"The One That Got Away
In the annals of Aetherius, the home of the Aedra, there lies the tale of Kahkaankrein, the Dragon whose scales shimmered like the sun's own light, a creature of such splendor that even the heavens paused to admire. Kyne, in her boundless gardens where white flowers bloomed eternal, found her pride in the majestic beast, for he was the sun that lit her skies, the warmth that coaxed the petals to unfurl. The Aedra smiled upon him, their favor a cloak that gilded his every motion.
Yet, as the epochs turned, so too did the heart of Kahkaankrein. From the eyrie of Kyne, amidst the chorus of her winged kin, he gazed beyond the horizon, where the unknown called to his spirit. It was not malice that drew him away, but a yearning for the secrets that lay veiled beneath the stars. And so, he ventured forth, his departure a silent elegy that echoed through the blossoming gardens.
The annals speak of his journeys through the realms of Nirn, his shadow passing over lands untouched by divine hands. In his wake, legends were born—tales of a dragon whose roar was the wind, whose eyes held the glow of twilight. Yet, as centuries waned, so did the whispers of Kahkaankrein. His presence, once a beacon of the Aedra's grace, faded into the echoes of myth, a memory ensnared in the mists of time.
No script nor song held the truth of his end. Did he find the secrets he sought, or did the darkness beyond the stars claim him? The gardens of Kyne grew silent, her white flowers mourning the absence of their sun. The Aedra's smiles dimmed, for the pride of Kyne had vanished, his tale a lingering question that danced upon the lips of the winds.
Thus, Kahkaankrein passed into legend, his story a tapestry woven from the threads of what once was and what might have been. As in the ever-tumultuous fabrics of the Elder Scrolls hum of echoing worlds, as the Song of Pelinal sings of heroes lost, so too does the tale of Kahkaankrein resonate—a dragon, the Pride of Kyne, whose light once graced the skies, now a mystery that slumbers in the pockets of history."
Cura and her allies disembarked from the back of Durnehviir on the ruinous paved roads outside the First Inquisition Court's entrance. The building was a wreckage; an eyesore, towering high above the others as if it had something to prove to the world. Cura rolled her eyes as she looked upon the Alessian Banners flanking either side of the door, covering the patchwork of crumbling stone behind them.
Varla cleared his throat. "This is the First Inquisition Court. Many people were sentenced to death here, beyond these walls." He looked at Mary and Korn briefly, and then shifted his glance back to the dilapidated authoritarian structure before them. "They called it justice. I've come to slowly second-guess most of their condemnations."
Gloriel stepped closer to Varla, and looked upon the austere building before her. "The Alessian Order were pawns of Molag Bal. They took all that was sacred and twisted it to suit their own ends."
Bourlor ran his index finger and his thumb along the length of his bowstring. "I must say that I'm quite glad to not have crossed them."
Cura turned to Carcette. "In a way, I've come to the conclusion, that the Alessian Order are like the Vigil of Stendarr, though much, much worse. And deceived." She recalled tales that Carcette had told her in her youth of inquiries conducted by the Vigil to apprehend Daedra-worshippers for decades, spurred onwards by the memory of the Oblivion Crisis, justified by the Remnants of the Mythic Dawn's actions of late.
However, Cura was always open-minded enough to realize that not all Daedric Princes were Molag Bal, Mehrunes Dagon, Hircine, Mephala or Boethiah. She stood amidst the mockery of the Imperial City in Coldharbour, her gaze hardened by the battles she had endured. As the Dragonborn, she bore the Greater soul of a Dragon and the heart of a mortal, a duality that often left her torn between the ferocity of her will and the compassion of her humanity.
The Alessian Order, with its brutal dogma, had long been a thorn in her side from entry into this realm, their radical decrees clashing violently with the more tempered teachings of the Vigil of Stendarr. She recalled the countless skirmishes against the Alessians, their zealous eyes reflecting a fervor she found both pitiable and terrifying.
The Order's ruthless pursuit of power through the suppression of non-human races was a stark contrast to the Vigil's mission to uphold the balance and protect the innocent. Cura's hands, once steady and sure, now trembled with the weight of lives lost and the sacrifices made. The Alessians sought to dominate through fear and strength, while the Vigilants stood as guardians, their resolve forged in the fires of mercy and justice. In her heart, Cura battled the same war she fought in Coldharbour, a war not just of swords and sorcery, but of ideologies and beliefs.
