"The Resolve of St. Cura, Vol.4
written by the esteemed Lucien Flavius, at the Arcane University in Cyrodiil
4E 223
In the fourth year into her righteous crusade there existed a time most sorrowful, Saint Cura found her soul sundered from her being by the treacherous Mythic Dawn. In the realm of Coldharbour, where the light of Aetherius does not reach, her Dragon Soul was torn from her grasp, and with it, the blessing of Akatosh faded into the chilling mists. Thus began her odyssey through the waters of Oblivion, a journey fraught with peril and shadowed by loss.
In Skyrim, her deeds became the stuff of legend; she walked the land not as a conqueror, but as a harbinger of peace and a hand of justice. Her voice, once graced with the power of the Thu'um, now carried words of reconciliation. She faced the dread Vampire Lord Harkon, and with righteous fury, brought an end to his dark reign. The World-Eater, Alduin, too, fell before her indomitable will, his fire quenched by her unyielding spirit.
Yet, fate is often cruel, and the Mythic Dawn, ever envious of her light, struck her down in her moment of triumph. As her life's blood ebbed away, Molag Bal, Lord of Schemes, did mock her plight. "Didst thou believe thyself invincible, mortal? Behold how easily the threads of fate are severed," he sneered.
But Vigilant Cura, even in her final breath, defied the Daedric Prince. "Thou mayest rend my soul, but never my resolve. I am Vigilant unto death, and beyond," she proclaimed. And so, her fate was sealed, her soul unceremoniously cast into the void; a thankless end to a heroic spirit.
In the echoing halls of Coldharbour, amidst the cacophony of lost souls and the chill of eternal despair, Vigilant Cura stood defiant before the Prince of Schemes. Her voice, though stripped of its celestial power, rang out with a conviction that pierced the oppressive gloom. "I am Stendarr's Dragon," she declared, her gaze unflinching as she faced Molag Bal. "Thy chains cannot bind the spirit of the righteous, nor can thy darkness quell the fire that burns within me."
The Daedric Prince, towering in his malevolent grandeur, regarded her with a gaze that could unravel the bravest of hearts. "Thou art but a flicker in the void, a fleeting wisp of Aetherius' light," he retorted with a voice like thunder, "Doomed to fade before my might."
Yet, Cura's resolve did not waver, for she bore the heart of a dragon, tempered by trials and imbued with the essence of Stendarr's mercy. "As long as injustice reigns, as long as tyranny besets the innocent, I shall rise," she avowed, her spirit alight with an indomitable flame. "In every breath of wind, in every warrior's courage, in every vigil kept in the night, I shall persist."
Molag Bal's laughter, cold and cruel, echoed through the realm, a sound that sought to crush hope and subjugate wills. "Then rise, O Dragon, and be shattered anew," he sneered, his power surging forth like a tempest of despair.
But Cura, Stendarr's Dragon, did not falter. With each word of defiance, she wove a legacy that would endure beyond the confines of Coldharbour, beyond the reach of the Daedric Prince's malice. Her tale, a beacon of hope for all who would follow, a testament to the strength that lies in conviction and the power of a soul undaunted by the darkness."
Cura stormed onto the dusty fields in the deserted outer wasteland beyond the gross parody of the Imperial City. The sand was wild and stung her eyes like tiny shards of glass as the Realm created another sandstorm to simply spite her, it seemed. Coldharbour feared her even as a mortal granted Meridia's blessings - how much more would it fear her with her Dragon Soul restored?
Cura's boot planted firmly in the sand and she looked up at the void above. She beckoned her team to her side. "This is not going to be an easy challenge; I've faced many Dragons already, and I can say with authority that we will need to pull our heads together if we even hope of surviving against my Dragon Soul."
She tried to appear confident, but it was becoming increasingly difficult, now that the hour was here. Cura tried to remember the words Jhunal taught her: "Dovah sos sil aav unahzaal." She repeated them over and over again, not wanting to forget a single syllable.
Sabrina cleared her throat. "Wait... surviving against? You can't just... say those funny words and magically draw it into yourself?"
Varla laughed at the Pailune Healer's foolish assumption. "Really, now, do you expect it to be so easy? This is the Soul of a Dragon. I've not seen one in my life before, but knowing simply what a Dragon is, in general... I doubt it would return willingly."
Sir Amiel inhaled and exhaled lightly. "To think I will be facing the essence of Akatosh..." He slowly drew the sword mounted upon his back, resigning himself to this fate. "I stand ready, Dragonborn. Just give the word!"
Gloriel nodded, as well. "I will do whatever I can to aid you, Champion. You have my Dawn Spear by your side, as well."
Bourlor plucked the string of his bow. "And you have the greatest Archer Tamriel has ever known, and devout of Kynareth at your disposal. Together we will hunt this Dragon - within reason, of course."
Mary advanced, with Korn by her side. "I will conjure a barrier to protect us from possible attacks, and Korn will tend to your wounds," she declared to the group. "Bear in mind that Dragons share the same Aedric essence as Korn, yet they are far more dangerous. We must remain vigilant, particularly against Cura's Dragon Soul, for it exists from Akatosh himself."
Korn barked herself in response, sensing an ethereal kinship with the Dragons of Akatosh. After all, both were of the Et'Ada. However, Akatosh was the Chief deity of the Divines for a reason: his power surpassed the others, Mara coming in close herself, but lacking next to the Time God.
Sir Torolf looked down at the Greatsword of Anui-El. "This should be effective." After all, the blade itself was Aedric in Origin, as well.
Cura turned to Sir Torolf in an effort to calm his excitement, "Err, we're here to subdue it, not destroy it. Relax, please."
Varla snickered lightly. "I don't think it's possible to destroy an Aedra. Or their creatures. I suppose in that regard, they are like the Daedra."
"And where then did the gods of the previous Kalpa go?" Sir Amiel postulated. "Those said to be of Lyg?"
Cura soured. She was going to destroy Molag Bal. It had to be possible.
