beings of the Unnatural realms.
The Daedra were created at this time also, being spirits and Gods more attuned to Oblivion, or that realm closer to the Void of Padomay. This act is the dawn of the Mythic (Merethic) Era. It has been perceived by the earliest mortals many different ways, either as a joyous 'second creation', or (especially by the Elves) as a painful fracturing from the divine. The originator of the event is always Lorkhan.
Lorkhan
This Creator-Trickster-Tester deity is in every Tamrielic mythic tradition. His most popular name is the Aldmeri "Lorkhan," or Doom Drum. He convinced or contrived the Original Spirits to bring about the creation of the Mortal Plane, upsetting the status quo much like his father Padomay had introduced instability into the universe in the Beginning Place. After the world is materialized, Lorkhan is separated from his divine center, sometimes involuntarily, and wanders the creation of the et'Ada. Interpretations of these events differ widely by culture. Below are some of the better known:
Yokudan, "Satakal the Worldskin"
"Satak was First Serpent, the Snake who came Before, and all the worlds to come rested in the glimmer of its scales. But it was so big there was nothing but, and thus it was coiled around and around itself, and the worlds to come slid across each other but none had room to breathe or even be. And so the worlds called to something to save them, to let them out, but of course there was nothing outside the First Serpent, so aid had to come from inside it; this was Akel, the Hungry Stomach. Akel made itself known, and Satak could only think about what it was, and it was the best hunger, so it ate and ate. Soon there was enough room to live in the worlds and things began. These things were new and they often made mistakes, for there was hardly time to practice being things before. So most things ended quickly or were not good or gave up on themselves. Some things were about to start, but they were eaten up as Satak got to that part of its body. This was a violent time.
"Pretty soon Akel caused Satak to bite its own heart and that was the end. The hunger, though, refused to stop, even in death, and so the First Serpent shed its skin to begin anew. As the old world died, Satakal began, and when things realized this pattern so did they realize what their part in it was. They began to take names, like Ruptga or Tuwhacca, and they strode about looking for their kin. As Satakal ate itself over and over, the strongest spirits learned to bypass the cycle by moving at strange angles. They called this process the Walkabout, a way of striding between the worldskins. Ruptga was so big that he was able to place the stars in the sky so that weaker spirits might find their way easier. This practice became so easy for the spirits that it became a place, called the Far Shores, a time of waiting until the next skin.
"Ruptga was able to sire many children through the cycles and so he became known as the Tall Papa. He continued to place stars to map out the void for others, but after so many cycles there were almost too many spirits to help out. He made himself a helper from the detritus of past skins and this was Sep, or Second Serpent. Sep had much of the Hungry Stomach still left in him, multiple hungers from multiple skins. He was so hungry he could not think straight. Sometimes he would just eat the spirits he was supposed to help, but Tall Papa would always reach in and take them back out. Finally, tired of helping Tall Papa, Sep went and gathered the rest of the old skins and balled them up, tricking spirits to help him, promising them this was how you reached the new world, by making one out of the old. These spirits loved this way of living, as it was easier. No more jumping from place to place. Many spirits joined in, believing this was good thinking. Tall Papa just shook his head.
"Pretty soon the spirits on the skin-ball started to die, because they were very far from the real world of Satakal. And they found that it was too far to jump into the Far Shores now. The spirits that were left pleaded with Tall Papa to take them back. But grim Ruptga would not, and he told the spirits that they must learn new ways to follow the stars to the Far Shores now. If they could not, then they must live on through their children, which was not the same as before. Sep, however, needed more punishment, and so Tall Papa squashed the Snake with a big stick. The hunger fell out of Sep's dead mouth and was the only thing left of the Second Serpent. While the rest of the new world was allowed to strive back to godhood, Sep could only slink around in a dead skin, or swim about in the sky, a hungry void that jealously tried to eat the stars."
Cyrodiilic "Shezarr's Song"
"This was a new thing that Shezarr described to the Gods, becoming mothers and fathers, being responsible, and making great sacrifices, with no guarantee of success, but Shezarr spoke beautifully to them, and moved them beyond mystery and tears. Thus the Aedra gave free birth to the world, the beasts, and the beings, making these things from parts of themselves. This free birth was very painful, and afterwards the Aedra were no longer young, and strong, and powerful, as they had been from the beginning of days.
"Some Aedra were disappointed and bitter in their loss, and angry with Shezarr, and with all creation, for they felt Shezarr had lied and tricked them. These Aedra, the Gods of the Aldmer, led by Auri-El, were disgusted by their enfeebled selves, and by what they had created. 'Everything is spoiled, for now, and for all time, and the most we can do is teach the Elven Races to suffer nobly, with dignity, and chastise ourselves for our folly, and avenge ourselves upon Shezarr and his allies.' Thus are the Gods of the Elves dark and brooding, and thus are the Elves ever dissatisfied with mortality, and always proud and stoic despite the harshness of this cruel and indifferent world.
"Other Aedra looked upon creation, and were well pleased. These Aedra, the Gods of Men and Beast Folk, led by Akatosh, praised and cherished their wards, the Mortal Races. 'We have suffered, and are diminished, for all time, but the mortal world we have made is glorious, filling our hearts and spirits with hope. Let us teach the Mortal Races to live well, to cherish beauty and honor, and to love one another as we love them.' Thus are the Gods of Men tender and patient, and thus are Men and Beast Folk great in heart for joy or suffering, and ambitious for greater wisdom and a better world.