As a Vigilant of Stendarr, she had sworn to combat the darkness, to stand against the abominations that plagued the lands. Yet, the Alessians had become abominations of another sort, their humanity stripped away by their unyielding quest for purity. Cura's soul ached for the world that lay caught between these two extremes, and she knew her fight was far from over.
The Dragonborn's voice, normally used to summon the power of the Thu'um, now whispered prayers for peace and reconciliation.
The Alessian Order's legacy of bloodshed served as a grim reminder of the perils of unchecked ambition, while the Vigil's unwavering dedication to their cause spoke to the enduring spirit of hope. Cura's journey as both Dragonborn and Vigilant had taught her the importance of balance, of the need to temper strength with kindness, and power with restraint. Her inner turmoil was a reflection of the world's strife, a microcosm of the eternal struggle between oppression and liberation.
In the quiet moments between battles, Cura pondered the path she had chosen, the lives she had touched, and the destiny she had yet to fulfill. The Alessian Order may have fallen, but their ideology lingered like a shadow, a darkness that threatened to rise again in equal measure from men and mer. It was up to her, and those like her, to ensure that the light of Stendarr would shine even in the darkest of times, to keep the vigil and guard the world from the terrors that lurked in the hearts of men. For Vigilant Cura, the battle was not just in Coldharbour, but within the very soul of Nirn itself. She took a few moments of silence to speak to Stendarr, as she often had when monumental changes had come upon her life.
Stendarr, the God of Mercy, was the beacon that guided Cura through the tumultuous sea of her existence. In her life, Stendarr's teachings were not merely doctrines to be recited; they were the very essence of her being, the compass by which she navigated both the physical battles and the moral quandaries she faced. His divine principles of compassion, justice, and righteous rule were the pillars upon which she built her resolve and the source of her strength when doubt and darkness threatened to overwhelm her.
For Cura, Stendarr represented the hope that even in a world riddled with suffering and strife, mercy can still prevail. His influence was a constant reminder that true strength lay not in the might of one's arm, but in the capacity to extend kindness to the downtrodden and to stand firm against the forces of tyranny and oppression. In the face of the Alessian Order's cruelty, it was Stendarr's light that illuminated the path of righteousness for Cura, allowing her to see beyond the immediate horrors and to fight for a future where peace and equity could reign over hatred amd temporal scars.
As a Vigilant of Stendarr, Cura embodied the Aedra's virtues, striving to protect the innocent and to purge the malevolence that plagued Tamriel. Her allegiance to Stendarr was her shield against the corruption that sought to invade her spirit even now, in this realm of the damned, and her service in his name is the mace with which she dents the armour of the lizard. In moments of solitude, it was Stendarr's wisdom that she sought all her life, and in moments of turmoil, it was his sanctuary that offered her refuge.
Stendarr's role in Cura's life was multifaceted; he was her mentor, her protector, and the wellspring of her moral fortitude. His presence a constant within her heart, a flame that never falters, even as she traverses the darkest corners of Coldharbour. In every act of mercy, every judgment passed, and every enemy vanquished, Cura acted as the mortal extension of Stendarr's will, her deeds a testament to his enduring legacy.
The bond between Cura and Stendarr was more than that of a deity and devotee; it ws a profound connection that transcended the boundaries of the mortal plane. In Stendarr, Cura always reliably found the clarity to understand her purpose as the Dragonborn and as a Vigilant. He was her anchor amidst the chaos, the voice of reason in a world gone mad with power, rebellion, misandry, and conquest. Through Stendarr's guidance, Cura learned that even in the heart of darkness, mercy can be a weapon more formidable than the sharpest blade.
In the grand tapestry of her life, Stendarr's influence was the golden thread that weaved through every rational choice, every sacrifice, and every triumph. He was the silent witness to her inner turmoil, the comforting presence when doubt casted its snaking shadow, and the inspiration that drove her to continue her vigilant watch. To Cura, Stendarr is not just a god to be worshipped; he was the embodiment of the ideals she strived to uphold, the promise that even in the bleakest of times, the light of mercy will endure.