Sabrina grunted with irritation. "What does it matter at the moment? We're going to fight a Dragon. Let's work out the Theological details later!"
Cura clasped her hands together. She knew that to conquer the odds, she would need the aid of the Gods to reclaim what was hers.
Sir Ralvas spoke up, returning to the task at hand. "Dragonborn, before we begin, I must ask: what can we expect from this Dragon Soul of yours, exactly? You have the most experience here of all of us where Dragons are concerned."
Maram added, "Indeed; we'd best work a strategy based around your wisdom in this matter, lest we perish in the fields running about like headless chickens." He massaged his left shoulder as he was preparing for the encroaching madness.
Cura nodded. "Bourlor, I want you to be shielded; you are going to attack it when it's Aerial. Mary, Korn; you will act as support; maintain the barrier and ensure nobody dies. Maram - Aria - the two of you are strong and stealthy, respectively. I want you to cover the perimeter - ensure the surroundings are safe. Varla, Sir Amiel, Sir Ralvas, Sir Torolf, Carcette; you will stay by my side for when the wyrm comes crashing down. Gloriel, Sabrina, I want you two to take some distance - Sabrina, you can take to the shadows and strike unseen from behind, and Gloriel, you have fine reach with your spear, and aerial maneuvers will be useful when the Dragon is airborne. We can trust Bourlor's aim to be true."
Her comrades acknowledged their assigned duties with a nod, and Cura started to stride back and forth. She fortified their resolve with her ensuing speech: "All our efforts converge on this pivotal moment, my friends. Securing my Dragon Soul will bestow upon me the privilege to wear the Amulet of Kings. With its formidable power, we shall liberate ourselves from the shackles of Coldharbour." Her movements were measured, betraying an effort to mask her underlying nervousness. "I want to say, thank you all for helping me get this far; we cannot waver now. The time is nigh, and my soul shall be mine once again. The Alessian Order, to their succinct horror, will bear to see the reunion of Man, Mer, and Dragon."
With a sigh, she held up the Dragon Soul stone. "Let's begin." She Shouted into the air, "VOKRAS STRUNKELM!"
The air remained still, as her shout barely penetrated the whirling sands around her. She cleared her throat. "VOKRAS! STRUNKELM!"
The group surrounding her lay silent. Cura grunted with frustration. She was desperately trying to tap into the Thu'um, but it was proving difficult. Bourlor stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Allow me to assist you, Dragonborn. With Kynareth's Winds, your Shout shall carry forth and penetrate the skies like a god-spearing arrow!"
As Bourlor began to focus he held up a hand and wind began to pick up from around his feet, swirling like a vortex around himself and Cura. His eyes glowed with white light and the cyclone grew more powerful around them both, creating a pillar of winds which seemed to extend into infinity. "Now!" he commanded.
Cura inhaled and felt the presence of the Divine. She looked to the clear skies above, enveloped in the column of winds and Shouted, "VOKRAS STRUNKELM!"
Her voice blasted into the skies like the roar of a Dragon. The world shook around everyone present and dust slid off of palisade walls and stones. Bones rattled and began to roll along the desolate landscape like tumbleweeds as the gale grew stronger, emboldened by Cura's Thu'um.
Author's Note: For this battle, play "The One they Fear" ;)
A loud roar shook the skies above and a white comet came raining down upon the group from the black void above. Sir Amiel was the first to notice, pointing with his mouth agape. "DRAGON!" Immediately as it came into view, Sir Amiel recognized the beast. Its form was undeniable.
Sabrina's eyes widened with terror as the white wyrm came into view. Taking in the sheer size of the creature caused her to leap backwards. She drew her dagger with trembling hands. "Th-that's your Dragon soul?!"
Gloriel gawked in amazement at the vibrant specimen descending upon them. "It shines so brightly; it is a thing of beauty!" Observing it called to mind the splendor of even Meridia. "…thus does Merid-Nunda ride across the rainbow road from end to end, at one end stretching the Dragon, at the other end compressing him…." As she succinctly explained the concept of time compression as described in the Exegesis of Merid-Nunda, it all became clear. Light, as understood by them, was quantified by Time; in essence, Light was conveyed through Time.
The Ayleid Priestess stared upon the magnificent wyrm, lost in admiration of its beauty as it edged closer and closer.
"YOL TOOR SHUL!" Cura's Dragon Soul soared above the group, unleashing a broad stream of fire across the expanse. As the flames swept through, the sand yielded to the intense heat, with fragments fusing into glass among the embers. As the flames consummated in an arc, the Dragon looped around, soaring over the group's head like a dark shadow.
Cura's smile blossomed as she closed her eyes briefly amidst the chaos of her companions' frantic spellcasting and arrow volleys. Oddly, this tumult brought her an unparalleled sense of tranquility in Coldharbour, for she found herself transported from Molag Bal's grim domain back to the familiar lands of Skyrim. Visions of past battles surged within her: Mirmulnir at the Whiterun Watchtower, Sahloknir soaring above Kynesgrove, and the numerous foes she had vanquished.
Glancing to her right, she observed Bourlor readying his bow, but in her heart, she saw Inigo.
She turned to Varla, who brandished his swords with deadly grace, yet it was Delphine's image that filled her thoughts. And a flicker of the light shaped into Esbern at her side, accompanied with his Flame Atronach.
Sir Torolf stood resolute with his greatsword, evoking in her the stalwart presence of Farkas.
Mary and Korn's figures blurred before her, strangely merging into the likenesses of Erandur and Sceolang.
Nearby, Carcette gripped Pendulum with determination, and in Cura's eyes, she was once again the Keeper, clad in her Apprentice Robes, wielding her Steel Warhammer with authority.
