"Petition to House Tharn, Vol. 23

by Unknown

Pelan: "Is it true that the Alessian Order decided to strip the elven races of their citizenship rights? Followed by giants, minotaurs, and other non-human races?"

Amicus: "It's true. And I agree with this, of course. It's only natural if we are to follow the doctrines of the Alessian Order."

Pelan: "Are you forgetting that they too joined the rebellion of St. Alessia and contributed greatly to the creation of this Empire? The rebellion would have failed without their help, no matter how many times Pelinal appeared. And if that had happened, we'd still be living miserably as slaves or even livestock under the yoke of the Ayleids!"

Amicus: "That may be so. But either way, none of them are humans. The elves are wicked and lowly, and the giants and minotaurs? They are but beasts. Nay, monsters, even! They cannot be allowed to be our neighbors."

Pelan: "The ideal of St. Alessia ... the ideal of this very Empire is to unite the many races, to let them develop together. It is to bring peace to this continent, this bloody Arena, to build our Tower not by piling up corpses in a struggle but by understanding and diplomacy. This, this should be the ideal of the Alessian Order, too! So why do you oppose it? What do you believe in?"

Amicus: "In the words of St. Alessia, of course. We believe and follow the Seventy-Seven Doctrines, brought to us by the prophet Marukh."

Pelan: "Then why don't you help them keep their citizenship?"

Amicus: "I told you. They are not humans. The Alessian Empire is an empire created by humans and for humans. It belongs neither to the evil elves nor to the deformed inferior races. It belongs to us, the people of the Empire. And the only people of the Empire are us humans. The rest of them are not humans, none of them."

Pelan: "I know of no such statement in the Seventy-Seven Doctrines."

Amicus: "'All are guilty until proven innocent.' Thank the Gods for the words of the prophet Marukh. We have no guarantee that the elves and the other races will not harm the human races in the future. We, the Alessian Order, simply wish to protect the lives of our good citizens. This is a just defense of the races of Man, our holy war. If you truly love our people, then you will understand."

Pelan: "... I don't understand."

Amicus: "Listen, all of us must obey authority. And authority comes from God. Any God. That is why we, the Alessian Order, have created our God as well. Such is our decision. You must simply follow it."

Pelan: "There is no freedom in this. You forget for what purpose Kynareth sent Morihaus and Pelinal to help the human races."

Amicus: "There are no coincidences in a God's world. It is all inevitable. There is no such thing as free will. Kynareth's answer to the prayers of St. Alessia has shown us that humans are truly nothing but slaves to the Gods. Even after we broke free from the dominion of the Ayleids, our mortal lives remain but toys to the Gods' whims. And that is why we must free our people from the games of the Gods."

Pelan: "... What are you planning to do?"

Amicus: "We will set right the wrongs done by St. Alessia. We will separate Auriel, the God of those filthy elves, from Akatosh. When that happens, the elven history will dissolve and their races will be extinct. The other non-human, lesser races will perish as well, of course. But our heaven lies beyond that. For only in heaven there is freedom. Freedom for races of Man, and races of Man alone. The Blue Star will be able to see and hear only us. And after that, even the Heart of Shezarr will be reforged. We shall remake this Aurbis with artificial Flowers, and rebel against the world of Gods. We alone will survive, from the conception of Mundus to its death. May this repeat forever ... true human heaven."

Pelan: "This is insane. You can't possibly do this."

Amicus: "Ah, but all the gods are insane, surely. This world, our Mundus? It is a product of madness. Therefore, we can accomplish it ... with even more madness.""

Cura and her companions reached the dilapidated double doors of Narfin's Inquisition Court. A fountain, spouting the tainted waters of Coldharbour, stood before the court's entrance in a small, square courtyard. Benches encircled the fountain, positioned at the heart of the elongated road, bordered by arches. Banners bearing the image of open books dangled on either side of the doorway, signifying the building's official status.

The frayed banners stirred faintly in the breeze that meandered through the dry wind corridor where they stood, amid the glimmering grains of sand borne aloft by the air.

"What do you hope to find in this place?" Mirabelle inquired, crossing her arms as her eyes scaled the heights of the rusted, sand-covered obsidian-stoned structure.

Carcette knew more than she let on about the location and about what they would encounter within, but her silence was maddening, and her refusal to disclose any information was frustrating. Sir Amiel, Sir Torolf, and Sir Ralvas grunted with frustration at her reticence, but they knew that time was short, and if there was any hope of aiding Sir Gregory and Sir Juncan, they would have to act quickly.

"I can't stand this idleness any longer. We must take action," Sir Torolf asserted, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "The longer we linger here, the graver the unknown fate of our brethren becomes."

Varla folded his arms and grunted in annoyance at his haste. "And what leads you to believe they haven't met their ends long ago? We are in Coldharbour, lest you have forgotten - the essence of death is inescapable."

Mary gave a nod of concurrence to her brusque son. "Go in with caution, my friends; I sense that something terrible has transpired within." At her feet, Korn settled herself and voiced her agreement with a bark followed by a somber squeak.

"Are you suggesting that it's already too late?" inquired Sir Torolf. His face was a mask of obscured horror, thankfully hidden behind the mask of his helm.