"Now when the Daedra Lords heard Shezarr, they mocked him, and the other Aedra. 'Cut parts of ourselves off? And lose them? Forever? That's stupid! You'll be sorry! We are far smarter than you, for we will create a new world out of ourselves, but we will not cut it off, or let it mock us, but we will make this world within ourselves, forever ours, and under our complete control.'
"So the Daedra Lords created the Daedric Realms, and all the ranks of Lesser Daedra, great and small. And, for the most part, the Daedra Lords were well pleased with this arrangement, for they always had worshippers and servants and playthings close to hand. But, at the same time, they sometimes looked with envy upon the Mortal Realms, for though mortals were foul and feeble and contemptible, their passions and ambitions were also far more surprising and entertaining than the antics of the Lesser Daedra. Thus do the Daedra Lords court and seduce certain amusing specimens of the Mortal Races, especially the passionate and powerful. It gives the Daedra Lords special pleasure to steal away from Shezarr and the Aedra the greatest and most ambitious mortals. 'Not only are you fools to mutilate yourselves,' gloat the Daedra Lords, 'But you cannot even keep the best pieces, which prefer the glory and power of the Daedra Lords to the feeble vulgarity of the mush-minded Aedra.'"
Altmeri "The Heart of the World"
"Anu encompassed, and encompasses, all things. So that he might know himself he created Anuiel, his soul and the soul of all things. Anuiel, as all souls, was given to self-reflection, and for this he needed to differentiate between his forms, attributes, and intellects. Thus was born Sithis, who was the sum of all the limitations Anuiel would utilize to ponder himself. Anuiel, who was the soul of all things, therefore became many things, and this interplay was and is the Aurbis.
"At first the Aurbis was turbulent and confusing, as Anuiel's ruminations went on without design. Aspects of the Aurbis then asked for a schedule to follow or procedures whereby they might enjoy themselves a little longer outside of perfect knowledge. So that he might know himself this way, too, Anu created Auriel, the soul of his soul. Auriel bled through the Aurbis as a new force, called time. With time, various aspects of the Aurbis began to understand their natures and limitations. They took names, like Magnus or Mara or Xen. One of these, Lorkhan, was more of a limit than a nature, so he could never last long anywhere.
"As he entered every aspect of Anuiel, Lorkhan would plant an idea that was almost wholly based on limitation. He outlined a plan to create a soul for the Aurbis, a place where the aspects of aspects might even be allowed to self-reflect. He gained many followers; even Auriel, when told he would become the king of the new world, agreed to help Lorkhan. So they created the Mundus, where their own aspects might live, and became the et'Ada.
"But this was a trick. As Lorkhan knew, this world contained more limitations than not and was therefore hardly a thing of Anu at all. Mundus was the House of Sithis. As their aspects began to die off, many of the et'Ada vanished completely. Some escaped, like Magnus, and that is why there are no limitations to magic. Others, like Y'ffre, transformed themselves into the Ehlnofey, the Earthbones, so that the whole world might not die. Some had to marry and make children just to last. Each generation was weaker than the last, and soon there were Aldmer. Darkness caved in. Lorkhan made armies out of the weakest souls and named them Men, and they brought Sithis into every quarter.
"Auriel pleaded with Anu to take them back, but he had already filled their places with something else. But his soul was gentler and granted Auriel his Bow and Shield, so that he might save the Aldmer from the hordes of Men. Some had already fallen, like the Chimer, who listened to tainted et'Ada, and others, like the Bosmer, had soiled Time's line by taking Mannish wives.
"Auriel could not save Altmora, the Elder Wood, and it was lost to Men. They were chased south and east to Old Ehlnofey, and Lorkhan was close behind. He shattered that land into many. Finally Trinimac, Auriel's greatest knight, knocked Lorkhan down in front of his army and reached in with more than hands to take his Heart. He was undone. The Men dragged Lorkhan's body away and swore blood vengeance on the heirs of Auriel for all time.
"But when Trinimac and Auriel tried to destroy the Heart of Lorkhan it laughed at them. It said, "This Heart is the heart of the world, for one was made to satisfy the other." So Auriel fastened the thing to an arrow and let it fly long into the sea, where no aspect of the new world may ever find it.""
Upon emerging from the shadows, Cura found herself in the Ossuary. The chamber was modest, with arched ceilings and towering piles of bones that nearly touched them in places. In the dim light, these mounds of bones took on the appearance of a macabre treasure horde. Amidst the death lay braziers, cages, and coffins, poking out between the innumerable skeletons. Bones and shadows filled Cura's vision in every direction. The sight was somber and disheartening, particularly with the realization that each skeleton represented a former living being, complete with flesh, blood, hopes, and dreams. Now, she walked among their desolate final resting places in Coldharbour.
She closed her eyes and wept for these lost souls as she tread the shadows. A deep sadness pushed her forward rather than the fear that which consumed her allies.
Sabrina stood beside Sir Amiel and peered into the darkness ahead. She was deeply shaken, and grabbed his hand on instinct. "By the Nine - it's there. In the middle of the room!" her pink eyes peered through the shadows, calculating, separating them.
Sir Amiel scoffed. "You have the eyes of a Khajiit, lass. I can see nothing in this blackness."
Cura looked at Carcette, who was at her side. "It appears we've found the largest part of the Cemetery, Keeper. I've never seen anything like this in Skyrim before... not even Hjerim compared."