She was determined to set things right; to do her part in helping mend the longstanding wounds of Tamriel. And she knew Stendarr would be there behind her, as her driving force. Stendarr, as well as his Aedric kin. They had a vested interest in seeing the world come to prosper. And she would do her best to help it along.
For now, however, Cura had to set her mind on one goal: help the dragon Kahkaankrein, who was bound in chains within the Inquisition Courts. The Pride of Kyne. She approached the door of the First Inquisition Court and pressed her palm against it. "Let's get started." she took up her elven mace in her right hand and pushed forward, entering the hostile territory, dauntless.
As the door creaked open, its shrill cry alerted the roaming undead inhabitants within. Cura fired an Exploding Bolt of Fire from her Dwarven Metal Hand's Crossbow, and blew one of the Alessian Soul-Shriven into pieces, alerting the others in the long hallway.
There, in the shadowed corridors of the First Inquisition Court, a battle of epic proportions unfolded, echoing through the ancient stones with the fury of the ages. Many of the Alessian Paladins took offense to her surprise attack and flooded the main hall from the adjacent rooms. The Dragonborn stood resolute, her eyes ablaze with the fire of her indomitable spirit. With a voice that shattered the silence like thunder, she unleashed the Thu'um, the sacred Dragon Shout, a force so potent that the very walls trembled at its power.
"FUS RO DAH!" a massive thundercrack shook the room as a massive current of whirling air smashed the columns, causing rubble to rain from the ceiling as bodies were flung in all directions, seemingly. Those who had gotten back up were furious at the display, and bones began to reassemble in some corners of the room.
"Strike!" Sabrina said humorously as a row of enemies were knocked down like bowling pins.
Beside her, Sir Amiel's sword danced a deadly ballet, cutting through the darkness and the bones of the undead with equal ease. Sir Torolf, the unyielding, swung his greatsword of Anui-El in wide arcs, each blow singing a song of destruction that was answered by the crumbling of skeletal adversaries. In the midst of the cacophony of clashing steel and the guttural chants of dark incantations, Lord Varla's form was a whirlwind of lethal grace. His twin swords, extensions of his will, moved with such speed and precision that they were naught but silvered blurs to the onlookers. Each stroke was a masterful composition of martial prowess, a symphony of slicing arcs and piercing thrusts that sang a dirge for his foes.
Together, they advanced, a phalanx of valor in a sea of malevolence, their armor gleaming dimly in the witch-light of the court. Cura, with shield raised against the tide of evil, struck with her mace, each impact a tolling bell for the doom of her foes. The Alessian Order officials, corrupt and vile, sought to stem the tide with sorcery and steel, but they were no match for the righteous fury of the Dragonborn and her allies.
The skeletons, remnants of a past best left forgotten, continued to rise at the behest of their dark masters, their clattering bones a macabre symphony accompanying the clash of the battle. Yet, for every one that fell, another seemed to take its place, an endless wave of death seeking to overwhelm the living.
But Cura and her companions were undaunted. They fought not just with the might of arms, but with the strength of their conviction, the certainty that their cause was just. With every shout, Cura tore the veil between the possible and the impossible, her Thu'um shaping reality to her indomitable will.
The battle raged on, neither side yielding, the outcome hanging in the balance like a sword over the world. The air was thick with the dust of ages and the scent of magic, the stones themselves bearing witness to a struggle that would be sung of for generations to come.
The group tore forward, pushing through the first large set of double-doors into a massive circular chamber where more enemies lusted for their blood.
Gloriel, the Valkyrie, was a vision of divine wrath amidst the chaos of battle, her Dawn Spear a beacon of light in the darkened fray. With each graceful thrust and sweep of her celestial weapon, she carved through the ranks of her foes, her movements as fluid as the morning light that inspired her spear's name.
As the forces of darkness surged forward and surrounded them, Mary raised her hands to the unseen heavens, her voice rising above the clamor, invoking the ancient power she was refamiliarizing herself with. The air around her shimmered with divine energy, and those who fought near her felt their spirits lifted, their wounds mending by the sheer force of her light. Korn, ever vigilant, circled the priestess, a guardian whose fangs were as sharp as the blades of the warriors she protected.
