"On the Nature of Coldharbour
by
Phrastus of Elinhir
This is Lecture Eight: On the Nature of Coldharbour. It looks to me like there are more of you here than there should be, so please check your ledger-if it says Transliminal Bridges, you're in the wrong room.
Coldharbour is the Oblivion realm ruled by Molag Bal, the Daedric Prince of brutality, slavery, vampirism, and other assorted abominations. It is not, therefore, a pleasant place. Descriptions of the plane vary widely, as usual in any study of Oblivion, but all accounts agree that Coldharbour is a dismal, cold, and largely lifeless realm pervaded by a miasma of fear, where lost souls are tormented for eternity.
This emphasizes the point made in my previous lectures, that a plane of Oblivion, being made of the very stuff of chaos, takes on form and character that reflects the nature of its ruler. Coldharbour, therefore, has been molded to embody the purposes of mighty Molag Bal.
And what are those purposes? As it happens, I can speak to this subject with some authority, for I recently acquired the library and papers of the late Cardinal Belforte of the Order of Stendarr. The Cardinal devoted his life to ridding Tamriel of Daedric cultists of all persuasions. He was particularly rigorous in his persecution of the worshipers of Molag Bal, and in his time acquired a number of their repulsive tracts and treatises.
Study of these sources reveals that Molag Bal desires, above all things, the enslavement of mortals' souls. Various loathsome means are employed to this end, the ultimate goal being the diversion of a soul from its journey to the afterlife to imprisonment and slavery on the plane of Coldharbour. Upon arrival in Molag Bal's realm, the soul attracts to itself some of the loose creatia of Oblivion, forming a corporeal body with the semblance of the shape it wore in life. These sad slaves, called the soul-shriven, then toil in torment for the glory and amusement of their master, Molag the Slave-Lord.
I share these secrets of the cult, heretofore unrevealed, so that you may ...What is that confounded commotion out in the hall? How am I supposed to lecture over those bloodcurdling screams? I can't work under these conditions."
The desolate expanse of Coldharbour lay before them, its sands shifting ceaselessly, creating serpentine trails of dust that danced through the torrid air. Cura, her face obscured by her forearm, trudged forward, her hood flapping wildly as the granules peppered her visage. Sabrina, ever the pragmatist, had adorned her ravenesque mask, a familiar shield against the relentless assault of this barren hellscape. Sir Amiel, stalwart as ever, used his cape as a barrier against the tempestuous winds that sought to drag him into the maelstrom. Savos and Mirabelle, bound by a shared resolve, huddled beneath the protective embrace of his Arch-Mage's cloak. In stark contrast stood Mary, her attire a mere roughspun tunic offering no respite from the abrasive gales; she resorted to her bare arms for a semblance of protection. Varla's gaze remained ever watchful, hir eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of change in the tumultuous climate. Korn moved with them, her fur rippling in reverse as if rebelling against the fierce gusts that sought to claim it.
"Gods - this storm's worse than the tumultuous weather in the mighty old Alik'r. What did you do, Cura?" Sabrina groaned as she resisted being pushed back by a stray gale.
As the wind surged with a ferocious intensity, its roar was laced with the piercing screams of bitter torment, echoing a relentless denunciation of Cura. The soft, ghastly murmurs encircled her, each one laden with scorn and malice, as they amalgamated into a tumultuous vortex of spiteful fury.
Fortuitously, the group stumbled upon what appeared to be a quaint village, featuring a handful of deserted wooden dwellings nestled amidst imposing boulders and the mountainside. "Tele Village." Sir Amiel introduced the barren township to the group. "I'd not come here in some time." One of his daily carvings was etched in a stone nearby, reading "40,390."
Cura promptly guided the others into the nearest house for refuge. Upon their entry, Varla swiftly secured the front door, ensuring the pervasive haze remained outside.
Sabrina shook some sand from her hat and swiftly removed her mask, peeling it off as if it were a second skin. "I've never witnessed a sandstorm of this magnitude in Coldharbour before. What about you, Sir Amiel?" she asked, turning to the seasoned resident.
Sir Amiel shook his head. "No. Not since Jyggalag invaded. It's certainly a reaction to your efforts, my lady. Coldharbour is angry."