Carcette nodded. She focused her single eye upon the shadows. "Sithis' power is strong here. I think perhaps now would be a good time to wear that ring you discovered." she gestured towards Cura's satchel, gaining her attention.
Savos Aren scoffed and shook his head at Carcette. "I was about to suggest that very thing. Perhaps it will shed some light on this darkness, as well."
Carcette smirked and nodded at Savos, aware that she was about to interrupt him and confident in what she would say. This knowledge almost gave her a sense of superiority, the thrill of anticipating exactly how events would unfold. It was exhilarating. If an eternity with Jyggalag promised this sensation of near-omniscience, maybe it wasn't so dreadful after all.
Cura obliged, placing the Sithis' Eye Ring on her Dwarven Hand's index finger. As soon as the band slipped on it seemed to adjust to the form of her metallic appendage and a figure began to manifest before her, at the center of the underground mausoleum.
It was the familiar figure which guided her to Coldharbour; the skeletal mass of bodies with five skulls and five voices speaking at once, with elongated, massive skeletal arms and covered in a black shroud of smoke.
Sabrina took to behind Sir Amiel when the figure was exposed, recognizing them for what they were: the Black Hand. The true Black Hand.
Cura waved to her allies, requesting they keep a respectable distance, for their own sakes. She sheathed her mace, showing the entity that she meant no harm. "I... I wish to speak with you."
"Ah, even burnt you are still the same. This explains why my voice could not reach you." The blackened entity spoke, its voice a blend of five children's, shrouded and distorted by the void itself. Its tone revealed its surprise at encountering Cura once more. However, it did not appear to be troubled or angry at the fact. Quite the opposite, actually; it appeared to be happy.
They were children, Cura. Children, slaughtered by their mother in honour of their father. Remember that, and be kind. The Vigilant reminded herself.
The entity continued to speak, its voice pounding grated nails into the ears of all who were present. "I am the Black Hand, the unwanted child of the endless Void..." Their voice was dripping with hurt as it said that so matter-of-factly.
Cura nodded slowly. "I'm sorry to hear that. No child should endure what the five of you have in life." Her kindness hung in the air; the entity stared blankly at her, as if unable to understand it. However, they did not object to it either.
It was strange, given how horrific and evil this amalgam entity looked, that it seemed kind. And even a tad playful. Though, perhaps it was because at the end of the day, they were five children.
"Father Sithis is with us. Now, what do you wish from me?"
Sabrina felt a chill rise up her spine as if the shadows were a hand walking up from her lower abdomen towards her neck. A creepy, crawling feeling consumed her. Thankfully, her face was obscured, otherwise it would see her terror. She clung to Sir Amiel's right arm tightly, and the Knight looked upon her reaction and placed a hand on the pommel of his sword.
"That creature sounds menacing. I suppose about now, I am glad to not be able to see it." Sir Ralvas declared openly.
Carcette felt a chill in the air. "Brr! Cura, let's not linger here for longer than we must."
Cura cleared her throat. There were so many burning questions she had. "What can you tell me about Molag Bal?" she wanted to know that, at least.
The creature's voice was filled with disgust. "He who rules this place is weak, wicked, ugly. The furthest thing from Shezarr. A pitiful creature."
Mirabelle Ervine shuddered as it spoke. She turned to Savos. Neither of them were anticipating to find that Sithis and his children held Molag Bal in such disdain. She spoke to Cura. "It would appear that you and Sithis share a common opinion." She rubbed her arms as the coolness brought with it discomfort.
The others who stood nearby too were enveloped in the cold air. They were all anxious, and Sir Torolf was shivering. "Goodness... and to think I would have faced that alone..." he muttered to himself.
Varla stood close to Mary, Maram, Aria, Gloriel and Bourlor. Korn stood before them, sitting upright, unthreatened, which was a silver lining. If Mara was unafraid, t least the Black Hand seemed amicable, all things considered.
Cura, however, was unaffected by the cold. Perhaps it was due to the Ring. Her mind was racing with unanswered questions. "The... the Stone. The Red Stone. What can you tell me about it?" she figured that perhaps, being ethereal beings, they would know more about it. She knew that Mara could cleanse it, and that it burned people and condemned them, but that was about it.
"Our forgotten sibling, caught between dreams and Oblivion, a fool who only knows blind hunger. Lifeless since birth. A stillborn king, only mimicking divinity, plunging the world of mortals into chaos." the Black Hand responded frankly, their voice dripping with disdain for it. The Black Hand turned to look at Mary and Korn. "The Red Stone fears the essence of Life, of Love, of Nir."
Sensing the moment, Carcette took a step forward, fulfilling what Jyggalag said would happen once she began to travel with Cura again, in accordance with the Lifebook of Cura. "Who is Laza?" she asked, curious about the one who had also served the Gray Daedra.
"The shepherd deceived by the Owl? A blind fool lacking sense." the Black Hand responded. "He does not understand that the more one strives for something, the further one gets away from it."
Carcette nodded slowly, ruminating on what she knew of Laza. Satisfied with having fulfilled her part for this moment, she took a couple of steps back, and bewildered all around her with her knowing posture. She knew far more than any of them, given what she'd learned from Jyggalag, but she had to take care not to reveal too much. It was a delicate balance that needed to be struck, but all was for the sake of Order.