Beside her, phantom forms of her comrades became manifest in her mind: Lucien, brandishing dual Lightning Bolts; Vilja, poised with her Hunting Bow; Serana, hurling ice spikes; Brelyna, commanding her Frost Atronach; J'zargo, unleashing his volatile Fireballs; Onmund, alternating between Lightning Bolt and Ice Storm; Agmaer, steady with his Crossbow; Isran, hefting his warhammer; Sorine and Gunmar, each armed with crossbows; Vigilant Tolan and Brother Adalvald, standing tall; Faralda, Nirya, Phinis, Colette, and Tolfdir, vigilantly guarding the flanks; Jarl Balgruuf, wielding the Axe of Whiterun, supported by Hrongar and Proventus; Kodlak, joining the ranks; and Lydia, safeguarding Cura's back with her bow drawn to meet the Dragon, flanked by Vilkas, Aela, and Skjor.
The surrounding sands transformed in her vision, becoming the vast, white expanse of the Pale's tundra. She could feel the cold sting of winter.
Cura swiftly cast aside her nostalgia to evade a claw swipe from the Dragon, which swooped down broadly over her. Spellbreaker intercepted one of the claws, shielding her left metallic arm. In response, she launched a rapid Firebolt that missed the Dragon and detonated on a distant palisade column.
With renewed confidence, Cura stared at the Dragon of Light which soared overhead once more.
"Alright, Soul, you've had ample time to soar and explore," Cura addressed her draconic essence with firmness. "Now, it's time to return to where you came from!" She rolled out of the way of its all-consuming fire and used Spellbreaker to drink most of the flames in its ward of shimmering light.
Bourlor fired an arrow, which kinked a scale in the Dragon's right shoulder. The wyrm immediately turned its attention to the archer and swooped down, its landing causing him to stumble. Bourlor tried to gather distance, but the Dragon moved quickly on its thumbs, smoke rising from its infuriated nostrils. Bourlor was quickly joined by the blade of Sir Amiel, which struck the Dragon's nose, repelling it. "Get back! Back, I say!" Sir Amiel exclaimed as he swung wildly to defend the Archer. Facing down a Dragon was unlike anything he'd ever fought in his life, but he would do it; for the Dragonborn.
Sir Amiel stood valiant against the onslaught of the white Dragon. The beast, a specter of death with pearlescent scales that shimmered white as the peaks of the Throat of the World, roared with a fury that shook the very foundations of this forsaken land. It landed before him with its formidable jaws stretched wide, attempting to clamp him in two.
Sir Torolf, wielding the Greatsword of Anui-El, a blade that shimmered with the light of a thousand stars trapped within its steel, leapt forward, in attempt to bring it down upon the Dragon, but was immediately thrust back when it swung its head.
Sir Ralvas, with his warhammer that bore the weight of his unyielding resolve, struck with the might of thunder, each blow a testament to his indomitable spirit.
Together, they were a storm of steel and valor, but even storms break upon the immovable cliffs of destiny. The Dragon, with eyes golden like the sun itself, unleashed its wrath, a maelstrom of ice and fire that threatened to extinguish the very essence of life. The three knights, battered and besieged, found themselves teetering on the brink of oblivion, their arms heavy, their breaths shallow, their hope a flickering flame in the howling wind. A golden light kept the flames and frost away from them, held by Mary behind them.
It was then that Varla emerged, a silent avenger whose blades were whispers of death. With a dancer's grace and a warrior's poise, he danced the deadly ballet of combat, his twin swords singing a ballad of death. Each swipe caused the Dragon to back away and take to the air again.
Bourlor, the archer, his bow a crescent of promise in the gloom, let loose arrows that soared like comets, each one a harbinger of promised pain.
The Dragon was struck and began to waver in the skies, becoming a pincushion to Bourlor's indomitable bow. Its shadow cast a pall over Coldharbour, a reminder of the eternal struggle between the light of heroes and the darkness of legends. And as the beast ascended, its cry a challenge to the heavens, Shouted once more, "STRUN BAH QO!"
Storm clouds materialized out of nowhere, carrying with them the fierce jabs of thunder that struck the ground below. A cliff was hit, and a sharp ledge broke off, tumbling down to the ground. Maram and Aria stood as sentinels, a silent defense against the brutal elements. Maram, with his immense strength, broke the falling rocks, while Aria used one as a step to vault into the air and unleash a Light Spell on the Dragon, hitting its foot. The Dragon tilted to one side, then circled back, engulfing the Whisperer in a deluge of frost.
Aria fumbled over the cliff, but Varla managed to catch her. He quickly retreated under a pair of massive stones as a lightning bolt struck the ground where they stood. Maram took a hit from another bolt, but managed to stand in spite of it. He cursed his lack of offensive spells, and instead focused on healing himself and those nearest to him.
Cura stood resolute, her gaze fixed upon the soaring leviathan. Beside her, Carcette, the Knight of Order, was a figure of stoic might, stripped of emotion but not of purpose. Together, they faced the Divine's Dragon, this ancient creature of myth whose very existence was the glue that bound their fates together in the first place. The air crackled with the tension of impending battle, the silence before the storm that would shake the very foundations of Coldharbour.
Sir Amiel caught his breath and began to search the skies through the storm. Korn began to bark loudly, facing eastward as lightning and rain poured over the desolate wasteland. Maram leapt over Mary to shield her from a bolt of Lightning and Aria cast a quick healing spell on her companion.
Lightning continued to fall, and Sabrina was hit with a stern bolt which stunned her. She fell to one knee and heaved for air.
As the Dragon soared overhead, its wings casting a vast shadow across the terrain, Cura and Carcette braced themselves for the impending battle. Cura, with her resolute spirit, conjured a Bound Bow and commenced firing. Several arrows failed to hit their target, and she was forced to roll aside to evade a fierce barrage of ice unleashed from the Dragon's maw.
The whirling ball of frozen energies spun through the air and burst amidst the group, causing them unbearable chill - though thankfully, Mary's barrier mitigated the damages and all they felt was the chill of it.
Carcette, the Knight of Order, stood motionless, her presence an unyielding fortress against the chaos that the Dragon embodied. Her lone eye seemed to track its flight patterns, and she calculated her next move.