"Not necessarily. The exact events that have unfolded remain unclear to me." Mary admitted.

"But you are Mara! Surely you would have that knowledge?" Aria questioned, her eyebrow arching skeptically at the Priestess's declaration.

"I am but a fragment of Mara, not the embodiment of her flawlessness," Mary clarified for the acolyte. "It is beyond my abilities to perceive all occurrences within Coldharbour at once. And neither can Korn. However, I can sense a profound malevolent force that pervades the rooftops and the very heart of that building. If you intend to go inside, be very careful."

"It's not like hundreds of people met their demise within the walls of Narfin's Court," Varla interjected with a hint of sarcasm. "Maybe that is the dark presence you detect?"

Sir Amiel adjusted his armor and cast a glance at the cumbersome greatsword he had discovered. "Then I must enter. Alone." he declared, placing a hand upon the Court's steel doors. His sudden declaration earned him stares from the group surrounding him.

Sabrina's eyes grew wide. "Have you lost your mind, Sir Amiel? If so, I'll gladly knock some sense into you," she protested, approaching him in an attempt to pull him away from the doors.

Sir Amiel turned and gently held Sabrina's hands. "Your concern is appreciated, Sabrina," he began, "but I must confront this alone. The Knights of the Nine were under my command, and I failed them as their leader. This is my demon to confront."

Sabrina shook her head. "That's not fair - you couldn't have known Sir Berich was going to betray your group. You couldn't have foreseen all the events that led to your group's disgrace." she clenched his hands tighter. "Please, don't go and get yourself killed."

Sir Amiel's eyes softened at her reaction, but he would not be swayed. "It was my fault. I accepted the Red Stone. I had us all swear upon it that fateful day."

"But you didn't know what it was!" Sabrina insisted. "Don't potentially condemn yourself over a mistake!"

Sir Ralvas stepped up and clapped his hands together with determination. "Then you shall not face it alone, Sir Amiel. Sir Ralvas and Sir Torolf shall have your back, as we should have back in those days of yore."

"Thank you, my brothers." Sir Amiel bowed his head respectfully to his allies. He turned to Cura. "Dragonborn, shall we?"

Cura nodded, "We shall." She turned to the other Party members. "Take this time to rest up, all right?"

Sabrina grit her teeth underneath her birdlike mask. "Just one rule: don't die. All right? I know I won't be with you for this, but you've gotta promise us you'll come back alive."

Savos Aren spoke up, "Oh, he will. Don't be so dramatic. He is with the Dragonborn."

Cura assured them, "Even without me I'm sure Sir Amiel can hold his own. We will be back down soon." She pushed open the door, and the Knights followed her inside.

The main hall of Narfin's Inquisition Court was a grand yet foreboding space, its former glory now marred by the passage of time. The ceiling soared high above, supported by a series of massive pillars that stood like silent sentinels at the center of the hall. Each pillar was intricately carved with ancient symbols and motifs, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of neglect.

Before the pillars stood decrepit statues of Saint Alessia, their once-proud forms now cracked and weathered. The statues, though damaged, still exuded an aura of reverence and solemnity, their eyes seemingly watching over the hall with a silent, eternal vigil.

At the far end of the hall, a large pool of water dominated the lobby, its surface reflecting the flickering torchlight that cast eerie shadows on the walls. The water was dark and still, a stark contrast to the chaos that was about to unfold. A long hallway extended eastward from the lobby, its length disappearing into the shadows.

Cura, Sir Amiel, Sir Torolf, and Sir Ralvas entered the chamber, their footsteps echoing off the stone floor. The air was thick with tension, their senses heightened as they scanned the room for any signs of danger. Being an Alessian Institution, there was little room for doubt that there were going to be hordes of Alessian Priests, Paladins and warriors here. Possibly more Daedra as well, given this was Coldharbour. They needed to reach the rooftops, but knew that the Alessians would not let them pass without a fight.

As they approached the pillars, the sound of armored footsteps echoed through the hall. From the shadows emerged a group of Alessian Paladins, their dark armor gleaming in the dim light. The Paladins moved with purpose, their weapons drawn and ready for battle.

"Prepare yourselves," Cura said, her voice steady and resolute. "We are going to have to fight our way through."

The Paladins charged, their battle cries filling the hall. Cura raised her shield, deflecting the first blow as she swung her mace with deadly precision. Sir Amiel's claymore flashed in the torchlight, cutting through the ranks of the Paladins with powerful, sweeping strikes.

Sir Torolf, wielding the Greatsword of Anui-El, fought with a fierce determination, his blade cleaving through armor and bone alike. Sir Ralvas's warhammer struck with the force of a thunderclap, each blow sending shockwaves through the air.

The battle was fierce and chaotic, the sound of clashing steel and the cries of the wounded reverberating through the hall. The decrepit statues of Saint Alessia seemed to watch over the combatants, their silent presence a reminder of the sacred duty that had brought Cura to this realm.

Despite the overwhelming odds, Cura and her companions fought with unwavering resolve. Their movements were fluid and coordinated, each warrior supporting the others as they pressed forward. The Paladins, though fierce and relentless, could not match the combined strength and skill of the group.