Perhaps she was more akin to Jyggalag than she thought. She wondered that if and when she found herself in his Library eternally, the Daedric Prince would grant her a new eye, simply for the sake of evenness in her face. Surely a single eye was unsightly.
Cura exhaled through her nose and clasped her hands together over her abdomen. She looked at her feet on the dusty floor, and then she turned her gaze back up to the Black Hand. "What can you tell me about Shezarr?"
Her question hung in the air for a few moments, but the Black Hand answered with an air of mystery. "An absurd hero, a mortal who has reached divinity, a walking Tower? No role or name can bind him, and the world bows to his will. In this lies the will of our father..."
Cura asked next, "And what of his relation to Akatosh? And... what is the will of your father?"
The Black Hand glared into Cura's eyes. "Shezarr is the uncontainable that which is contained. Shezarr is to Lorkhan that is to Shor that is to Sithis that is to Akatosh that is to Auri-El that is to Anui-El that is to Anu." It lifted its large, skeletal hand and gently poked Cura's chest, where her heart resides.
Savos Aren scratched his head. "Even for myself, that answer was quite obtuse."
Mirabelle placed her index finger over her mouth as she tried to ponder upon it, herself. "It seems like something the Psijics would understand greater."
Cura touched her chest on the place where the dark entity poked. "So... are you... saying that they are one entity?"
"One entity; many entities; all; nothing. Here, there, everywhere, nowhere. Molag Bal envies Shezarr... Stendarr serves Shezarr... Nir has loved Shezarr and mourns his loss... Kyne has loved Shezarr..." The Black Hand spoke again in riddles.
Varla grew impatient and barked at the entity. "Make some sense, why don't you?"
"Senseless is the one who hears and understands not." the Black Hand responded in kind.
Mary stepped forward with Korn at her side, and Maram, Aria and Varla tried to stop her, but by the time their attention drifted back to her she was already beside Cura, facing the Black Hand. The Priestess in green spoke to the dark entity. "I have destroyed a piece of Bal already. His defeat is eminent; Cura intends to destroy the Daedric Prince. If you intend to help us, I will warn you that Coldharbour will soon fall. It would serve you best to return to the true Void." Beside her, Korn barked a couple of times, as if to emphasize her warning.
The Black Hand stared at her a few times, its expression a row of blank skulls, as usual. They spoke in unison. "An aspect of Nir's remnant stands before us... to warn us of danger. We will take heed of this."
Cura stole a glance at Mary, and her own confidence grew. She had the support of Mara. And Stendarr, and Kynareth, and of course, Akatosh. What did she have to fear? Clearing her throat, Cura remembered her true purpose in coming here. "We seek entry to the Eastern Islands. Can you grant us a bridge there?"
The Black Hand paused for a few moments, silent. "We can."
The room became uncomfortably silent after those two words were uttered. They simply hung in the air above everyone, drawing out anticipation and discomfort amidst the inner sepulchre.
Cura knew that there had to be more to it. They were just waiting for her to ask. When she looked to Carcette, her mentor simply gave her a tilted nod, gesturing for her to ask the obvious, and she walked over to Sabrina and Sir Amiel.
Cura relented. "What's the catch?"
The Black Hand slowly raised its skeletal left hand and pointed a long, bony finger at Sabrina.
"Oh, damn it! I knew it!" Sabrina cried out as she grabbed Sir Amiel even tighter.
"Your ally has become the enemy of our father Sithis. He requires her to either perish, or defeat him." the Black Hand explained, their voice darkening with each word. A distorted cacophony of nightmares that pierced the souls of all who heard it.
Cura spun around. "Sabrina?"
The Pailune Healer swallowed hard and released Sir Amiel. She walked around him to face the Black Hand and Cura. "Yes, yes. I guess I owe you an explanation, huh?"
Cura folded her arms and furrowed her brows. "I'd say that you do. What is the meaning of this? What have you done that you refused to tell us again?"
Sir Amiel cleared his throat. "Actually, my lady, she has told me."
"Look; we're all entitled to our privacy, right?" Sabrina appealed to Cura's rationality. "It was my previous life, long before I came here. Before I became an official apothecary. The first half of my life, I was an assassin in the Dark Brotherhood."
Cura's eyes flashed with the memory of Astrid in the abandoned shack with the three hostages that one time. As well as the assassins which tried to hunt her down because Olfrid Battle-Born performed the Black Sacrament against her. There was no way... Astrid assured her they were not going to come for her again. Could Sabrina...
No. Cura shook the thought off. She would hear her out.
"The Brotherhood is bound by Five Tenets. The First is: Never dishonor the Night Mother. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis. The Second is: Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or its secrets. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis. (Which I suppose I'm doing right now. Ah, who cares at this point?) The Third is: Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis. (Also the thing that got me in trouble to begin with.) The Fourth is: Never steal the possessions of a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis. And the Fifth is: Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis." As she finished, Sabrina nearly sung it out mockingly. It was a bitter memory. "Honestly, I'm surprised there isn't a Sixth tenet: breathing will invoke the Wrath of Sithis."
"Why did you leave?" Cura asked.
"A murder against an innocent family wasn't my cup of tea." Sabrina admitted. "I got cold feet and ran away. I shirked my duty and started a new life elsewhere. The Wrath of Sithis came for me, I escaped him, a Bard offered me a Red Stone..."
"A Bard?" Cura inquired. It sounded awfully familiar. Bal. The Altmer Bard - or Ayleid Bard who she'd encountered as the common piece of the collective puzzle of misery in the stories of the prisoners here in Coldharbour.