With each incantation, Mary summoned forth pillars of holy light that pierced the shadows, banishing the darkness that sought to engulf them. Her chants were a symphony of sanctity, each note a strike against the malevolence that faced them. Korn echoed her resolve with a howl that resonated with the power of the Aedra, cleansing any who dared encroach from the back of the group. The animated skeletons, thralls of the Soul-Shriven Alessian Order, recoiled as the light from Mary's prayers washed over them, their unholy existence anathema to the purity she channeled. Korn moved like a wraith among them, her jaws snapping shut on bone, her growls a dirge for the souls that had been twisted into servitude by the Order's necromancers.
Maram the Slaughterer and Aria the Whisperer stood firm. They held back the horde with maul and rapier, protecting the back of the group. The circular room had left the back vulnerable to attack and the pair of them agreed, with Sabrina, to hold it.
Maram's gaze fixed upon the Alessians and a feeling of nostalgic hatred was rekindled in him. Called Maram the Slaughterer, a titan among warriors, stood as an unyielding bulwark against the relentless tide of the horde. His moniker was earned through countless battles, each victory written in the blood of his foes. With every swing of his massive maul, he cleaved through the ranks of the Alessian Paladins and many Daedric Scamps, his strikes so powerful that the very air seemed to scream in terror. The ground beneath his feet was stained a dark crimson, a testament to the ferocity with which he fought.
Beside him, Aria the Whisperer moved with a contrasting silence, her presence barely a shadow on the battlefield. Yet, her lethality was no less formidable. With her spiderlike rapier that gleamed like shards of the night sky, she danced through the horde, her movements a lethal susurrus. Where Maram was the roar of the tempest, Aria was the silent but deadly calm at its eye, her blade finding the vulnerabilities in their enemies with a surgeon's precision.
Sabrina, known to all as the Pailune Healer, emerged from the mists of battle. Her visage, obscured by the beaked mask that had become her sigil, was a harbinger of doom for those who faced her. Clad in garb as dark as the raven's wing, she moved with a silence that belied the chaos around her, her presence an omen of the plague she wielded as her weapon. With vials and potions strapped across her belt, each a concoction of lethal precision, she weaved through the melee, her hands deftly lobbing death in glass containers into the ranks of the undead.
The vials shattered upon impact, releasing acids that swept through the horde like wildfire. Skeletal warriors, animated by dark sorcery, found their bones brittle and crumbling under the corrosive liquid's touch. The Daedric Necromancers, their incantations disrupted, choked on the very air they breathed, their spells dying on their lips as they dropped.
Carcette, Knight of Order, was a force of unrelenting justice and Order as she stood by the Dragonborn. her warhammer Pendulum was a symbol of the inexorable truth that she wielded with precision and calculated force. Each impact was a thunderclap, the sound of inevitability that echoed through the halls and struck terror into the hearts of the undead horde. The skeletons, brittle remnants of a past unmoored from the chains of mortality, shattered beneath the relentless assault of Pendulum, their existence snuffed out with the finality of a closing chapter.
When the last of the villains fell, Cura pushed past the exit doors into the Second Inquisition Court.
The chamber was dimly lit with the orange glow of the sconces lining the walls, and the air itself was stale; dingy, and incredibly dry. Soot stained the wall adjacent to its center near the entrance, suggesting a mighty torrent of fire scorched it.
Cura observed the ashen stone and recognized its origin. "Yol toor shul." she whispered, causing a draft to blow through the room as she ran her Dwarven Metal hand along the black surface.
Moving a tad closer to the interior of the room, a massive cage held within itself a white Dragon, who appeared emaciated and covered with various grievous wounds upon his tail, his wings, and his chest. The wyrm looked helpless; confined in shackles and stuck in the back with many spears. Within his confines there were spikes lining the circular interior bottom, preventing him from moving.
Seeing this grieved Cura greatly. Poor creature. Nobody deserves to be held in such atrocious conditions. She thought to herself as she looked at the wyrm, who seemed to be resting his head against the cage walls to his side, cautious about the spikes. How long had he been here? Since Jhunal knew of him, he was no doubt there since the First Era, as well.
"That is the Pride of Kyne." Bourlor touched the ebony bars, his hand tracing down the black metal as he examined the solemn figure within the cage with a pitiful glare. "I cannot believe it... he's truly there! That is Kahkaankrein."