As the last of the Paladins fell, the chamber fell silent once more. The companions stood amidst the fallen, their breaths heavy and their hearts pounding with the thrill of battle. They had triumphed, but they knew that their journey was far from over.

"Let's move," Cura said, her voice filled with determination. "We have to find a way up to the roof."

With a final glance at the decrepit statues of Saint Alessia, the companions pressed on, their path leading them down the long hallway that extended eastward.

As they passed through the long hall and wandered into the next chamber, there were a row of cells to the left. In the first cell, a figure with glowing red eyes lurked behind the bars. He stared at Cura and her allies, prompting their approach.

"Your eyes are so cold... it reminds me of my brother." the undead Alessian said, his tone laced with curiosity.

"Excuse me?" Cura inquired.

"Rislav. An unwanted child, born in exchange for the life of our mother, Lynada. I could never understand him, even when he was a child. He always seemed unnatural to me." the Alessian scratched his chin. "He must be made out of bronze rather than flesh and blood. He'd kill without conscience or morals for the sake of his ambition."

"Not a flattering comparison, honestly." Cura furrowed her brows as she stared into the man's flayed face. "And judging by your garb, I'd wager you're not much better, yourself. There's probably a good reason why you're confined here."

"I'm not. I'm here by my own will." the Alessian said plainly. "That little cell is my kingdom, the Aetherius of my soul, and my Mundus is limited to it. Why would I want to be outside of it?"

"Granted, this entire realm is insane." Cura sighed, "I can understand you not wanting to mingle with the other Alessians."

"Dragonborn, we must continue to the rooftop. That is where Carcette said they were." Sir Amiel insisted.

Cura held up a hand. "Go ahead without me. I'll catch up quickly enough."

"Are you certain you will be all right?" Sir Torolf asked cautiously.

Cura confirmed with a stern nod. "Yes; I have faced much worse than an undead sycophant behind bars."

Sir Ralvas grabbed Sir Torolf by the arm and gave him a tug as he continued after Sir Amiel, who hurried through the long hallway.

"Do you, like my brother, think we Alessians strive for nothing but base happiness?" the man in red scratched his dry, fleshless cheek, causing bits of dust and necrotic flesh to fall like dandruff. "Even if there was someone suffering among us, someone who could still love humanity even in agony, he would surely realize one thing immediately: That happiness which is attained by the fulfillment of one's on wishes has no meaning. After understanding this, I amended my ways and knelt before the Order."

"The Order founded by Marukh." Cura couldn't keep a straight face. After all she'd seen thus far, she wondered how the Alessians remained in charge for so long. Nothing they did made any logical sense to her.

"The Enlightened One who received the Seventy-Seven Inflexible Doctrines from Saint Alessia. He was given revelation of the one True God and will lead us to crush Anui-El." the Alessian primate leaned forward, poking his decrepit face through the opening between the bars, causing Cura to step back slightly. "His word is the truth. So it is only right that I devoted myself completely to the Alessian Order. Whether land or people, everything belongs to the Alessian Order."

"What is your name?" Cura inquired.

"They called me Dorald the Incompetent." the Alessian Primate said with a sense of pride that betrayed his own name.

Cura placed a hand on her mace. "I have one question for you, Dorald. One. And you only get to answer it once, because I need to catch up to my allies."

Dorald nodded, "What is it?"

"If you had the opportunity to return to Nirn, would you change your behaviour?" Cura inquired. "Would you consent to coexist peacefully with the Elves, Bretons, Khajiit, and other races?"

Dorald responded with a sneer, "What? Do those repulsive beings still defile Mundus? Bah. Our mission failed, then... That's a shame."

Without hesitation, Cura swung her mace down, tearing the head off the undead Alessian's shoulders. As his head hit the floor and rolled, his body collapsed backwards into the cell.

Cura caught her breath. "Better me than the Graymarch." She was about to continue down the hallway, when she recognized a figure in another cell nearby.

Sir Henrik, with a bottle of ale in his hands sat in a cell with an open door. Cura hurried up to him, the sounds of battle echoing on the floors above.

"Sir Henrik?" Cura waved at him.

"Ah, Dragonborn. I knew you'd come here." Sir Henrik said with a lilt in his tone. He'd clearly been enjoying himself, as his cell was littered with alcohol bottles of varying kinds. "It must be fate that you would stumble upon my fat self again. You are the light that opens my dark cell." he spoke with a light slur, suggesting that perhaps he'd finally attained complete inebriation.

"Did you find the others?" Cura wondered.

"I found traces of two knights. One of them was apparently limping... something must have happened to him." Sir Henrik shared his findings. "I'm worried about them, but I hurt my back when I got here. Could you check upstairs for me?"

"Fine, I'll help you." Cura rolled her eyes at his sorry excuse to stay drinking in his cell.

"I thought you'd say that." Sir Henrik raised another bottle to his lips.

In a moment of frustration, Cura spun around from the cell door and marched back up to Sir Henrik, and swatted the Ale bottle from his hands. "No; you know what? You're coming with us. Sir Amiel, Sir Torolf, and Sir Ralvas were concerned about you. You're not playing this game anymore. The Graymarch is on the horizon. Do you want to be swept up in it? That's not right!"