Sabrina was innocent; not of being an assassin, but she was indeed not sent to kill Cura. Thank goodness. One less thing to worry about.
"Yes, a Bard! Did I stutter? Gods." Sabrina snapped back angrily. She was under a lot of stress, and her knees were shaking. Try as she might to stall them, but they would not be at peace.
Cura looked at Sabrina, paying attention to the hostile fear in her, and looked upon the dark entity before them. "Very well. May I champion her instead?" she looked at the Black Hand when she asked this, to the shock of her allies.
"You mean to fight Sithis? Are you mad?!" Mirabelle shouted at her former student.
Carcette smirked. "Once Cura sets her mind to something, there is no dissuading her."
Sabrina grabbed her mask and peeled it off her face, showing Cura her frightful expression. Her pink eyes flashed with anxiety. "No! No, Cura - I won't let you die for my sake." She shook her head vehemently and a visible sadness came upon her, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "You're my friend now... first one I've had in, well, ages. And b-besides. This is my fight. I should do what I should have done to begin with! If I die here, I deserve it. You need to get the others outta this dung dimension." The white-haired Redguard placed a firm hand on Cura's shoulder and looked into her eyes.
Sir Amiel reached out to her. "Sabrina, wait - you do not have to do this. If the Black Hand will not aid us, surely there will be another way."
Sabrina shook her head. "Shut up, Amiel. This is my moment." She remarked snarkily and turned back to face the Black Hand. She glanced over at Mary, who approached her and placed a hand on her forehead.
"You will be all right, Sabrina. Trust in the gods." Mary stated as she removed her hand and stepped back to join Varla, Maram and Aria with Korn at her side.
"Sabrina!" Sir Amiel shouted at the stubborn Redguard.
Sabrina looked at Cura and gestured towards the door. "Get lost, Cura. I've got this."
Cura scoffed at her blunt choice of words, but retained her stance. "Stendarr be with you, Sabrina. Good luck!" She turned to join the party in the back.
The Black Hand spoke up again. "You offer yourself in exchange for a bridge?"
"Yes." Sabrina steeled her resolve. "Do your worst, Sithis, baby. I'm ready." With her back turned to the group, she placed her Plague Doctor's mask over her face and pulled up her hood, and added her hat on top. "If I'm gonna die here, you're certainly not going to have the satisfaction of seeing the light leave my eyes."
Cura glanced at Carcette, who maintained a stoic expression. Given the knowledge the group was aware she possessed, any slight movement of her facial muscles could propel Cura into the fray or reveal the outcome of the fight.
The Black Hand lifted its heads towards the ceiling, unleashing a piercing shriek. The sound reverberated throughout the Ossuary, causing bones to tumble from their stacks and crumble. From the room's center, a black hole emerged, suspended in the air above the Black Hand.
"Here he comes..." Sabrina muttered anxiously as she reached for a pair of daggers. She resigned herself to this grisly fate, at last. She glanced over her shoulder at Cura and the others. If I'm going to die here, at least you guys get to escape Coldharbour. You deserve to be free. She thought to herself. She surveyed her surroundings: the ossuary's confines demanded a strategy of agility and precise footwork. The rogue could not rely on wide, sweeping attacks; instead, she had to employ quick thrusts and nimble dodges. The ossuary's oppressive atmosphere weighed heavily upon her, each breath a reminder of the thin line between life and the eternal silence that surrounds her. The walls, adorned with the skulls of the forgotten, seemed to watch with hollow eyes, their silent judgment adding to the psychological warfare she had to endure.
From the black emerged a ghastly figure, resembling an old man in wraith form with a long, shredded violet cloak and a crown on his head. In his right hand he held a long, bonelike dagger; the Dagger of Discipline, as it was known to those unfortunate enough to face this fiend.
"The Wrath of Sithis." Sabrina exclaimed once the entity passed through. As soon as it laid eyes on her, it shrieked with furious scorn and immediately flew towards her, prompting her to vault over to the right to dodge its jab. She slid a couple of femur bones away and locked eyes with her adversary. The warith seemed to pause, as though it were expecting to be rid of her on that first strike. It hovered there, staring at her.
Sabrina's reaction to the wraith's ghastly visage was a complex tapestry of fear, awe, and unyielding determination. The sight of the Wrath of Sithis, a being that defied the natural order, sent a shiver down her spine, a primal alarm that screamed of danger and death. Her eyes, wide with a mix of horror and fascination, took in the spectral form that seemed to both exist and not exist, a paradox that challenged her understanding of reality.
Everything she'd ever done in her life brought her here, to this very moment. She escaped it once, but no more. He was here now, right across from her, a kite of destruction, soaring overhead, casting shadows upon the ground.
Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld the wraith's dagger, a weapon that seemed to hunger for her life force, its edge a promise of oblivion. The cold that emanated from the wraith seeped into her bones, a chill that spoke of the void from which the creature had been summoned. Yet, amidst the fear, a spark of defiance ignited within her, a refusal to be cowed by the manifestation of her darkest nightmares.
Sabrina studied the Wrath of Sithis, its form a chilling distortion in the air, dagger gleaming with a spectral light. Each breath Sabrina took was a gasp of defiance, her heart a drumbeat echoing off the ancient bones that lined the walls. The wraith was relentless, a relentless force of vengeance summoned from the dark beyond, and with each clash of steel against ethereal form, Sabrina felt the weight of her own mortality.