It seems that Molag Bal is quite unhappy with your actions so far. Excellent job." Mirabelle said with a self-satisfied smirk as she settled into her chair at an ancient, dilapidated table. Earning Molag Bal's displeasure was a move in the right direction. Perhaps Cura's persistent meddling was causing him to grow anxious now.
She has conquered Vernaccus and Menta-Na, slain groups of Alessians, put an end to the Thrassian Plague here, thwarted the sent assassin, triumphed over Varla, and now has vanquished Pelinal Whitestrake and purified the Barrier Tower in the East. Such feats are sure to instill terror in the Daedric Prince, particularly with the impending invasion of Jyggalag on the western frontier. And astonishingly, she has yet to reunite with her Dragon Half.
Where was this moxie when it came to Ancano, she had to wonder. Perhaps facing her own death fundamentally changed Cura in some way.
Mary shook her head, indicating her disagreement with the hypothesis. "No, I don't believe this storm was the work of Molag Bal. I think it originated from the dimension itself. Another dreamer has been liberated from its clutches." As she seated herself, Korn came over and rested her chin on Mary's lap. The kind woman gently stroked the canine's forehead with a tender motion.
Savos Aren leaned next to a bookshelf and scratched his chin. "I wonder..." he looked at Varla and at Mary. "You two have been here for a very long time. The mark you've left on Coldharbour is no doubt a potent one. Perhaps since you've abandoned your stations, the dark energy cannot find a suitable host."
"And with Cura freeing Pelinal and eradicating that Barrier Tower, she untangled a web of power." Mirabelle added in. "Oh, yes. Cura, you've meddled in much of the Realm's machinations. I would not be surprised if the realm itself sees you as a threat now."
"If it didn't already, it was foolish." Cura replied bluntly as she pulled her hood down. She dusted off her clothes. A cold shiver ran up her spine as calmness settled around the group. She sat upon a collapsed shelf to rest for the meantime. "Now, to enter the city. How can we enter from the east?"
Varla looked at his mother briefly, and then at Cura. "The Prison Tower. We have to kill the Prison Keeper to get the key to open the door."
Mary shivered for a moment when she'd heard it. "The... the Prison Tower?" The very one she was condemned to death in. Varla nodded her way, confirming her fears. Korn sat upright beside her and gave her a confident bark; a reminder that should they go, she was with her now.
"Oh, for the sense of Tava and love of Mara! What are you sayin', you don't have a key yourself?" Sabrina called out the former vassal knight of Molag Bal.
Varla found the tone of her voice displeasing, and his stern response would make that evident. He leaned forward in his seat, his large frame imposing, as he rested his forearms on his thighs. "No, I don't. Those of us stationed outside the city were compelled to remain there. My duty was to guard the eastern tower. That bastard was willing to sacrifice me as a mere meat shield to safeguard his city."
Sabrina positioned herself across the room from him, her trust entirely withheld. His notoriety as a violent madman was well-known, and the slightest twitch in his brow prompted her to seek cover behind Sir Amiel. Despite this, Varla made no move against her.
Cura maintained vigilant oversight of Varla, whose lineage bore the complex legacy of the tainted Blood of Ada, much like Pelinal and his malevolent progenitor, Umaril. This heritage endowed Varla with the capacity for profound acts of love and benevolence, paralleled by an extraordinary prowess. Yet, it also predisposed him to bouts of severe aggression and brutality. His dual nature was a constant balancing act between the extremes of his abilities and inclinations.
Savos moved away from his position and accidentally knocked a book off the ancient shelf and it dropped to the floor, its loose yellow pages barely hanging on. "Oh. Oops. I suppose I'm fortunate that Urag is not here with us. I can already hear his reprimands over that aged book." He playfully teased the absent Orc's passion for literature as he made his way to where Mirabelle was standing, close to a dingy, gray old staircase.
The pair began to deliberate on the most prudent course of action. Given the city's vastness and complexity, they recognized the need for careful navigation amidst the chaos wrought by Molag Bal's miscreants. As they ascended the stairs, their discussion continued, now that they had ample time to reflect.