Sir Henrik stared at her blankly. "I... come with you? What is the point? Nobody leaves Coldharbour. Everybody knows that. Hmm-hmm."

Cura smirked. "I've left it already, once. I've gone to the gap between dimensions."

Sir Henrik paused for a few seconds before bursting out laughing. "Hahaha! You are a funny one, Dragonborn. Mmm. I will give you that." After a serious glare from Cura, it dawned on him that she was not joking. "Wait, you're serious?"

Cura nodded. "Yes. I told you once before, did I not? I intend to break people out of Coldharbour and slay Molag Bal."

"Mm-hmm." Sir Henrik nodded. "Well... perhaps you're right. Perhaps touring the prisons is not a good way to await the inevitable end. Mm-mm." He reached under the back of his armour and scratched his back before exhaling and standing upright. "All right, I, Sir Henrik, will follow you. It has been quite dull lately, aside from the killing, of course."

"Mm-hmm." Cura hummed in response before leaving his cell and heading out into the halls.

"Mm-hmm." Sir Henrik hummed with confirmation as he trailed behind her, lumbering in his hefty tarnished silver armour.

A wave of sorrow washed over Sir Amiel as he traversed the dilapidated corridors of Narfin's Inquisition Court. Each step echoed a death knell; a resonant clang that whispered stories of condemnation, betrayal, and the loss of heart and soul. With every stride, he drew nearer to the origin: their first day in this accursed domain.

When the Champion of Cyrodiil had united the fragments of the Crusader's Relics, Sir Amiel was convinced that Aetherius was destined for him and his brothers in arms. Such was his conviction until he stood in the shadowed tunnel, encircled by death, with only Coldharbour as his path. It was a feeling of utter abandonment; he had thought they were completely deserted by the Nine.

Tears of anguish reddened Sir Amiel's eyes as he gazed upon the dark, stormy blue heavens and the icy flames that loomed overhead. When the sands lashed at their eyes and the weight of his soul bore down upon him.

"AKATOOOOSH!" His cry of despair echoed, his sobs uncontrolled. "WHY? WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME?"

No matter how many times he prostrated upon the sandy dirt, nor cried out on the names of all the Divines, none would come to the aid of himself and his brothers. "Akatosh, Mara, Kynareth, Zenithar, Julianos, Arkay, Dibella, Stendarr, Talos... please... help us..."

In the present, as Sir Amiel's boots scuffed the dirt from the faded halls, his words rung in his mind from those days, a haunting reminder of his shame; a terrible mistake he would sacrifice his own life to undo if he could. But being a follower of Akatosh, he knew, the nature of Time was unyielding.

"How did it come to this? My comrades, my brothers in arms, trapped in this forsaken realm of Coldharbour. I, Sir Amiel, leader of the Knights of the Nine, have failed you. The weight of my decisions, the burden of my leadership, it all rests heavily upon my shoulders. Each moment we spend in this wretched place is a reminder of my shortcomings, a testament to my failure to protect those who trusted me.

I see your faces, etched with pain and despair, and I am haunted by the knowledge that I led you into this nightmare. We were supposed to be the beacon of hope, the defenders of the Divine, yet here we are, ensnared in the clutches of Molag Bal. I should have seen the signs, should have anticipated the treachery that awaited us. But I was blind, blinded by my own hubris and the belief that we were invincible.

But I cannot, I will not, let this be our end. We are the Knights of the Nine, bound by our oath to serve and protect. Our strength lies not just in our swords and shields, but in our unity, our unwavering faith in each other. I may have faltered, but I will not abandon you. I will fight with every ounce of my being to rescue you from this hellish prison.

We will escape Coldharbour, together. I swear it upon the very essence of our order. We will find a way, through fire and shadow, through despair and darkness. I will lead you out of this abyss, and we will stand once more in the light of the Divine. Our story does not end here. It is merely a chapter, a trial that we will overcome.

Hold fast, my comrades. Trust in me, as I trust in you. We will rise from the ashes of our defeat, stronger and more resolute than ever. For we are the Knights of the Nine, and our spirit cannot be broken. Together, we will reclaim our honour and our place in the world. Together, we will find our way home."

Sir Amiel drew his claymore and lashed forward, cleaving a Soul-Shriven in two as it leapt from around the corner to assail him. A few Scamps also rounded the corner to attack, but a sudden crossbow bolt struck one in the forehead, oer Sir Amiel's left shoulder. He turned around to see the source of the bolt, and saw Cura and Sir Henrik approaching.

"Sir Henrik?" Sir Ralvas called out in surprise at their jolly old friend.

"Mm-hmm!" Sir Henrik responded.

Sir Amiel sheathed his Claymore and strode over to Sir Henrik. The two joined hands and he spoke: "Welcome back, my brother. Our numbers grow stronger by the day; we shall soon be quit of this hell. Rest assured."

"That's good to hear: I am almost out of Ale." Sir Henrik chuckled. "I heard the voices of Sir Juncan and Sir Gregory some time back; the two came staggering in, and disappeared down the hall, mmm. I hope the Alessians didn't kill them while I slept..."

"You lout!" Sir Torolf barked at his companion. "You heard them pass through and did nothing?"