Mary spoke up with a saddened nod. "You must help him, Cura."
Gloriel agreed with her. "Yes; to be trapped in such conditions... it's... perhaps worse than what we've endured."
Korn's fur bristled as she began to growl at something unseen in the shadows nearby, and the Knights devoted to Cura drew their swords and warhammer.
Sabrina and Carcette flanked Cura on either side and Maram and Aria held the rear of the group. Bourlor aimed his bow, ready for anything.
Cura nodded. "I will have him out in five minutes." She gestured towards the figure standing nearby, and she drew her weapon, ready for a hostile encounter.
A lone Guard in deep crimson armour lined with gold accents stood before the cage, his arms crossed and his unseen countenance stern. It was no doubt one of Emperor Gorieus' Dragonblood Knights. No sooner did the group approach than he drew his claymore and began swinging.
Varla cut in front of Sir Amiel and swiftly beheaded the knight. He grabbed the keyring that was hanging on the Knight's waistbelt, and he handed it to Cura. "Here, this should unlock the cage."
Cura unlocked the cage and quickly stepped into the putrid water on its floor, her metal boots sloshing through the liquid. Her presence alerted Kahkaankrein, who weakly raised his head to see her approach.
His eyes were weak and glassy from millennia of his dwelling in this dim chamber, and a thick layer of dust coated his back. When his lizardine eyes focused on the Half-Elf before him, he spoke with a rusted voice. "You... mortal child... you are not like the others here... Hrrrrrg... What do you want...?" he sounded slight, and his tongue dripped with pain and annoyance at the disruption.
Cura looked at the Dragon with saddened eyes as she got a clearer view of the bound creature. "A Dovah is not meant to be trapped in such a small quarters. This is awful..." Even though she had slain many Dragons, she could never imagine inflicting a punishment like this upon them.
Bourlor stood on the opposite side of the cage, near a lever. He stared at the Dragon with a mixture of awe and amazement.
Cura cleared her throat. "Is there anything I can do to help you?" she asked the crestfallen wyrm.
Kahkaankrein licked his dry lips. "Can you open the roof? It feels stuffy here..."
Cura looked upwards to see the vaulted ceilings narrowing into a sky hole above, which was sealed in the meantime.
Suddenly, a clanking noise was heard and the roof peeled open, revealing the dim orange skies above. Bourlor pulled the lever beside him, opening the ceiling. "Does this help, Pride of Kyne?" the huntsman inquired from his position. Being a loyal follower of Kynareth himself, Bourlor wanted to see Kahkaankrein freed of this abhorrent dungeon.
"Ah, I feel better. Thank you." Kahkaankrein reached his head upwards to feel the cooler air trickle down onto his snout.
Mary stepped forward into the murky water with Korn at her side, and Kahkaankrein seemed to stare at her for a few moments. "You... you seem familiar to me..." the Dragon grumbled as he tried to recall her presence. "Kyne's... Handmaid perhaps?" his mind was a fog. For a few moments his daze seemed to clear, and his eyes widened. "Lady Mara!"
Korn barked in response and panted happily, and Mary nodded. "Yes, dear Kahkaankrein. Do not worry; in time your memories will return to you." She continued softly, "Were there any friends with you?"
Kahkaankrein closed his eyes and tried to recall his past, seeing few visions of yore. "There were. We all served Kyne. But they are all gone now..." His voice cracked as he spoke, from millennia of disuse. "They could not bear the pain of the blood curse. They were deceived by the Owl and turned to stone..."
"Jhunal." Cura said simply, recalling the petrified Dragon impaled upon the giant cross that served as the centerpiece of his grand library. No doubt he was expecting her to free Kahkaankrein so he could try and take his soul again. She would not allow it.
Bourlor pursed his lips. "The very same. No doubt he has his eyes set on Kahkaankrein, as well."
Cura asked, "You served Kyne, Kahkaankrein?" the idea of a Dragon serving Kyne instead of Alduin back in the past was surprising, but less so when she remembered her mentor, Paarthurnax.
"Yes. We abandoned lord Alduin and chose to live with Kyne and the mortals." Kahkaankrein confirmed. He lowered his face to the floor solemnly. "It was our mission to protect Kyne's garden, but we failed..."