The air was thick with the dust of ages and the cold that seeped from the wraith seemed to claw at her very soul. Sabrina's mind was a whirlwind of fear and resolve, memories of her past deeds flashing before her eyes, fueling her determination not to become another lost spirit in this macabre vault. The wraith's dagger, an extension of its vengeful will, struck with precision that belied its ghostly form, and Sabrina knew that one misstep could mean her end.
The Wrath of Sithis, found the ossuary a natural extension of its spectral domain. It moved with a disquieting ease among the bones, its ethereal form slipping through the smallest of gaps. The ossuary amplified its terrifying presence, the echoes of its silent movements bounced off the stone walls in sharp whispers, creating an auditory illusion of omnipresence. The wraith used the ossuary's grim decor to its advantage, blending with the shadows cast by the flickering torchlight, becoming one with the death that permeated the place.
With every dodge and weave, Sabrina's turmoil grew; the line between survival and defeat was as thin as the blade that sought her life. Her thoughts raced – thoughts of friends, of promises made, of the warm sun on her skin, all things the wraith could never experience. The fight was more than physical; it was a battle of existence against oblivion, every strike a question of her worthiness to continue living.
Sabrina's hands tightened around her own weapons, the familiar feel of the hilts grounding her in the present moment. Her training as an assassin had prepared her for many things, but nothing could have truly readied her for the confrontation with an entity that belonged to legend and whispers in the dark. The wraith's eyes, devoid of soul or warmth, seemed to peer into her very being, and for a fleeting moment, Sabrina felt as if she was being weighed and measured by an unfathomable judge.
The Wrath of Sithis was a creature of duty, its actions dictated by the ancient rites that had summoned it forth. It was an echo of a past so distant, so steeped in darkness, that its very existence was a mystery to the living. The wraith's reaction to Sabrina's defiance was a reflection of its singular purpose—to deliver the cold embrace of death to those marked by its master's will.
The ossuary, a chamber of death, seemed to resonate with the wraith's silent scream, a soundless symphony that threatened to shatter Sabrina's resolve. Yet, she fought on, her blades dancing with desperate grace, her spirit refusing to succumb to the terror that gripped her. The Wrath of Sithis was a relentless adversary, but Sabrina's will was forged in the fires of life's trials, tempered in the heartache and joy that the Dreadfather could never comprehend.
Her mind raced, thoughts tumbling over one another in a desperate search for a strategy, a weakness to exploit. The wraith's cloak, a tattered remnant of its cursed existence, billowed as if caught in a tempest unseen by mortal eyes. Sabrina wondered if the fabric, so closely tied to the wraith's form, could be a key to its undoing.
As the battle raged, the very air around them seemed to shiver with the intensity of their conflict, the ancient bones bearing witness to a struggle as old as time itself - the fight to remain amongst the living. Sabrina's inner turmoil was a tempest, each moment of fear countered by a surge of courage, each flicker of doubt met with a renewed pledge to survive. Sabrina's resolve was clear - she would fight until her last breath, her last drop of blood, for the chance to see another dawn.
As the fight wore on, the wraith's attacks became more fervent, its form a maelstrom of vengeful energy. The dagger it wielded was a sliver of the night sky, a shard of darkness seeking to pierce the light of Sabrina's soul. The Redguard's defiance, her courage in the face of such otherworldly terror, was a powerful melody that clashed with the wraith's silent dirge.
The wraith flitted through the air, darting like a stinging wasp, and Sabrina danced in kind, lowering herself beneath its strike and pivoting to her right. With swift grace, she dug her two daggers down into its cloak and pulled, tugging the wraith and causing it to fall backwards.
"Come on, Sabrina! You've got this!" Cura cheered her ally on from the sidelines, and the other party members began to rally behind their Rogue friend as well. Even Varla, much to their shock, spurred her onwards.
Hearing the exclamation of her peers emboldened the Redguard. Her fears from before drained away as the waters of courage filled her inner basin. A smirk formed on her lips, unseen by the world, but prevalent just the same.
The Wrath of Sithis moved with an otherworldly grace that was as mesmerizing as it was terrifying. Its movements were not bound by the laws of physics that govern our mortal realm; it glided through the ossuary with a silence that was louder than any footfall. The wraith's form seemed to flicker in and out of existence, a shadowy figure that danced on the edge of reality, its edges blurring and sharpening in a constant, unsettling rhythm.
The wraith's attacks were a horrifying ballet of death, each strike choreographed with a spectral fluidity that made it nearly impossible to predict. It lunged and parried with a speed that seemed to defy time itself, its form shimmering with each movement as if it were a mirage conjured by the darkest sorcery. The air around the wraith crackled with the power of the void from which it was born, the space it occupied seeming to warp and weep at its presence.
Sabrina was struck in her right side by its dagger, as her cockiness had gotten the better of her. She stumbled over backwards to escape a second strike, but it came though her, like a nail to a coffin lid. Sabrina was impaled through the right shoulder and then pushed backwards into a bone pile. Bones flew through the air on impact like a splash of water.
She was trapped against the wall and the wraith poised itself for a final strike, aimed for her heart. Sabrina held herself up against the wall in attempt to catch her breath.
Cura nearly jolted to her side, but Carcette pulled her back by the shoulder and shook her head. "Don't interfere, Cura. She is doing this for your cause."