Sir Henrik shrugged his shoulders. "I hear lots of things. Coldharbour has a funny way of playing with your mind. I was looking for Sir Berich, or Sir Caius... mm. I needed to know what's become of Sir Casimir as well... eventually, I grew tired of the mind tricks Coldharbour was playing on me. But I saw steel boot marks in the hall, hmm. Unfortunately, I am girthy and I am strong, but not strong enough to face a horde of Alessian Paladins on my own. Mm-mm. It would have been suicide to follow the trail that way."

Sir Ralvas understood his point. "Then it's a good thing that we're together; we can handle them as a group."

Sir Henrik sniffled and wiped his dry nose. "Yes... let's show those faithless dogs what true Paladins are capable of."

"Honestly, the only one of us who can really claim right as a Paladin would be Lady Cura." Sir Ralvas said with a shrug. "The rest of us have failed our gods, one way or another."

Sir Amiel stiffened up when he said this, and bit his lower lip. Without another word, he strode into the darkness, his hand on the hilt of his claymore. Noting his reaction, Cura felt a pang of sympathy for the Fallen Knight. She walked ahead of Sir Amiel and led the way forward.

The air was thick with the scent of dust and decay, the once-grand hall now a shadow of its former glory. The flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows on the walls, illuminating the determined faces of the warriors.

Cura, wielding her mace and shield, stood at the forefront, her eyes blazing with resolve. Beside her, Sir Amiel brandished his claymore, the blade gleaming in the dim light. Sir Torolf, with the Greatsword of Anui-El, and Sir Henrik, with his sword and shield, flanked her on either side. Sir Ralvas, his warhammer at the ready, brought up the rear, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of their foe.

It seemed that Coldharbour, in every step forward, contained a war to be fought.

The Alessian Paladins, clad in dark armor and wielding deadly weapons, surged forward with a battle cry. The clash of steel rang out as the two forces collided, the sound reverberating through the chamber. Cura's mace struck with precision, her shield deflecting blows as she fought her way through the throng of enemies. "FUS RO DAH!" her Thu'um cast a wind tunnel that cleared a straight path through the swarm.

Sir Amiel's claymore cut a swath through the Paladins, his movements swift and deadly. He was determined to make it to the rooftops and nobody was going to stop him.

"Hold the line!" Cura shouted, her voice carrying over the din of battle.

Sir Torolf's Greatsword of Anui-El cleaved through the ranks of the Paladins, the ancient weapon glowing with a holy light. Sir Henrik's sword and shield were a blur of motion, his skill and determination unmatched, even with his hefty, rotund form. Sir Ralvas's warhammer crushed armor and bone alike, his strength and fury driving the Paladins back.

Despite their efforts, the Paladins seemed endless, their numbers overwhelming. But the companions fought on, their resolve unshaken. As they pushed forward, the decrepit chambers seemed to close in around them, the walls echoing with the sounds of their struggle. The chandeliers hung above shook from the force of the battle below them, and streams of dust rained from the vaulted ceilings above.

Finally, they reached the heart of the chamber, where Narfin, the corrupt arbiter, awaited them. Clad in dark crimson and gold robes and wielding a staff of twisted metal, Narfin's eyes gleamed with malevolence. "What's this? An Auroran who dares enter my holy domain? Pah. No... you are not an Auroran... an Ayleid, perhaps? No... your eyes look Human. Perhaps a Breton? At any rate, you are a filthy creature."

"Are you the one called Narfin?" Cura inquired, drawing her mace. These Alessian pigs made her sick; she knew immediately that this was going to escalate. "The atrocities you've committed in the name of your twisted beliefs will not go unpunished."

Narfin drummed his fingers upon the head of his staff, each bony digit emitting a glass-like clink. "A tainted half-elf dares to stand against me. Your kind is a scourge upon this world, a blemish that must be purged. The inferiority of Elves and other races is manifest in your very being."

Cura let out a derisive snort and shook her head. "You're not the first Alessian I've met with such notions... You prattle on about purity and supremacy, yet your deeds are nothing but despicable and depraved. A person's worth is not judged by their lineage, but by their virtues and actions." And, boy did the actions and virtues of the Alessian Order say a lot about them.

Narfin's voice was parched and hoarse, rustling like the sound of withered leaves. "Save your self-righteous nonsense. You're an abomination, a half-breed who should never have existed. I won't let you leave here alive. Your demise will serve as a warning to all who challenge the natural order."

Cura's smile was defiant. "No one stands against the natural order more than the Alessian Scum. Our resolve is unshaken by your animosity. We have matters to attend to on the rooftop. It would be wise for you to step aside and permit us passage."

"Your defiance is futile. The Alessian Paladins will crush you, and your so-called allies will fall one by one. You will die here, and your legacy will be one of failure and ignominy." Narfin declared boldly. "I, Narfin, Arbiter of the Alessian Order, shall see all that offend our god purged in fire!" He raised his staff, and a wave of dark energy surged towards the companions.

"Stay together!" Cura commanded, raising Spellbreaker to deflect the attack. The dark energy dissipated against the shield, but the force of the blow sent her staggering back.

Sir Amiel charged forward, his claymore slicing through the air. Narfin parried the blow with his staff, the clash of metal ringing out. Sir Torolf and Sir Henrik joined the fray, their weapons striking in unison. Sir Ralvas circled around, his warhammer poised to strike.