Cura shook her head and placed a gentle hand on his scaled shoulder. "Don't be hard on yourself, Kahkaankrein. The Dovah who turned against Alduin taught men the Thu'um, so that we could defeat Alduin. Paarthurnax still lives upon the Throat of the World today."
Kahkaankrein's expression shifted to one of awe. "You know Paarthurnax? The secondborn?"
"Know him?" Cura repeated, as if it were a foreign concept to her. "Lokaal mindovin, dovah fahdon do Keizaal. I love him! Paarthurnax is a very good friend of mine, and of Skyrim's. If not for him, I never could have defeated Alduin."
"You... defeated Lord Alduin?" Kahkaankrein asked in disbelief. However, after some searching her eyes, he began to see it in her uwavering gaze. The many souls of his kin which dwelled within this mortal vessel attested to her triumph against the World-Eater. "Incredible... I see it... you are a Dragonborn, then."
Cura nodded, "I am."
"And yet... you are no mere Dragonborn... you are more... much more. You carry the spirit of Humanity and the light of Aka... and the light of Auriel..." Kahkaankrein continued to study the figure before him, but his words were lacking in eloquence.
Bourlor asked from his corner, "Is there anything we can do for you, Kahkaankrein?"
"I must not forget Kyne's garden. Nameless white flowers bloom there. How I miss their fragrance..." the Dragon lamented. "But a flower like this could never bloom in this wasteland. It is impossible. Please, forget what I said."
Cura scratched her chin. "White flowers?"
Sabrina furrowed her brow. "Wait, what? A Dragon who enjoys sniffing flowers? Now I've seen it all."
Mary chuckled lightly. "Kyne's garden is part of Aetherius, and her Flowers are unique. They are nothing like the fleeting flora upon Nirn. The gardens are a sanctuary, a reflection of Kyne's heart, where every creature finds solace beneath her watchful gaze."
Aria nodded, whispering, "Much like Mother Mara's Golden Wheat Field. The Daedra are not the only Ada who have their own realms."
Bourlor narrated from his knowledge of Kynareth's many tales. "Kyne's gardens, a realm of ethereal beauty, are whispered of in the oldest of tales and sung in the highest of halls. They are said to exist in a realm where the firmament touches the earth, a place of perpetual spring where time holds no dominion. Here, the white flowers bloom in boundless profusion, their petals as soft as the clouds and as pure as the snows atop the Throat of the World. Each blossom radiates with the light of Kyne, the Mother of the Nords, her beauty and charity nurturing every stem and leaf."
Cura scratched her chin. "Well... as for mystic White Flowers, I've actually seen some recently."
Sabrina furrowed her brows. "Don't make things up, Cura. Where the heck did you see any white flowers in Coldharbour? That's not funny."
Korn began to bark at Sabrina before waltzing up to Cura and nudging her satchel with the end of her snout. The white wolf panted and sat in the water, watching as Cura took out a beautiful white flower.
"Arkay's Cemetery," Cura began. "after Martha lay down and disappeared in front of her family's graves. These lovely flowers blossomed." It seemed to be an Aetherial Flower by the looks of it; seeing how it survived the voyage.
Sir Amiel looked at it from his angle. "When Sabrina defeated the Wrath of Sithis, you mean? Or before that?"
Carcette spoke up, recalling the events. "When the group was separated after the fight. Cura was alone with Martha on the opposite side of the cemetery. She plucked one of the flowers as a souvenir."
Cura smiled at the stoic Carcette's recollection. "And do you remember what you said to me back then, Keeper?"
Carcette nodded slowly. "I said: 'I'm proud of you, Cura. You have a tender heart; never allow it to be stolen from you.'" she recalled it word-by-word with perfect precision.
Cura smiled and looked down at the white flower. She turned around and walked back before Kahkaankrein. "I have a white flower for you." With a gentle smile she held up the beautiful lily-like flower up to him, hovering just beneath his snout so the Dragon could smell the blossom.