"But... I don't want her to be killed!" Cura exclaimed in horror. The others saw Sabrina being thrust around by the Wraith, but in Cura's mind's eye, she saw Lydia near the Shrine of Talos in Markarth, and the City Guard impaling her through the chest.
Sir Amiel drew his sword, and was ready to join the fight, when Sir Torolf pulled him back. "Unhand me, Torolf! She's going to die there!"
"No, Sir Amiel! If you get involved, the bargain will be forfeit!" Sir Torolf reminded him, causing him to hesitate. He looked back to the headless Sir Ralvas and remembered what their mission was. He reluctantly sheathed his sword.
Sabrina's breaths came in ragged gasps, her body pushed to its limits against the relentless Wrath of Sithis. As soon as it struck, dashing through the aether, she slid underneath the pile of bones, dodging the fatal stab; its dagger a mere whisper away from claiming her life. She crawled on her stomach underneath the sea of death as the wraith began to search for her.
She emerged, her daggers poised to impale the spirit's back. It sensed her presence and shifted away, causing her to miss. The air crackled with spectral energy, the stench of death overwhelming as the wraith's blade sliced through the air, grazing Sabrina's flesh from her torn sleeve. A searing pain erupted where the dagger kissed her skin, and for a moment, the world blurred into a miasma of shadows and despair.
Sabrina's vision dimmed, the edges of her consciousness fraying as the wraith loomed over her, its hollow eyes pits of merciless intent. The Redguard's blood, a vibrant contrast to the pale bones surrounding her, seeped into the cracks of the ancient floor, a testament to the wraith's deadly precision. The ossuary, a silent witness to countless deaths, seemed to hold its breath, the very air still with anticipation of the rogue's demise.
Sabrina's back hit the floor and her head turned to the side, where she saw the panic of her allies. She was finished; one more strike, and Sithis would have his revenge.
But within Sabrina, a fire still burned - a defiant spark that refused to be extinguished. Her adventure was not over yet. Not when Nirn was this close to her grasp. With a grit born of desperation, she rolled away from the wraith's next strike, the blade hitting the stone floor where she had lain a heartbeat before. Her movements, fueled by survival instinct, were a blur as she navigated the ossuary's treacherous terrain, her mind working furiously to turn the tide of the battle.
Sabrina's pink eyes, now clear with the adrenaline of near-death, locked onto the wraith's form. She saw, not a creature of darkness, but a puzzle to be solved, a challenge to be overcome. Sabrina's blades, extensions of her will, danced in her hands, their edges catching the dim light as she formulated her plan. The wraith, sensing its victory slipping away, advanced with renewed ferocity, its dagger a beacon of death in the gloom.
Sabrina feinted left, drawing the wraith's attention, then pivoted, her blade arcing towards the wraith's cloak again, observing where her first attempt had struck. The fabric, a tapestry of sorrow and darkness, tore under her assault, a scream of ancient fabric rending the silence. The wraith recoiled, its form flickering, the connection to its cloak momentarily severed.
Seizing the moment, Sabrina lunged forward, her blade finding the heart of the wraith's form. A howl, silent yet deafening, filled the ossuary as the Wrath of Sithis writhed, its form disintegrating under her relentless attack. The air grew heavy, the shadows deepening as the wraith's essence began to unravel, the threads of its being coming undone.
With a final, desperate effort, Sabrina dropped her second dagger and pressed the palm of her hand against the pommel, driving her blade deeper into the wraith's core, the epicenter of its spectral energy. A shockwave of ethereal force erupted, sending a cascade of bones tumbling from the walls, the ossuary shaking to its foundations. The wraith's form shattered, a thousand whispers of darkness scattering into the void.
Sabrina stood alone amidst the carnage, her chest heaving, her blade now still, her body covered in wounds. The Wrath of Sithis was no more, its reign of terror ended by Sabrina's cunning and courage. Her knees wobbled and she dropped to the floor.
The group hurried to their ally's side, and Cura began to cast a Healing Spell over her injuries.
"You did it! You actually did it! By the Nine, I don't know what to say!" Sir Amiel exclaimed his shock.
"How about, 'Gosh, Sabrina: sorry my stupid head didn't trust you to win.'" Sabrina suggested as she winced through the pain.
Sir Amiel snorted. "Pssh. You were the one who fled the specter in the first place."
Varla nodded with approval. "I'll admit; I'm impressed. I was fully expecting to see your head roll across the floor."
"I'll bet you're disappointed, huh, Mama's-Boy?" Sabrina teased him as her body felt the soothing warmth of Stendarr and Mara's light.
Varla grit his teeth. "Shut up with that. It's not endearing, and it's not funny."
"Maybe not, but your reaction is." the rogue retorted, much to his chagrin.
Cura finished mending her injuries. "All right, you two; that's enough. We have important matters at hand." She helped her ally up to her feet. "I'm relieved that you're okay, Sabrina. I promised I would get all of you out of here, and I intend to keep that promise." she swept over the group with her face as she spoke, addressing them in their entirety.
The Black Hand reemerged from the shadows, and it slowly clapped it large hands together. "Well done; you have bested the Wrath of Sithis. As promised, we will create for you the bridge to take you to the Eastern Islands."
Cura nodded gratuitously to the dark entity. "Thank you."
A rumble began to shake the lands; over the eastern waters a violet and red light raised from the putrid water's depths and began to harden itself into a long, extensive platform, connecting the mainland to the Prison Island to east, which had a bridge leading to the large outer island with Castle Volkihar upon it. The waters had shifted out of place to make room for this bridge, and they slowly fell back into place once it had settled.