Narfin's dark magic swirled around him, his attacks relentless. But the companions fought with a unity and determination that could not be broken. Cura's mace struck with the force of a dragon's roar. Her mace clapped the Alessian's head, ringing it like a gong and causing him to stagger. Sir Amiel's claymore cut through the darkness, his strikes precise and powerful.

With a final, coordinated effort, the companions launched their attacks simultaneously. Cura's mace struck Narfin's staff, shattering it with a burst of light. Sir Amiel's claymore cleaved through Narfin's defenses, while Sir Torolf's Greatsword of Anui-El struck a decisive blow. Sir Henrik's sword and shield held the line, and Sir Ralvas's warhammer delivered the final, crushing strike.

Narfin let out a howl of rage and pain as he fell, his dark magic dissipating into the air. The chamber fell silent, the only sound the heavy breathing of the victorious warriors.

"We did it," Cura said, her voice filled with relief. "now... how do we..."

No sooner did she say it then a portal to the rooftop revealed itself through the collapsed doors ahead. Sir Amiel inhaled and exhaled deeply as he walked to the doors and pried them apart. Without a moment's hesitation, he stepped into the portal. Cura and the others hurried to join him.

When they reappeared on the other side of the portal, they found themselves at a long bridge leading to a door on the far side. They crossed the stone bridge, glancing at the world beneath them. From their vantage point up above, Cura could make out the tiny figures of the other half of her party, waiting below around the courtyard fountain.

Sir Amiel took a glance at Sabrina, who appeared to be looking at them, and he nodded at her, wondering if she could make out his gesture from this distance. He proceeded towards the door and pushed it open, followed by his immediate allies.

On the other side of the door were the Water Gardens of Dibella. A gigantic wading pool stretched from one side of the court to the other, ending at a statue of Dibella herself, naked and holding her lily flower, though cracked and worn from millennia of abandonment. At her sides were statues depicting virgins holding basins of water, pouring smaller cascades into the pool. Behind her were a pair of waterfalls, pouring decrepit water into the large rectangular pool. On either side of the pool were grates that allowed the water to flow from the rooftop water garden down onto the city below in what would normally be a sight of beauty were it in any other dimension.

Skeletons riddled the water, their bones piled in these grates, and ashes flitted through the air. Dead rose bushes occupied the flower planters and the gorgeous pillars were destroyed and desecrated.

A lone figure sat in the water just before the statue, his back turned to her and her altar. And upon the altar was a dead body. Upon closer inspection, the dead body lain upon the altar to Dibella was Sir Gregory, in his silver and green threads, and the figure sitting in the water, Sir Juncan. The blood was still fresh upon his indigo-coloured armour. The Knight of Kynareth looked up at the approaching group with cold eyes behind his birdlike helm.

"Sir Juncan!" Sir Amiel called out to his brother in arms. "What have you done?"

Sir Juncan slowly raised himself up from the water, allowing it to run down his armour. "Hmph. I didn't think I would see you again, frankly..."

Sir Henrik wiped his nose. "Oh, bother. This is no good. No good at all. Hmm-hmm."

"What have you done to Sir Gregory?" Sir Amiel's eyes were wide with anger and horror in equal measure.

Sir Juncan seemed half-in, half-out. He was struggling against himself. "We... were travelling together. I'd found him, and..." he seemed to be drawing a blank. "...and I don't know." He held a hand up to his forehead. "I can't say for certain."

Cura placed a hand on her mace. "Sir Juncan." She tried to get his attention. "Sir Juncan!"

The Knight shook for a second, then turned up to meet her gaze.

"Come with us; the Graymarch is coming to Coldharbour, as you know." Cura reminded him. "I've regained my Dragon Soul. We have some more things to accomplish here, but rest assured that if you are with us, the Graymarch will not hurt you."

Sir Juncan's eyes stared at Cura, but they seemed to be glossed over. "Uh..." He appeared to be struggling with something, his thoughts clouding over and his demeanour growing increasingly more frustrated.

Sir Ralvas' eyes widened as he observed the phenomenon. "Sir Juncan, I am so sorry..." he drew his warhammer.

"What's happening to him?" Cura asked, though she had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. This felt in some way, familiar to her.

Author's Note: for this fight, "VIGILANT OST - V.S. Sir Juncan" thanks for reading ^^

The winds began to pick up around Sir Juncan, carrying the surface of the water into the air in a small cyclone. Sir Amiel leapt in front of Cura as Sir Juncan drew his Spear. He clashed against the polearm and pushed back against the other fallen knight.

Sir Amiel stood firm, his claymore gleaming in the false sun that shone its light beside the void above. The filthy water lapped gently at his feet, a stark contrast to the fierce determination in his eyes. Across from him, Sir Juncan twirled his spear with deadly precision, the air around him swirling with gusts of wind.

"You should have... been away... stayed away, Amiel..." Sir Juncan droned, his dampened voice carried by the wind and his mind riddled by brokenness. His eyes were glossed over, and his articulation poor. "This... end. This... will be your end."