Cura was fascinated by the age of the book that fell to the floor and wondered if it was still legible. She carefully slipped the loose pages back into place and opened it to read the fading letters within:
"The Eight Saints of Cyrod
An account of the eight men and women who served and were canonized by the prophet Marukh.
The original manuscript was lost during the War of Righteousness, and the following is a compilation of fragments from a manuscript found at lake Ilinalta.
Sard
A woman of eternal youth with one red and one blue eye. She used to be a handmaiden of St. Alessia. After Alessia's death, she first served Emperor Belharza and then, after the founding of the Alessian Order, she served prophet Marukh. Thanks to the blessing of St. Alessia old age could never touch her and even at the age of more than a hundred years she still kept the appearance of a young woman. After Marukh's death, she aged rapidly, as if she suddenly remembered mortality before finally turning to ash, leaving behind only her jewel-like eyes.
Moura
A great healer born in High Rock. Her true name was Mary. She had possessed exceptional healing powers and cleansed lake Ilinalta of the tainted blood of the vampires within a single night. It is said she was executed after the confrontation with the Alessian Order during the Thrassian plague epidemic. Because of this, her name was erased from the later records of the Alessian Empire.
Jhunal
A mage from Atmora. After he was banished from Skyrim, he joined Marukh's Alessian Order. His extensive knowledge of magical runes contributed greatly to Marukh's growing influence in the eastern parts of the Empire. In his last years, he completed a secret arcana called "Marukh's Torch" which could burn down an entire city, but was exiled from the Order when he refused to share this secret art with the Alessians. After Jhunal's death, the knowledge of his arcana was passed to his most trusted disciple Cosmas. However, to regain the trust of the Alessians, Cosmas used the arcana to cleanse several cities, including Malada and Pailune. Since Jhunal had been expelled, the name of his disciple Cosmas was used in the later records of the Alessian Empire.
Nenyond
Originally a feudal lord, ruling over eastern Cyrod. He was a member of the Marukhati Selectives but was considered very moderate among the fanatics. He spent his entire fortune to build an underground priory on his territory, but after finding ruins from the Dawn Era he disappeared along with his friend Manthar. After his disappearance, the seat of the eastern lords was taken over by a knight named Varla on the recommendation of Emperor Belharza.
Manthar
He was a sorcerer and an architect of the Alessian Order. He was involved in the construction of hundreds of priories supported by Nenyond. After completion of the underground priory, he disappeared along with Nenyond while exploring the ruins discovered during the construction work.
Silorn
One of the founders of the Marukhati Selectives. They say he saved a drowning baby from the lake Rumare, just as Marukh's prophecy foretold. He went into the depths of the ancient ruins to search for the missing Nenyond and Manthar, but after a few days, only his skin returned to the surface. As a result, the entire underground priory and the excavated ruins were sealed.
Caliburn
One of the founders of the Marukhati Selectives. Even within the sect he was considered one of the most fanatical. He took the holy body of Marukh to Malada and tried to open a gate to Aetherius there but failed and vanished, along with hundreds of his followers.
Pelan
Unknown origin. It is said it was he who found the prophet Marukh deep in the jungles of Colovia. As Marukh's most trusted servant, he was entrusted with the care of his relics after Marukh's death. Thanks to the blessing of St. Alessia, his life extended for thousands of years, but his form gradually became less and less human.""
After finishing her reading, Cura reflected on some of the names mentioned. Lake Ilinalta. It reminded her of her beautiful homeland, Skyrim. She had never visited the lake herself, but she knew it was where the White River originated, which flowed towards Whiterun. A poignant sense of nostalgia washed over her. She longed for Skyrim, her friends, and her family. Yet, she took solace in having Savos and Mirabelle by her side.
She opened the book again to reread the text, and focused on its contents, word by word.
It was so odd, seeing the text which read: "the seat of the eastern lords was taken over by a knight named Varla on the recommendation of Emperor Belharza" while the very Varla in question was sitting adjacent to her, now her ally, but originally a loathsome obstacle in her path. The chapter detailing 'Moura' captured her attention profoundly, particularly because her personal acquaintance with the woman surpassed the author's secondhand account. The brief period they spent together granted her a perspective that the pages of the book could not convey. It was a peculiar sensation, to have a living image to associate with the name that lay flat on paper.