The Dragon descended, a maelstrom of power and fury, its eyes alight with the fires of creation and destruction. Its roar was a tempest, a primal force that spoke of an age when the world was unformed and the void reigned supreme. Cura met the beast's gaze, her determination a flame that would not be extinguished. Carcette, her form a bastion of Order, raised Pendulum, her warhammer and badge of office as the former Keeper: a weapon forged from the essence of structure and discipline.
The clash was titanic, a spectacle of might and magic. Mary's incantations nearby wove a tapestry of protection around them, her spells a chorus of hope amidst despair. The Dragon swooped down to attempt to claw at the party, but Carcette's warhammer struck with the precision of a clockwork, each blow a testament to the immutable laws she now served. She stood between the wyrm and Cura, parrying the Dragon's claw strikes one after another. The Dragon's flames licked at the edges of their defenses, seeking to devour all in its path.
The Dragon Soul torpedoed through the group, knocking them down as it slid over the ground with its wings outstretched before arcing back into the skies, knocking them to the ground. The Dragon roared and seemingly disappeared behind the jagged cliffs adorned with crucified Soul-Shriven.
Cura began to search around for the Dragon, fixing her gaze towards the high bluffs, but the creature had taken advantage of the vantage point, and curled around the expanse behind her, and was preparing to strike. Cura heard the beating of wings and the warning cry of Aria, and turned to see large jaws closing in on her.
It was in this perilous moment that Carcette, the stoic Knight of Order, whose emotions were thought to be long eroded by the relentless will of Jyggalag, acted not out of duty, but out of an instinctive concern that seemed to transcend her usual impassive demeanor.
With a swift and decisive motion, Carcette positioned herself between the dragon and her protégé, her warhammer brought forward, a silent sentinel against the impending onslaught. The clang of scales against metal echoed, a testament to the Knight's resolve. Cura, momentarily taken aback by this unexpected act of protection, felt a flame of hope kindle within her.
As the Dragon recoiled, thwarted by Carcette's indomitable defense, Cura's eyes met that of her mentor. In that fleeting exchange, a torrent of unspoken truths passed between them. Cura, whose heart had raced with the fury of battle, now felt a different kind of surge - a warmth that spread through her chest and tingled at the tips of her fingers. It was a spark of realization, a dawning understanding that beneath the veneer of Order's unyielding facade, there beat a heart still capable of care. In that singular act of concern, Carcette had revealed the complexity of her soul, one not entirely subjugated by Jyggalag's influence.
Cura's grip tightened around her Elven mace, not out of fear, but with a renewed vigor. She stood shoulder to shoulder with Carcette, no longer just a protégé under the wing of a mentor, but as a comrade-in-arms, bound by a shared humanity that even the God of Order could not fully extinguish. Together, they turned to face the Dragon, their spirits intertwined, their resolve unbreakable, and their weapons ever vigilant.
Accustomed to instilling fear and submission, the creature's piercing eyes narrowed, a glint of surprise flickering within the icy depths as it reared back, its powerful muscles tensing in anticipation of a renewed attack.
With a thunderous roar that echoed through the desolate plains, the dragon unfurled its vast wings, casting a blizzard of snow and ice in its wake. Yet, its eyes remained locked on Carcette, analyzing, calculating. The beast's mind, ancient and cunning, weighed the measure of its opponent. It sensed not just the physical barrier the Knight presented, but the strength of will that emanated from her very being.
As the conflict resumed, the Dragon's tactics shifted, its movements becoming more deliberate, more strategic. It no longer sought to overpower with sheer force, but to outmaneuver, to challenge Carcette's resolve and Cura's ambition with every beat of its wings and every swipe of its talons. The battle became a dance of death and honour, a test of endurance between the embodiment of Order, the Justice of Stendarr, and the sovereign of the skies.
The Dragon, with a beat of its mighty wings, launched itself into the air, its shadow engulfing the battlefield as it circled above, biding its time for another assault.
Carcette, her warhammer still ringing from the impact, cast a sidelong glance at Cura, her expression unreadable yet tinged with a silent acknowledgment of the peril they faced. She knew that in the dance of battle, each step could be their last, and yet, there was a certain beauty in the synchrony of their movements, a harmony born of shared purpose and unspoken trust. Trust in Jyggalag's predictions, trust in Cura's abilities, trust in the path they tread upon.
Cura, her resolve steeled by Carcette's unexpected act of protection, gave her mace a twirl in her hand, her eyes tracking the Dragon's every move this time. She gestured to her allies to step backwards, as she had a silent plan.
The Dragon descended once more, a maelstrom of ice and fire, its claws poised to rend and tear. But Carcette and Cura were undaunted. They moved as one, a fluid counterpoint to the dragon's brute force. Cura's shield absorbed the brunt of the onslaught, while Carcette's warhammer sang a deadly arc, seeking the chinks in the dragon's icy armor.
The dragon, though a creature of immense power, found itself matched by the combined might and cunning of the two warriors. Each strike it delivered was parried, each breath of frost was dodged with grace and agility.
The battle ebbed and flowed, a deadly dance that drew the attention of friend and foe alike. The denizens of Coldharbour, accustomed to the despair and desolation of their realm, watched in awe as hope kindled before their eyes.
Varla was awestruck by the spectacle before him; he watched Cura face the beast with the expertise of one who had faced many before. He knew in his heart that she was true. He could believe now, without a shadow of a doubt, the Dragonborn comes.
Carcette, her armour undented and her strength inhuman, never faltered. She was the bulwark against which the Dragon's wrath broke like waves upon the shore. And Cura, her spirit alight with newfound purpose, struck with precision and grace, each blow a defiance of the fate that seemed to loom over them.