Sir Amiel tightened his grip on his claymore, his resolve unwavering. "I will not falter, Juncan. For the honour of the Knights of the Nine, I will see this through." His heart was breaking as the sight of it all cemented itself in his mind: Sir Gregory; murdered. Sir Juncan, demented. Sir Casimir, gone mad. Sir Caius, also demented. Sir Berich, a mystery.

Whether Sir Amiel would emerge from Coldharbour or not, it was indeed the end of the Knights of the Nine. He should have known that not everybody could be saved. Not even the gods could save them all; how could he?

Sir Torolf, Sir Ralvas, Sir Henrik, and Cura intended to intervene, but Sir Amiel held out his hand. "Stay back! This is my fight."

With a battle cry, Sir Juncan lunged forward, his spear slicing through the air with the force of a tempest. Sir Amiel parried the blow, the impact sending ripples through the water. The duel was a dance of skill and strength, each warrior pushing the other to their limits.

With each strike, Sir Amiel sidestepped, parried, and weaved around the lance like a river.

Failure, Amiel. It all ended in failure.

Sir Juncan's wind gave him an edge, his movements were swift and unpredictable. He was a creature of instinct, driven to kill and fight, to toil and stab until his last. He summoned gusts of wind to knock Sir Amiel off balance, his spear striking with the precision of a viper.

It was all your fault. Your hubris, your self-righteousness and your overconfidence were your undoing. Unquestioned leader? No; you were a fool in pristine armour.

Sir Amiel fought back with all his might, his claymore a blur of motion as he deflected and countered each attack. The spear head was like a cobra, lunging forward and striking his cheek.

Sir Amiel stumbled backwards as the cold sting grazed his face. He gripped his claymore tightly with both hands and whirled to the right, and slashed Sir Juncan across the chest in a diagonal arc.

Sir Juncan's blood, black and decayed, spilled into the water, blending with its filth. Clutching his spear with both hands, he thrust it into the ground. A mighty twister formed, swirling the water and scattering it. The wind's force drew Sir Amiel in, and Sir Juncan impaled him with a vicious thrust to the abdomen.

Sir Amiel, teeth clenched, slammed his claymore into Sir Juncan's left shoulder and yanked it back, sliding off the spear and severing Sir Juncan's left arm. The sundered limb collapsed into the water, lost in its dark hues.

The battle continued fiercely, with water splashing in their midst. Sir Amiel's strength faded as Sir Juncan's relentless attacks wore him down. A strong gust of wind knocked him into the water, his claymore falling from his hand.

"Sir Amiel!" Cura cried out, ready to join the fray, but Sir Torolf held her back.

"No, Dragonborn! This is Sir Amiel's duel - he must see it through." Sir Torolf explained. "Honour demands it."

Cura froze when he said this, her eyes wavering. She nodded silently, accepting it and stepping back from the fray.

Sir Juncan stood over him, his spear poised for the final strike. His eyes shone white and lifeless behind his helm. His teeth were grit and his head tilted to the side.

But Sir Amiel refused to give up. With a surge of determination, he reached for his claymore under the murky depths, his fingers finding and closing around the hilt. As Sir Juncan thrust his spear downward, Sir Amiel rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the lethal blow. He sprang to his feet, his claymore slicing through the air in a desperate counterattack.

The blade struck true, cutting through Sir Juncan's defenses and sending him staggering back. Sir Amiel pressed the advantage, his strikes fueled by a renewed sense of purpose. With a final, powerful blow, he disarmed Sir Juncan, the spear clattering to the ground as the claymore tore into his heart.

Sir Juncan fell to his knees, the wind around him dying down. He looked up at Sir Amiel, his eyes filled with regret. "I'm sorry..." he whispered, in a moment of clarity.

Sir Amiel's expression softened, the weight of the battle lifting from his shoulders. "Rest now, Juncan," he said, his voice gentle. "Your fight is over."

With those final words, Sir Juncan collapsed into the water, his body sinking beneath the surface. The wading pool returned to its tranquil state, the ripples slowly fading away. Sir Amiel stood alone, his heart heavy with the cost of victory. He had emerged on top, but the price had been high. The memory of the duel would stay with him, a reminder of the sacrifices made in the name of honour and duty.

Sir Amiel stumbled backwards and fell in the water, himself. Cura and his brothers in arms rushed to his aid. Cura knelt down, allowing him to rest his head on her lap, to keep him from sinking in the water. "Sir Amiel, you did it. You avenged Sir Gregory."

Sir Amiel nodded solemnly. A lone tear ran down his cheek and he reached for the Dragonborn's hand. "Leave me, Dragonborn, I implore you. It is the only way I can truly atone for my errors..."

Cura took his hand in hers and shook her head. "No. Sir Amiel, you need to stop beating yourself up over the past. I understand how you feel... believe me, I do."

Sir Amiel inquired, "Have you... led your friends to their damnation by a foolish decision?"

Cura shook her head. "Not exactly; but it was due to my meddling that a very good friend and loyal servant died a horrific death at the hands of a swarm of City Guards in Markarth. It's a pain that will always sit with you, knowing that others have met terrible ends due to your decisions, but... I've come to realize one thing, Sir Amiel." she sighd. "Sometimes, there are things we cannot control. Things that we could never foresee. You remember what Mary said? Even being part of Mara, she cannot see everything at once. If the Divines can't see everything at once, how could we?"