It is said that Silorn rescued a baby from drowning in Lake Rumare. Cura remembered the vision given to her by Varla during their initial encounter in his hall, where Belharza mentioned that as an infant, he was thrown into Lake Rumare by the Ayleids.
Though Cura was more than certain at this point that it was not the Ayleids who cast Varla into the Lake, but the Alessians themselves.
The annals of history are replete with tales of treachery and the vilest of atrocities committed in the name of power or faith. The Alessians, with their crimson garb symbolizing both their fervor and the blood on their hands, have been known to commit acts that would make even the most hardened soul shudder. The burning of an innocent at the stake is a heinous act, one that leaves an indelible mark on the collective conscience of humanity. It is said that out of such unspeakable acts, sometimes a glimmer of decency emerges, like a lone star in the darkest night. Silorn might have been such a star, a solitary figure whose moral compass guided him to an act of kindness towards a child born under the most tragic circumstances - a child whose very existence was a reminder of an atrocity, a hybrid borne of fire and suffering.
This child, Varla, might have been seen as nothing more than a burdensome reminder of a past best forgotten by those who wielded power. Yet, perhaps it was Belharza who saw beyond the child's origin, who felt the weight of guilt for an act so cruel that it could not be borne in silence. In adopting Varla, Belharza may have sought redemption for himself and for his people. It is often in the aftermath of cruelty that we see the true measure of a person's character. Whether out of guilt, compassion, or a desire to right a wrong, Belharza's act stands as a testament to the complex tapestry of human emotions and the capacity for change.
History may never fully reveal the motives behind such actions, but it is clear that even amidst the darkest deeds, there are those who strive for a sliver of light. Perhaps this is what defines us - not the acts of cruelty that some may commit, but the acts of kindness that others perform in response. In this way, even in times dominated by crimson - clad psychopaths, there remains hope for humanity.
The more Cura pondered on it, and searched within her heart, she knew it to be true. The gods often convicted the hearts of men, so as to prevent the entire world from spiraling into chaos - for if it did, what good would that do for anybody?
Cura stole a sympathetic glance at Varla, who was ppresently occupied with discussing fighting techniques with Sir Amiel, and she felt nothing but pity for him. As despicable as he was, there was no question as to why he turned out that way. Had they lived in the 4th Era, his mother would never have been burned at the stake, and they likely could have lived somewhere in Skyrim - perhaps Riften, for better or for worse. At least there is a Temple of Mara there, and no Alessian Order.
How many people had been pushed into acts of cruelty, or raised to be murderous in those days? She was beginning to see what Alduin's point was about the darkness of their kalpa.
Though faced with the daunting legacy of the World-Eater, the Breton heroine stood firm in her conviction. She would not succumb to despair; instead, she clung to the belief that a luminous future lay ahead for Tamriel—a future she was determined to realize. With an unwavering sense of purpose, she vowed to reflect upon the dark deeds of the Alessian Order, ensuring that such atrocities would never be repeated. Her resolve was unshakeable, a testament to her belief in redemption and progress.
Tamriel could be better than this. It will be better than this. Nobody will ever have to suffer like that again. If Cura had it her way, she would make it so. And she will, once freed from the clutches of this wicked Realm.
What were Inigo and the others doing? Were they taking the fight to the Daedra? She worried for them, though she knew Inigo could handle it. She trusted her life in his loyal hands before and he never let her down. She knew Skyrim was in good hands.
Cura extended her Dwarven Metal hand over the table and tapped Mary on the upper arm. "You're mentioned in this book. And so is Varla."
"What?" the gentle woman was surprised to hear it, but Cura gently laid it down on the table to show her, and she pointed to it. After reading it, Mary was confused. "Why was I considered a Saint under the Alessian Doctrines? They burned me alive!"
"I suppose maybe it was a consolation to the people who believed in you?" Cura presumed. "A retroactive admission to a mistake? I suppose that was why they changed your name to 'Moura.'"
Mary rubbed her chin thoughtfully, her mind racing with a whirlwind of thoughts. With a sudden spark of recognition, she jabbed her finger towards the final name etched on the list before her - Pelan. "Pelan," she exclaimed with a mix of revelation and bitterness in her voice. "That's the man who doomed me to burn at the stake. The very Inquisitor who mocked me within the cold, unforgiving walls of the Prison Tower. It's almost poetic, isn't it? That he, who once walked in Mara's light, would be the one to cast such darkness upon me."