As the battle reached its crescendo, the Dragon, wounded and wearied by the relentless assault, let out another defiant roar. Cura launched a Lightning Storm at the Dragon, striking it and causing it to waver in the skies. The Dragon hit the ground and Cura leapt onto the back of its neck. The wyrm began to throttle around, and Korn cast a Healing Spell onto the group. The canine barked and leapt forward, clawing at the Dragon.
Cura continued to bash the flying lizard's head and it kept trying to buck her off. With a twist of its neck, the Dragon tossed Cura into the air and tried to devour her with open jaws, but Sir Ralvas' warhammer, Sabrina's Daedric Mace, Sir Amiel's sword, Sir Torolf's Greatsword, Maram's maul, Aria's rapier, Varla's twin blades and Carcette's warhammer caused it to falter. Cura stuck the landing by catching onto one of the Dragon's horns.
Sir Torolf charged a beam of energy in his greatsword and brought it down, and a thunderous crack struck the Dragon, causing it to be flung backwards. In response to this audacity, the Dragon roared loudly, the vibration causing everyone surrounding it to go stumbling backwards as it took to the air once more with Cura clinging onto it for dear life.
Varla cursed under his breath and ran the edge of one of his swords over the edge of the second, and a piercing slick noise carved through the storm's roar. "This thing does not go down easily."
Sabrina caught her breath and stumbled backwards onto her feet. "It's a Dragon, for cryin' out loud! How does one subjugate such a thing?" She twirled her poisoned throwing knife in her left hand and gazed on it, wondering if it would even be of use against such a beast.
High above the tumultuous landscape of Coldharbour, where the air was thin and dry and the cries of her allies were but distant echoes, Gloriel the Valkyrie ascended. Her wings, resplendent as the first light of dawn, unfurled in a majestic display of golden radiance. In her hands, the Dawnspear, a weapon of divine providence, gleamed with a fierce luminescence that rivaled the stars themselves. She was a vision of celestial wrath, a harbinger of the gods' might, chasing the Dragon that dared defy the sanctity of the skies.
The Dragon twisted and turned through the skies above like an aimless rocket. It roared, a sound that resonated through the firmament, a challenge to the very order of the realm. But Gloriel was undeterred, her resolve as unyielding as the eternal mountains, her spirit as free as the winds that carried her.
With each beat of her wings, she surged forward, the air itself parting before her divine presence. The Dawn Spear, alight with the fury of a thousand sunrises, pierced the twilight, a beacon of hope for all who witnessed this aerial dance. The Dragon, sensing the threat of this celestial warrior, unleashed its own fury, a storm of fire that sought to engulf Gloriel in its infernal embrace.
Yet, the Valkyrie was swift, her movements a symphony of grace and power. She dodged the flames, her form a blur of gold and light, each maneuver a testament to her agility. The Dawn spear sang through the air, its tip tracing arcs of light that jabbed at the Dragon's eternal scales. The wyrm tried to escape her, but she prodded it like a shark with her pike, each purposeful strike a powerful stab which drew light from the Dragon's form in cinders.
Its tail was a fell hammer, casting judgment upon the Valkyrie, swatting her down like a fly with its barbed end.
Cura gasped and smacked the Dragon's head with her mace. "How dare you!" The Dragon throttled and arced, forcing Cura to grip on tighter. She knew that the Dragon would not be easy to tame, but its aggression was borne of anger. And worse still, she was responsible, for having fallen for Vonos' trap.
Gloriel was caught by the attentive Maram, who marked the location of her fall, and was swift on his feet despite his size. He gently lowered her back to the floor.
Gloriel dusted herself off and spread her wings again, but Varla cautioned against it.
"What kind of lunatic mounts a bloody dragon?!" Sabrina cried out in horror as she watched the dragon soar higher and higher.
Carcette watched silently as Cura rode the fierce Dragon soul through the tumultuous air currents above. Her exterior was cold as ice and stiff as stone, but her eye bore the burden of concern. However, she closed it and hung her warhammer on her back, ending her role in the fight.
Sir Amiel turned to her. "What are you doing, Carcette? The battle isn't over!"
Carcette turned slowly and faced him. "We have done our part. We have weakened the wyrm. The rest is up to her."
Sabrina asked, "You don't seem all that perturbed about it, so either you know the outcome already, of you've completely lost your humanity. Wasn't she like, your daughter, or something?"
"Trust in Cura's abilities." Carcette said to the others. "She has come this far. Do not underestimate her."
"She defeated Dragons because of her Dragon Soul; and now she is contending with it, and you think she'll be okay?" Sabrina furrowed her brows in annoyance. "That thing's a monster!"
"It was not merely Cura's Dragon Soul which granted her victory over her adversaries." Carcette said plainly as she turned to look upon the skies. "Most of it was herself. Her own mettle, and her faith in Stendarr, in Mara, in Meridia."
Korn sat down and panted calmingly as she looked up at the skies. Mary caressed the wolf's head. "Carcette speaks the truth. We must trust in the Dragonborn's abilities. Cura's faith defies even the darkest of places once found."
Cura clung fiercely to the Dragon Soul's broad, white scales, her fingers gripping the jagged edges as the beast ascended with a ferocious energy into the bleak skies of Coldharbour. The realm below was a desolate expanse of sandy wastes, where the joy of color seemed a distant memory, replaced by a monochrome landscape of despair. On the horizon, a sea of gray crystals loomed like a tide of frozen waves, threatening to engulf the world in its lifeless embrace.
Her Dragon Soul roared defiantly against the chains of control, its body twisting and turning in the air, trying to dislodge the tenacious warrior upon its back. But Cura, with a resolve as unyielding as the crystals below, held on. Her arms ached, and her mind raced with doubts and fears, which she tried to drown out with silent prayer as she focused on grasping the flame that was her Dragon Soul. Its touch was searing hot - like the grasp of a Phoenix, and she could feel the wear and fatigue from bearing such a force.
Not only was she assaulted by the intense heat, but as the Dragon Soul soared higher, the air grew thin, and the cold took a bite out of her skin. She recalled the moment her blade met Alduin's scales, the sound resonating like a bell toll through the halls of Sovngarde. That same determination coursed through her now, a steadfast beacon in the oppressive domain of Coldharbour.