Sir Amiel fell silent for a moment, before responding. "I suppose the winds of fate are unpredictable."

"Well... only perhaps Jyggalag can figure them out." Cura said with a lighthearted chuckle. "And, that's another thing... Carcette. I blame myself for what's happened to her, as well. My carelessness led to my death, which led her down the path to finding Jyggalag, and becoming a Knight of Order." Her expression saddened deeply. "But... I never could have seen that coming, either. Sometimes, Sir Amiel, life is like that. Sometimes everything is stacked against us, and no matter what decision we make, something awful unfurls as a result." She gently caressed the mourning Knight's hand and cast a Healing Spell over him.

"Sometimes... we have to pick up the pieces and move on. We can never see the full picture, but we will always do what we feel is right." Cura continued, "Sometimes the kinder act has the worse consequence while the cruel act leads to a better outcome. We just have to strive to do good and pray for guidance and wisdom. It's all we can really do."

When the golden light faded, Sir Amiel slowly folded upwards and stood up in the water. He sniffled and looked up at the decrepit statue of Dibella, and down at the body of Sir Gregory. "What am I to do about this? There is nothing that can remedy this..."

Sir Henrik stepped forward and cleared his throat. He popped open a bottle of Ale. "Hear, hear; I wish to say some kind words for a jolly old friend." He spoke up, "Sir Gregory was a man of passion and charity; he reveled in the finer aspects in life: art, prose, poetry, and music. He was a man of honour, with an incredible sense of humour, and nobody could brew a Colovian Brandy quite like he did. May he find rest, and may his life and his name never be forgotten. Hmm-hmm-hmm."

Sir Amiel nodded, understanding what he was doing. Sir Henrik took a sip from the Ale and handed the bottle to Sir Amiel, with an expectant nod. The gallant Knight of Akatosh cleared his throat and began: "Sir Juncan was a man of great wisdom and prowess. In life, he was the strongest member of our band, second only to me. However, there was no man I ever would have trusted with my life more than him. His mind was always sharp, and his spear sharper. He delivered Kynareth's blessings with every step he'd taken and honoured her name with every sentence. Animals of the world were his friends, moreso than people. His loss is a loss to us all, and a sad shame. May he find the peace that he was deprived of for so long."

Cura cleared her throat and stepped up to the group. "Whatever happens next, I want the four of you to stay close; look out for the party, and for one another. The darkness of this realm is powerful. It threatens to consume us all."

"Yes, Dragonborn." Sir Amiel bowed his head politely.

"Let us take our leave," Cura declared, her footsteps heavy as she moved towards the door, burdened by the shared sorrow of their group. Upon reaching the outdoors, Sabrina instantly hurried to Sir Amiel.

"Thank Arkay!" she exclaimed, embracing the Paladin.

Taken aback by her action, Sir Amiel nonetheless returned the embrace quietly, his eyes closed as he let his solemn demeanor fade away.

Varla asked, "So what happened up there? Don't leave us in suspense."

Sir Torolf spoke, "Sir Gregory was murdered by Sir Juncan. And Sir Juncan went mad and tried to kill us. Sir Amiel had to put him out of his misery."

As the words came out, Mary's expression shifted from one of curious concern to one of accepted sorrow. "Yes, so that was what I was feeling... oh, dear. I'm so sorry, for all of you." Korn walked over to Sir Amiel and gently pressed herself against his leg. He stroked her white fur with his hand.

Maram spoke up, gesturing at Sir Henrik. "And who is this fellow?"

"I am Sir Henrik, Knight of Julianos." Sir Henrik held a hand over his chest and beamed proudly.

"Julianos? Most curious." Mirabelle stepped forward. "Perhaps we can speak in length about the nature of magic as we traverse the wastes."

"Mm-mm. I am more of a Bookworm, myself. I am not magically-inclined, but I do know a thing or ten about Enchanting." Sir Henrik admitted.

Gloriel piped up. "Now that this matter is settled, what will we do now, Champion?"

Before Cura could speak, Carcette cut in. "The time has come. We must head to the High Fane. To Malada."

At the mention of the name, Varla's face fell. "Malada... of course." he replied, his voice tinged with apprehension.

Mary reached for Varla's hand, weaving her fingers through his. "Stay strong, Varla. This may be hard, but remember, you're not alone."

Reassured by his mother's touch, Varla's gaze grew tender, and he nodded in agreement. "Right."

Cura remembered learning of the massacre at Malada, and Varla's involvement under the false Emperor Belharza. She agreed with Mary. "What happened in the past is just that, Varla: the past. Look forward to your future outside of Coldharbour."

Gloriel also agreed. "The Champion is right; our pasts no longer define us. We are free to move forward and become anew."

Varla was growing agitated. It was clear that he would rather face it head-on than hear words of reassurance. "Okay, I get it. Can we move on, then? Sheesh." He began to walk through the roads.

Sir Ralvas took the lead, as he knew where Malada was situated in Coldharbour. Cura followed him and turned to look at Sir Amiel and her allies again. There were many demons holding them down, but they would face each one with courage, and as a party. And she resolved that no matter how difficult the road ahead would be, that she would leave no one behind.