"Inquisitor Pepe?" Cura was taken aback by the revelation. It said that as time went on he looked less and less human. It explained the mask and the tentacles. "I think he cast himself into that darkness too." she remarked with a snort of amusement. Truly, his was the first face she saw when she'd first entered this filthy dimension.
"That smarmy bastard. Not much of a surprise, there." Sabrina scoffed. "Good for him, then, that he looks like a cuttlefish now." She elbowed Sir Amiel in the side and he scoffed as a reaction. He was silent and dignified, but his eyes definitely echoed her sentiment.
Varla sat upright. "Inquisitor Pepe—the old man who resides in the Southwestern Corner of the mainland, in the priory at the Waterfront District? That's the scoundrel who..." The large knight twirled his dagger between his index finger and thumb before plunging it into the table. The abruptness of this action caused the others to startle slightly. "I see. I wish I had known that ages ago."
On his face was written an expression of pain and disgust. The look of a Hunter who found his target shone in his eyes. If this was true, then he owed the old Inquisitor a debt of death.
Mary gently placed her hand over Varla's, offering a comforting touch that bridged the silence between them. "Time has a way of blurring the edges of past events, Varla. What transpired is now a memory, distant and indistinct to History. I was unaware of his presence in this domain too, but I believe he has endured his share of tribulations. I'm convinced he has paid his dues."
Mirabelle approached the disheveled woman with a compassionate gaze, extending her arms to offer a set of neatly folded green robes. "Pardon me - Mary, isn't it? I stumbled upon these garments discarded near an upturned armoire. They seem scarcely used and might serve you well," she said, closing the distance between them. With a gentle motion, Mirabelle placed the robes into Mary's hands, her eyes reflecting a sincere intent to aid.
"Thank you, Mirabelle," expressed Mary with a tone of genuine gratitude as she carefully received the robes from Mirabelle's hands. As her gaze fell upon the garments, a look of astonishment spread across her face. "These clothes... no, they are not just similar; they are the spitting image of my old cloak and gown. It's astounding! You found these upstairs?"
Mirabelle gave a nod, and behind her, Savos Aren appeared, clutching several tarnished daggers. He disposed of them, throwing their rusted forms under a collapsed bureau, recognizing their uselessness to anyone. "Indeed, it is quite uncanny, isn't it?" he remarked as he continued to rummage through the premises.
Sabrina nodded in agreement, her voice tinged with a hint of nostalgia as she shared her own tale from the shadowy depths. "Yeah, this place has a way of knowing who walks its grounds. It's hardly shocking, really. I mean, when I first stumbled into this place, it was pure panic for the first hour. But then, there it was - my healer's attire, as if the Realm itself had chosen to clothe me in familiarity. It's strange how this place molds itself around us, isn't it? It's like it has a sense of our past, our memories, and it uses that to shape our experiences here."
Sir Amiel confirmed, 'Indeed. Upon my arrival, I donned my old knight's attire, not the armor set of the Knights of the Nine. I was adorned in this - which held deep personal significance to me in life. I never took this armor on extended campaigns for fear of damaging it - and now, here it is, tarnished with rust, adorning an old, unsuccessful knight.' A sense of shame enveloped him as he motioned towards the corroded cuirass and the disheveled, faded red cape. 'Ah, it matters little. I mirror the surroundings here. Nothing pure endures in Coldharbour. That is why I eagerly anticipate departing this realm with you, Dragonborn.'"
Cura nodded reassuringly at the despairing knight. "Don't worry. I will make good on my promise. I promise. Er... well... yeah. You understand what I mean." she rubbed her left shoulder, where Pelinal had embedded his blade during their duel. Though it was many hours ago, she was still incredibly sore there, even in spite of the Healing Spells.
She still couldn't believe that she survived both Pelinal and Umaril. Was it dumb luck? Or was it destiny?
But one thing was certain: blades, once drawn, could not be put back in their sheaths.