As the Dragon Soul soared through the dismal skies of Coldharbour, it suddenly arched its back, sending Vigilant Cura tumbling from its spine like a tumbleweed, riding the length of its tail before slipping off entirely. She fell, a star streaking through the void, towards the inky black seas that lapped the shores of this desolate realm. The impact was a shock, cold and disorienting, as the dark waters closed over her head.
In the nadir of desolation, leeches swarmed in the darkness, their forms a grotesque mockery of life, writhing and twisting in a dance of death. They were not mere creatures of flesh and blood, but embodiments of depletion, draining the very essence of those who dare traverse their domain. They swarmed towards the young Dragonborn and Cura swiped and struck at them as they approached. She felt the cold tendrils of the leeches as they reached for her, their touch a chilling caress that threatened to siphon away her vitality. They were drawn to her light, to the life force that pulsed within her, a stark contrast to the pervasive decay that defined their existence. The leeches were relentless, their numbers legion, and their hunger insatiable.
She struck with Dawnbreaker, burning and withering the foes before her, but their numbers only seemed to grow as they surrounded her from all conceivable directions; writhing, wriggling, squirming, gnawing, spanning.
She cast a Lightning Storm within the water, shocking all within her immediate vicinity as panic gripped her. However, the spell was not enough to deter the disgusting creatures.
Amidst this onslaught, the depths of the sea of black gave up its dead: Soul-shriven emerged, the damned and the forgotten, those whose very selves have been stripped away, leaving only hollow shells behind. They were the lost ones, trapped in an eternal cycle of torment, their eyes hollow pits that reflected the abyss itself. They grasped at Cura, their bony fingers like claws, seeking to drag her down into the depths of their despair, to make her one of them, to extinguish the flame of her resistance.
But Cura was not so easily vanquished. Her resolve was a fortress, her faith a shield that repelled the darkness. She fought against the pull of the abyss, against the leeches that sought to drain her, and the Soul-shriven that sought to claim her. With every ounce of her being, she resisted, her thoughts a mantra of strength and perseverance. She recalled the teachings of Stendarr, the compassion that fortified her heart; the love of Mara, which surrounded her like armor; the light of Meridia, which guided her through the gloom; the wisdom of Akatosh, which gave her the patience to endure; and the courage of Talos, which lent her the might to prevail.
In the midst of the chaos, Cura channeled Stendarr's Aura, becoming enveloped in holy golden light. The leeches recoiled from her determination, their forms dissolving like mist before the sun. The Soul-shriven paused, their advance halted by the sheer force of her presence. Cura stood unbroken, a solitary figure of light in a sea of shadows, her spirit untouchable, her purpose unshaken.
With a roar, Cura thrust her arms to the sides and the light spread like a shockwave through the black waters, burning away the corruption, transforming the Black Lake into a crucible, where death was stripped from the waters. Cura's vision began to blur as the environment around her appeared to change into a spectral chamber.
Cura stood motionless, her breath a silent mist in the cold air. The walls, lined with ancient tomes and relics of a bygone era, seemed to lean in with anticipation. Then, as if woven from the very darkness itself, a spectral figure emerged. It was St. Alessia, her visage ethereal and otherworldly, yet commanding an aura of regal authority. The Amulet of Kings glowed with an inner fire in her left hand, casting a cerulean light that danced across the stone floor.
Her robes, a deep blue as if spun from the midnight sky, flowed around her like liquid. The hood, adorned with two intricate horns, framed her face - a face that bore the weight of history and the serenity of the divine. The Emperor's outfit she wore was not merely clothing but a tapestry of the Empire's legacy, each thread a story of triumph and tragedy.
Cura, realizing what she was seeing, felt a profound reverence in the presence of the saint. She knew the tales, the sacrifices made, and the power that the Amulet represented. It was a symbol of the covenant between the divine and the mortal, a beacon of hope in an age of uncertainty. St. Alessia's eyes met Cura's, and in that gaze, there was a silent exchange - a passing of knowledge and strength that needed no words.
The encounter was fleeting, as ephemeral as the morning mist, yet it left an indelible mark on Cura's soul. She understood that this vision was a guiding light, a reminder of her duty to protect the world and uphold the virtues that St. Alessia herself had embodied. With a final, lingering look, the spectral form faded, leaving behind the echo of a promise, the warmth of the amulet's glow, and a renewed sense of purpose in Vigilant Cura's heart. The chamber returned to stillness, but the air was now charged with a palpable sense of destiny. Cura knew that the path ahead was fraught with peril, but she was ready to face it with the blessing of St. Alessia lighting her way.
With a loud gasp, Cura awoke in the midst of the Black Lake again. Thanks to Meridia's armour, she was able to breathe under the fetid - now purified - waters. Bubbles rose from her nose and mouth; little glimmers of hope in the darkness, catching the dim light from the surface above. Cura slowly began to paddle upwards, when a figure caught her from the back; her Dragon Soul dove into the waters and encroached upon her from the shadows - its light carving through the blackness as its gaping maw aimed right for her.
Cura barrel rolled through the water, dodging its jaws and grabbing onto one of its horns as the Dragon arced upwards, emerging with a giant splash which shook the lake and ascending into the skies once more. Its flight, announced with a mighty roar, carried it over the Imperial City.
Cura leaned into the Dragon, pressing her body against it to gain a stronger position. "I know you're angry - I betrayed you when I struck down Vonos. I never meant to separate us... I'm sorry." she spoke calmly as she soared on the Dragon's neck.
As the Dragon crossed between two large buildings' spires, Cura gently caressed its scales. "I spent my first year as the Dragonborn rejecting you; fearing you and your power. But I have since come to love, and to respect you. You complete me."
Her words were a balm to the wyrm's anger. Its wingbeats appeared to grow calmer; smoother as Cura addressed it.