Kahkaankrein sniffled for a moment and then took in the fragrance of the lone divine plant. "Ah, it smells so nice. It reminds me of Kyne's garden. I remember crossing the vastness of the sky with my friends..." He was hit with the generous wave of nostalgia amidst the terrible gloom surrounding him. "Thank you, Dragonborn. Kyne yet lives. This is good. My friends will find comfort in this..." Kahkaankrein shifted slightly, trying to move his injured wings.
Bourlor tapped Cura on the shoulder and whispered to her. "Dragonborn, do you not carry Kyne's Feather? Perhaps it can aid him." he reminded her enthusiastically of the feather which granted the Divine some influence amongst their group.
Cura's eyes widened. She had entirely forgotten about the Feather of Kyne that she was carrying on her person. It was a gift from Pelinal Whitestrake after she freed him from this nightmare.
"Oh, this feather... Is it not Kyne's Feather? And still pure... A miracle, in this wasteland." Kahkaankrein identified the white plume in her hand immediately, feeling the power radiating off of it. "I beg of you... would you give me this feather, please? With its help, I could return to Kyne..."
Cura nodded. "Absolutely, my friend. Here you are." She held out her hand and Kahkaankrein lowered his tongue to sweep the Feather into his mouth.
"I do not know how to thank you. There is such beauty in you mortals... My former lord Alduin never understood this." Kahkaankrein spoke softly as his own beliefs were reaffirmed to him. "We have failed, but our way was not wrong. Kyne still lives in the hearts of the people."
With that, his body began to take on a luminous blue glow, and a great whirlwind took around him, carrying up some of the water, coating the walls and the railings of the cage with its fluid. The Dragon's eyes clouded as Coldharbour around him seemed to fade away, giving way to indescribable beauty.
In the ethereal vision before him, Kyne's garden unfolded as a timeless expanse of serenity, where the past whispered through the rustling leaves of ancient trees. The air was thick with the scent of white blossoms, each petal a testament to the purity and peace that once reigned. Dragons, majestic and wise, soared through the skies, their scales catching the sun's rays and scattering them like countless stars. Birds, small and large, danced between the dragons, a harmonious ballet set against the canvas of the endless azure. The garden was alive with the hum of wings and the soft murmur of the wind, carrying tales of olden days when the world was young and magic was as common as the dew on the morning grass.
The nostalgia that filled Kahkaankrein was not merely for a time or a place, but for a feeling of unity with all of creation. It was a longing for the days when the boundaries between earth and sky were blurred, where every creature, great and small, had its part in the symphony of existence. In this sacred space, time held no dominion, and the spirits of all who had ever walked the garden seemed to linger, their presence as comforting as the warmth of the sun. The white flowers swayed as if in recognition of their observer, their delicate heads bowing in a silent greeting to the one who beheld their eternal beauty.
As Kahkaankrein's vision lingered, the garden seemed to expand, its borders reaching into the very essence of being, where the soul meets the infinite. The dragons' roars were not sounds of fury but of freedom, echoing the unspoken desires of every heart to rise above the mundane and touch the divine. The birds' songs were not mere calls but hymns of joy, celebrating the gift of life in every note. And amidst it all, the white flowers stood as sentinels of tranquility, their fragrance a balm to soothe the weary traveler on their journey through the ages.
In the vision of Kyne's garden, there was a promise of renewal, a reminder that after every winter comes the spring, and with it, the return of light and life. Kahkaankrein saw in this celestial tableau a reflection of the cycle of existence, the ebb and flow that is the heartbeat of the universe. And in this moment of profound nostalgia, there was also hope, a knowing that the beauty of the past was not lost but merely waiting to be rediscovered in the fullness of time. For in the vision of Kyne's garden, all was as it should be, perfect and unchanging, an eternal testament to the splendor of the world.
"Ah, I hear the song of the wind... My friends are calling me... The song of Kyne... I have longed for this..." As his form began to dissipate, Kahkaankrein's final words hung in the air a moment longer. In his sight, the garden was growing brighter and brighter, and its beauty was calling to him. From the very sky itself, Kynareth, the goddess of nature, air and the heavens, descended from her celestial abode. Her form was grace incarnate, a silhouette woven from the very essence of the sky, with robes that billowed like the gentlest of breezes over a meadow. Her hair flowed like the currents of the wind, each strand shimmering with the hues of dawn's first light. Her eyes, vast and fathomless, held the sparkle of the stars and the depth of the endless skies.