Her campaign against the dark realm of Coldharbour had escalated beyond mere skirmishes and into full-blown spiritual warfare. The stakes were higher than ever; it was not just about confronting the malevolent Daedric Prince who ruled this plane of oblivion, but also facing the wrath of the dimension itself. Every step she took was a defiance against the very fabric of that world, and there was no path left but forward. She understood the gravity of her situation - there was no possibility of retreat or surrender. The commitment she had made was irrevocable, and she braced herself for the relentless battles ahead. Her resolve was as stubborn as the forces arrayed against her; she would either emerge victorious or not at all. The war for her soul, and potentially for all of Nirn, was only just beginning.
She looked at her allies and assessed their place in all this. They followed her willingly forward into this long fight. Their lives were at risk due to her actions as well. Had she never come, they would have continued to languish in relative peace - but then again, what kind of existence would that be, reliving their horrific pasts again and again? It was freedom they sought; and the path to freedom was one paved with much pain and sacrifice.
Cura's heart swelled with hope as she envisioned a future for her companions in the vast, untamed lands of Skyrim. Her mind buzzed with possibilities, each more promising than the last. For Mary, the warm embrace of Riften seemed like a sanctuary tailor-made for her, in spite of the Thieves Guild - though they would find nothing worth stealing from her. The Temple of Mara would surely open its doors wide, offering solace and acceptance for her unique journey. Korn's loyalty was unwavering; wherever Mary's path led, she would follow, her presence a silent vow of protection.
Sabrina's spirit, wild and untamed as Falkreath's sprawling forests, would find kinship among the whispering pines and the tranquil graves that dotted the landscape. It was a place where one could lose themselves to find themselves, and Cura believed it matched the fire in Sabrina's soul.
Sir Amiel's valorous heart would beat in harmony with Whiterun's vibrant life. The city's open skies and bustling streets promised a new chapter for the weary knight, a place to hang his sword and fill his lungs with the crisp mountain air. Jorrvaskr's hallowed halls might echo with his tales of bravery, his stories intertwining with those of the legendary Companions.
Varla, whose existence had been woven with feudalism and suffering, might at last encounter tranquility in her age. The Fourth Era whispered promises of peace, extending an offer to repose and, perhaps, to dream unfettered by the specter of carnage that once loomed over him. Here, he might unearth a joyful life, one where he could atone for his former misdeeds and reinvent himself.
Once Dagon and the Civil War were dealt with, and if the Thalmor were pushed back into their corner, of course.
As Cura pondered these fates, she felt a surge of determination. She would guide them, protect them, until every last one found their place in her world. Their destinies were intertwined with hers, and together they would carve out their own legends under Skyrim's eternal sky.
It was just a thought, at this moment in time. A pipe dream. The winds of Kyne, as Pelinal had put it; visions of a kinder world.
Mary emerged from the adjacent room, now adorned in a decorative pine green gown embellished with the ancient Celtic knots of High Rock. She wore a hooded cape, clasped with a medallion that featured a blue gemstone set within a knotted cross pattern, mirroring the Amulet of Mara from Skyrim.
When Varla saw her he was pleasantly surprised. The statue outside of his Fort was really true to life.
Mirabelle felt nostalgic when she saw the patterns on the robes. "By Nulfaga's shriveled hair. Seeing those aged patterns makes me feel like I'm in Daggerfall again. It is quite strange."
Savos Aren laughed. "It really does seem like a march through the annals of History here in Coldharbour, doesn't it? In a bizarre way, I suppose it's like being a visitor in a very dangerous eclectic museum."
Korn approached her master with a joyful squeak and nuzzled against the Breton woman's legs. Mary knelt and started caressing the white wolf, who appeared significantly more content. It seemed that a sense of nostalgia had also returned to her.
Mirabelle beamed proudly. "The Direnni were a lot of things, this is true. But their style was undeniable."
Cura turned to the Master Wizard. "Mirabelle - if I recall correctly, was High Rock opposed to the Alessian Order?"
Mirabelle chuckled when she heard this. "Oh, yes. I suppose they were the one case where all of Bretondom was united over a cause."