"You are me, and I am you. I look upon you looking upon me as I look back upon you." she continued, "We are a mirror; we are one. Separated, we are both lost; we are both cold, and dwelling in the dark; our flames dimming." Cura spoke softly and with reverence. "We are the blood of Shezzar and the soul of Aka. We are the Dovahkiin, together. By our honour we are sworn to keep evil forever at bay. I need you. But... I will give you the choice in this matter."
Her mission was just, and her cause was true. The Dragon Soul felt the change in her, the shift from fear to fortitude, and its efforts to unseat her became less frenzied, more measured, as if it recognized the strength of her conviction. The Dragon returned to the location where the battle had begun, and Cura's allies took notice of their return
The Dragon found a decent spot on the cliffside and landed there, and lay its chin flat on the rocky cliffside for Cura to disembark. She did, and she walked in front of the Dragon, and lowered herself to one knee, and bowed her head before the Spirit of Akatosh.
"I want you back; please, return to me. Let us be one again." Cura pleaded humbly. "I have made terrible errors, and I'm sorry; truly."
Nearby, a golden light flashed, and Martin Septim emerged from it. He stood next to the White Dragon, and his expression was stern.
The sundered Dragonborn stood before Martin Septim, the mortal voice of the divine Akatosh. Her stance was one of contrition, her eyes cast down as she spoke of the rift between her and her Dragon Soul - a schism that had granted Mehrunes Dagon a foothold in their world. "I have faltered," she admitted, her voice a whisper against the silence. "In my carelessness, I allowed the essence of my being to drift apart, and in doing so, I weakened not just myself but all of Skyrim."
Martin, clad in the regalia befitting his station, regarded her with a gaze that bore the weight of ages. "Cura," he intoned, his voice resonating with the authority of Akatosh, "your admission speaks volumes of your character. It is true that the separation of your soul has brought forth trials and tribulations upon the land. But it is also true that your heart has never wavered in its compassion for the people and the realm."
He paused, allowing the words to settle like snow upon the ground. "The Dragon Soul, the very essence of Akatosh's might, has observed your journey through Coldharbour - your valor in the face of adversity, your sorrow for the suffering of others, and your unwavering resolve to mend what has been torn asunder."
Cura lifted her gaze, her eyes alight with the fires of determination. "Then let us reunite what was divided," she said. "Let the Dragon Soul and I become one once more, that we may stand against Molag Bal and Mehrunes Dagon, and restore the fractured lands of Skyrim."
Martin nodded, a small smile gracing his lips. He casted his gaze briefly to the White Dragon, which now stood upright, the tips of its wings gripping the mountain's crags. "The Dragon Soul has witnessed your deeds and heard your heartfelt plea. It has seen the purity of your intent and the depth of your remorse. And it has judged you worthy." He stepped forward, his hand raised in a gesture of benediction. "By the will of Akatosh and the decree of Aetherius, the Dragon Soul shall be rejoined to you, Cura the Dragonborn. Rise, Champion of Skyrim, and let your light banish the shadows that seek to consume this world."
He took a step backwards and the Dragon Soul nodded to Cura.
A tear ran down Cura's left eye and she nodded. She closed her eyes and recounted the Thu'um taught to her by Jhunal. "Dovah sos sil aav unahzaal."
With those words, a radiance enveloped Cura, the fragmented whispers of her soul weaving together in a tapestry of light and power. The air around her began to shimmer with a celestial luminescence, heralding the arrival of the momentous reunion. Hues of orange and violet whirled around her and flowed into her veins, a spectacle for all who bore witness to see. The reunion was more than a mere merging; it was a reaffirmation of purpose, a renewal of vows to the land she called home and the people she vowed to protect.
Cura closed her eyes and felt the depth of the power fill her being. Her spirit was caressed and blessed, and she was taken to another place entirely; a place she hadn't been since the time within her mother's womb.
The Dragon Soul, an entity of pure power and ancient wisdom, descended like a star drawn forth from the night sky. Its presence was both overwhelming and intimate, a paradox befitting the union of the mortal and the divine. As it neared, the air thrummed with the resonance of a thousand whispered incantations, the language of the dragons that had once ruled the heavens and the earth.
Cura extended her arms, her palms open to the heavens as if to embrace the very essence of her being. The Dragon Soul, resonating with the timbre of Akatosh's will, encircled her in a dance as old as time itself. It spiraled around her, a whirlwind of draconic energy, its every turn a verse in the song of reclamation.
The light intensified, blinding in its purity, yet Cura did not flinch. She welcomed the brilliance, for it was the herald of her soul's return. The Dragon Soul, acknowledging the strength of her spirit, danced with her, a confluence of two halves of a sundered whole. The air crackled with arcane power, the very atmosphere charged with the potential of what was to come, within and without the Void.
As the union reached its crescendo, Cura felt the surge of her true nature flooding back into her. Memories of battles fought, of skies conquered, of roars that had echoed across the mountains of Skyrim - all cascaded into her consciousness. The wisdom of ages, the strength of the immortal, the fire of the dragon - it all returned to her in a clarity of realization.
The maelstrom of energy pulsed in harmony with Cura's heartbeat. With each pulse, the bond strengthened, the separation healed. The soul's light penetrated every fiber of her being, filling the crevices left by its absence with the warmth of its return.
And then, as swiftly as it had begun, the tempest of light receded. The Dragon Soul settled within Cura, a perfect fit, a missing piece restored. The radiance that had enveloped her dimmed to a soft glow, the final note of the reunion's symphony lingering in the air.
Cura opened her eyes, now aglow with the inner fire of the Dragon Soul. She felt its power coursing through her veins, its wisdom echoing in her thoughts, its courage fortifying her resolve. She was complete, the Dragonborn in her full glory, ready to face the challenges ahead with a renewed spirit.