The group left the Ossuary and the Chapel of Arkay, and reentered the cemetery proper.
"Do you think we could take a moment to rest before we go rushing into battle?" Sabrina requested. "I just need... a few minutes. Or an hour. I mean, we have all of eternity, so..."
The other party members agreed. Mirabelle chiefly among them. "Vampires could be the least of our worries on those archipelagos. I think it would be a good idea to engage them at full strength. Besides, all this constant travelling from one place to another has made me weary, as well."
Cura turned to Carcette for her input, and the former Keeper agreed, as well. "Yes; it is a good idea. It's calm in here, so we'll be all right. And besides, didn't you want to send that dog to the Priory?"
"Right!" Cura snapped to memory. She hurried off to the bench area where the dog was, but he appeared to have vanished on his own. "Al?" Cura looked around, and saw a familiar sight; Martha. The woman in the brown hooded robes was meandering about the cemetery on the opposite side to her, and Cura's eyes widened.
Johan, Simon and Tlass. Right.
She hurried over to the blind woman. "Martha! Excuse me!" she pointlessly waved at her as she flagged her down.
The vagrant woman turned herself in the direction of Cura's familiar voice. "Oh! Hello! I recognize that voice! You're that newcomer I met near the Waterfront District, right?" she inquired.
"I am," Cura reassured her. "though I'd figure I'm less recognizable in present time." she chuckled lightly.
"You may have changed, but your voice is ever the same." Martha assured her. "How have you been? I... well... I kind of know what you have been up to. It was you who cleared the path through this realm, yes? The wilds are oddly silent."
Cura softly approached the maiden and took her hands. "I'm so sorry about what happened to you, Martha. What Molag Bal did wasn't right. I know he turned you into a vampire to manipulate your brother into killing for your sake."
Martha froze up. "I... I remember that. How did you learn of such a thing?"
Cura began to slowly guide her through the cemetery, careful where she helped the blind woman step. "I found their graves. The three you mentioned. Simon, Johan, and Tlass."
"Oh, thank you so much. I can finally meet my family again." Martha sighed with sweet relief as Cura guided her along the pathway.
As Cura guided her to the three wooden crosses, Martha knew. A look of peace came to her face. She fell to her knees before the three crosses and lowered her head. A few moments passed and she began to pulse with white light. She smiled up at Cura. "Thanks to you I was able to see my family again. I can't thank you enough." She clasped her hands together. "I wish you all the best in your endeavours, newcomer."
"My name is Cura." the Dragonborn informed her softly.
"Cura. Yes..." Martha seemed to savour her name, in its peaceful, hopeful implications. "What you're doing for all of those people," she tilted her head in the direction of Cura's allies who were chatting loudly amongst themselves and laying about on the opposite side. "it's a good thing. I hope you can leave Coldharbour and help Tamriel."
Cura inquired, "What will you do now?" She looked down at the woman as she rediscovered peace at last. The best Cura could do for her was offer her the chance to return to the hectic world of Nirn. Perhaps it was undesirable to her, all things considered.
Korn came slowly walking over to Cura's side from the other half of the cemetery. Mara's wolf seemed to sense the presence of a wayward soul and came to their side, parking beside Martha. The white wolf watched her silently as she sat upright beside her.
Martha touched the center cross, and held her Amulet of Mara in her other hand. "I think I'll stay here for a while. I just want to indulge in the nostalgia for a while longer."
Cura nodded, seeing the faint glow around the woman. This was the last time they were going to meet. "I understand. Take care of yourself, Martha. Mara is with you." She took a seat on the nearby bench and watched as Martha slowly lay down on the plot before the three graves. When the light enveloped her, her body dissolved to ash and all that remained was a skeleton in hooded brown robes. Korn howled three times and walked back over to Cura, and sat at her side. The wolf looked up at the half-elf.
As Martha's body dissolved, a patch of white flowers began to blossom, to Cura's great surprise. A lone patch of life in the middle of the desolate wasteland. She shifted upright, and with Korn, approached the flower patch. "Flowers? In Coldharbour?" She turned to look at Korn, who emitted a squeaking sound from her throat.
Cura perched beneath the cavern's vast ceiling, her gaze lifted skyward as a soft wind swept through, refreshing the stillness. Lowering her hood, she relished the tender breeze, watching as white petals danced upwards, their ascent heralding a hopeful close to the drawn-out funeral. After some moments passed, she pet Korn's head and slowly began to stand.
So much death. Cura had seen so much death in her life. But this one, however, was by far the gentlest one. She tread over to the patch of flowers and knelt down to pluck one from the soil. They had a mystical glow about them, and she could not quite describe it.
Carcette stood nearby, having slipped in unseen, and watched Cura from her position, leaning against a railing. "I'm proud of you, Cura. You have a tender heart; never allow it to be stolen from you."
Cura was startled by her sudden words and spun around. "Keeper!"
Carcette slowly left the railing and embraced Cura, now that a time of peace was upon them. Cura leaned into the hug and gripped the flower's stem tightly as she buried her face into her shoulder. "I... I won't. Or, I'll try not to. I promise."
The gentle breeze continued to carry the flowers' white petals through the air with a sanctifying grace throughout the cemetery. Peace; such a short-lived, and very sought-after commodity on Nirn and beyond.