Kahkaankrein, the observer of this divine spectacle, stood in awe as Kynareth extended her hands, a gesture that bridged the chasm between the ephemeral and the eternal. Her fingers, long and delicate, seemed to caress the very atoms of the air, setting them alight with a soft, ethereal glow. The world around them responded to her touch, the winds whispering secrets of ancient times when gods walked among men and the earth sang with the magic of their presence.
As Kynareth reached out, the air around Kahkaankrein stirred, carrying the fragrance of distant storms and the promise of rain on parched earth. It was as if she was offering him the touch of the heavens, an invitation to understand the mysteries that lay in the heart of the whirlwind and the eye of the storm. Her presence was a balm to the weary spirit, a reminder that even in the tumult of life, there is a force that moves with purpose and grace, guiding the dance of the leaves and the flight of the birds.
The chains which bound the Dragon collapsed into the water, as well as the weapons that were embedded in his back as Kahkaankrein's form was no more in the realm of Coldharbour.
Cura smiled, knowing that now he was safe from Jhunal's clutches, at least. And then, a voice whispered on the air above them.
"Thank you, for returning Kahkaankrein and Pelinal to me, Dragonborn. But there is another I would ask you to save..."
"K-Kynareth?" Cura asked, surprised by the voice. She swiftly lowered her head. "Of... of course! Anything you would ask of me."
Bourlor quickly prostrated himself before the presence of the Divine as well, kneeling in the pool of formerly rancid water.
"My son. Morihaus."
And with that, the wind died down, leaving the room empty around the group. Bourlor's face paled as he slowly stood up. "M-Morihaus? He's here in Coldharbour as well?"
Varla crossed his arms and leaned against a nearby pillar. "Yes, he is. Like Pelinal, Molag Bal is using him to guard one of his Barrier Towers."
"Which one?" Cura asked.
"In the Northwest." Carcette said plainly. "And after that, you will have to deactivate the one in Malada."
Cura tilted her head. "Malada. You mean the Malada?"
"The High Fane." Sir Amiel recalled hearing of the place before.
Varla grunted and nodded. "Yes; that Malada. The final place I partook in slaughter before retiring for good from service to the blasted Alessian Empire. Apparently some of the inhabitants survived the battle... I simply wanted it to end. Abbot Cosmas, however... he lit the city ablaze." Discussing the matter reopened old wounds that left him visibly disturbed, though he tried to feign indifference.
Gloriel sighed and massaged her brow. "Let's... not focus on that for now. We must aid Morihaus. Dragonborn," she turned to Cura. "free him from this nightmare."
Cura wiped some of the excess blackened blood off her right gauntlet with a cloth, using some of the water from the pit, which was previously filthy, but now cleansed by Kynareth's grace. "I shall. And besides, I look forward to seeing if whether or not it's true that he is actually a Bull with wings."
In the aftermath of a daring and tumultuous rescue, Cura and her allies emerged from the desolate Inquisition Court, their spirits buoyed despite the grim surroundings. The air was thick with the scent of liberation, the once-captive Kahkaankrein now free from the shackles of unjust detainment. With the echoes of their footsteps resonating through the hollow halls, the group set their sights on the northwest of the Imperial City.
The journey ahead promised to be fraught with peril, yet the resolve of Cura and her companions remained unshaken. They prepared for the arduous trek, gathering supplies, knowing that each step took them closer to their ultimate goal.
Sir Amiel found an Alessian Claymore and strapped it onto his back, eager to switch back to his natural weaponstyle, and Sir Ralvas complimented his prowess with a single sword. Sabrina elected to make an immature quip about the nature of the size of the weapons, and Sir Amiel was taken aback by the lewdness from this maiden's mouth. The others laughed it off and moved on, save for Mary who did not appreciate it, Varla who found Sabrina irritating, and Carcette who was straight-faced. Cura simply snickered and moved on.
As they departed, the austere walls of the Inquisition Court faded into the background, a stark reminder of the trials they had faced and the triumphs they had achieved. Ahead lay the unknown, the wastes surrounding them teeming with darkness and despair. The alliance forged in the fires of adversity was now bound for the cold, unforgiving lands to the northwest, where fate awaited with bated breath.