Martin Septim watched the transformation with a sense of pride and fulfillment. "Go forth, Cura," he said, his voice a gentle command. "Dragonborn once more, let no darkness stand in your way. Reunite Skyrim, banish Molag Bal, defeat Mehrunes Dagon, and let your tale be sung by bards for generations to come."
The moment of their reunion would be etched in the annals of time, a testament to the unbreakable bond between the Dragonborn and her soul. It was a moment of triumph, of destiny fulfilled, and of a promise to the world that the champion of Skyrim would rise to defend it, now and always.
And as the light faded, Cura stood transformed. She looked around, and the White Dragon was gone, as was Martin Septim. She looked down the mountain, where all of her allies watched her in amazement, lingering awe at the spectacle they'd just witnessed.
Cura smiled at them all and looked down at her hands - her mortal and her metal both, and clenched them into fists as she felt the power course through her. With a burst of excitement, she looked up to the skies, compelled by her Dragon Soul to unleash some of her fury.
"FUS RO DAH!"
It was like an explosion emerging from her throat. A massive blast of kinetic energy warped the skies in a vicious cyclone, cracking like thunder, which shook the entire area surrounding them. The sky throttled in response and lightning shot out from the Void as it was struck.
Sabrina shuddered at the sight of it, and she locked her arm around Sir Amiel's. "By the gods... was that the Thumb? Or whatever you call it?"
"The Thu'um, the Storm Voice," Sir Torolf corrected her, though he did not turn to see her; his eyes were fixed forward. "the Ancient Nord art. She truly is... Dragonborn."
"Th-that was the power of a fully-realized Thu'um." Sir Amiel stammered, "The Power of Akatosh. This Shout harnesses the essence of the Dragons' ability to manipulate the very fabric of reality through their voice. The... the power of it comes from the Dragonborn's soul, intertwined with the souls of dragons, making it a manifestation of their will imposed upon the world, the tales say."
Mary nodded as she approached them. "The power of the gods is great; and must be tempered with responsibility, lest it become a curse rather than a blessing." Korn barked beside her, as if reinforcing the severity of her words.
Maram shivered lightly. "What she just did... I can see why the Alessians worshipped Akatosh so fervently."
Aria agreed, "He is the Chief of the Eight for a reason."
Varla accepted the facts before him. "I have never seen such power before in my life. Not even Belharza was capable of such a feat." He began to wonder; why hadn't Belharza been able to use the Thu'um?
Cura descended the cliffs and hopped down the jagged rocks before landing in front of her allies. When she approached, Sir Amiel immediately took to one knee, and Sir Ralvas and Sir Torolf followed suit, bowing their heads before the Dragonborn.
Cura was stunned by this reaction, but it did grant her a sense of satisfaction that she couldn't ignore. She looked at her party, who all began to take the knee before her, as well.
Varla lowered himself, and bowed his head in respect for his liege in a show of true respect and humility unseen before. He'd removed his tarnished helmet, and held it to his side, a Knight with honour to regain.
Mary and Korn bowed before her, as well: not simply as mortals, but as Divines - Mara, closest to Akatosh, save for Kyne.
Carcette lowered her head respectfully, and Maram and Aria knelt before Cura in submission to the Dragonborn. Sabrina bowed her head, one knee on the ground.
Gloriel lowered her head in respect as well, and leaned upon her spear silently. Bourlor lowered his head before Kyne's and Akatosh's chosen.
Cura opened her mouth once more, and addressed her party. "Thank you all, for helping me regain my Dragon Soul. Now, Coldharbour will fall before us. Whatever it may throw at us, we will overcome, and overpower." She looked at the landscape, noting the floating island, the city, the Graymarch in the west, and the Tower of Sacremnor surrounded by the barrier and she cracked her knuckles. "I was once a severed soul, and now I am whole again. I suppose I too have released Coldharbour's shackles from upon me now."
Sabrina asked, "H-how do you feel, Cura? What you did on that mountain top; it was insane!"
Cura smiled, "I've regained my Thu'um." She turned to the wide field behind them. "DUR NEH VIIR!"
A violet light shimmered and began to take the shape of a Dragon, and then manifested into Durnehviir himself. "Tiid, lingrah sizaan." the decayed green Dragon announced when he took in the sight of Cura. "Dovahkiin, it is my pleasure to see you again after so much time has passed."
Cura smiled and nodded to him, "Indeed it has, Durnehviir. Krosis, tey lingrah motag. It's a long and tedious story; I'll explain it to you as we fly." It felt great. The Dragon tongue rolled out of her mouth so flawlessly, and she could understand it again. A sentiment she missed dearly.
Durnehviir surveyed the group before him and lowered his head. Cura sat behind his horns and gestured for her allies to join her.
Sabrina pointed at herself and looked around. "Wait... you want us all to climb on a Dragon? What in Oblivion?"
Sir Amiel picked her up, sensing the lack of time for argument. "This in Oblivion."
"Mey joor." Durnehviir seemed to roll his eyes at the two of them.
The other members of the party would mount the large Dragon and hold onto his slimy scales. Carcette sat directly behind Cura silently, and Sir Amiel sat behind her. Varla had Korn against his lap horizontally to keep the white wolf in place, and Mary held onto the spikes in front of him.
Cura spoke, "Into the eastern quarter of the city, Durnehviir - where you feel the presence of another Dovah."
She recalled Kahkaankrein, who Jhunal informed her about. She would help the poor thing before making her next move.
Gloriel merely sprouted her own luminous wings and took to the skies beside Durnehviir as he flew, Cura and her allies in tow as they took to the air and proceeded towards the Imperial City again.
To Cura, it was a wonderful feeling to fly the skies freely again, and to her allies it was an immense change. Sabrina screamed with enthusiasm and fright in equal measure as they were lifted off the ground. Sir Amiel was elated, himself. Never before had he ever dreamed of the chance to ride on the back of a Dragon. It was the sort of fantasy he held in his childhood.
The sky above roared in protest, and the sands below shuddered at the sight.
For there was nothing more frightening to a Daedric Prince than the force of Akatosh.