Savos Aren settled into a nearby seat and shared his knowledge of history. "The Alessian Empire was accustomed to quelling uprisings, but the successful secession of western Cyrodiil under Rislav Larich's leadership in 1E 478 marked the onset of their decline. The Direnni capitalized on this in High Rock by outlawing the Alessian Doctrines, and subsequent military losses, especially at the Battle of Glenumbra Moors, left the Alessians unable to rebound. Ultimately, neither the Direnni nor the Alessians secured control over High Rock; instead, it was the Bretons who emerged to claim sovereignty over their territory. In 1E 480, Wulfharth's inaugural decree as High King of Skyrim was to prohibit the Doctrines. Despite this, much like their founder, the Alessian Order showed resilience and seemingly persisted for nearly two millennia (although some historians dispute this timeline). It is believed they spent a significant portion of the First Era contesting with the Direnni for dominion over High Rock. The Bretons eventually aligned with the Alessian Empire during Empress Hestra's rule in 1E 1029. However, nearly a thousand years later, they withdrew due to the Order's 'excesses.' A failed attempt by the Alessians to reintegrate them into the Empire in 1E 2305 resulted in further detriment to the Alessians."
Cura laughed when she heard that. "I guess when you're an Order dedicated to eradicating elves, it would be easier said than done to get the people whose entire culture is an amalgam between men and elves to bend the knee to you."
The vicious storm that had previously been battering the old house appeared to have subsided at last. Sabrina took the liberty to peek out the door and saw that it was indeed calm. "Coast's clear. Are we gonna make a run for it or what?"
Varla raised his hand. "Hold on. Don't assume it's safe just because the wind is silent."
"But I just looked. It's clear outside. No sand blowin' anywhere." Sabrina was upset by his disbelief. She knew it was safe. "You know what? Let me show you myself." she pried the door open and headed out in a hurry to illustrate her point.
"Sabrina, no!" Cura leapt up from her seat and headed to the door.
As the obstinate Plague Doctor moved a short distance away, she paused in the clearing and extended her arms. "See? All is well now. Let's proceed!"
In an instant, an unseen entity swooped down, hoisting her into the air, and Sabrina's scream pierced the silence. Cura burst forth, followed by Sir Amiel, Mirabelle, Savos, Varla, Mary, and Korn.
Author's Note: for this fight, "Silver for Monsters - Witcher 3" ;) thanks for reading!
"Stubborn fool!" Varla exclaimed, his attention fixed on the surrounding atmosphere. He pinpointed the source of the screams encircling the mountain ahead, drawing an imaginary line through the air with his index finger. "She's been seized by something in flight."
Her cries resonated, signaling a clear struggle as the Pailune healer resisted whatever held her captive. Uncertain of which weapon to choose, Cura preemptively prepared by conjuring a Fireball in her Dwarven Metal hand. She followed Varla's finger as she traced the skies.
Sabrina's heart pounded as she found herself suspended mid-air, her grip tightening on the hilt of her dagger. The blade, laced with a lethal toxin, sank deep into the shoulder of her assailant as they soared around the craggy peak. The creature's identity was now clear in the morose lighting - a Vampire Lord of formidable strength and ancient power. Despite her efforts, the beast clutched her unyieldingly, its fangs piercing through the toughened leather of her collar as they landed on the cliffside. The Vampire Lord's eyes glowed with a malevolent fire, but Sabrina knew she must not yield to fear; her survival depended on it. She pushed on his ugly face with both hands to pry him away from her neck, which he was growing closer to penetrating with his fangs.
Enveloped in the formidable grasp of the creature, she felt an intense agony piercing through her being. The pressure from its mighty hands was unrelenting, each squeeze sending waves of pain coursing through her frame.
"A Vampire!?" Cura's voice echoed with a mix of surprise and disdain as she swiftly pulled Auriel's Bow from her back. Her hands moved with practiced ease, the ebony arrow fitting snugly against the bowstring. The dark realm had been a place of constant wonder and terror, a landscape where the impossible seemed to lurk around every corner. Yet, in this moment, the presence of a vampire felt almost disappointingly ordinary. Despite the myriad of horrors she had faced, Cura chided herself for not anticipating this encounter. Vampires, after all, were as much a part of this nightmarish domain as the shadows that danced at its edges.
The sandstorm was brewing once again, and Varla uttered a curse at Sabrina's impatience. "That fool will be our undoing!'"
Cura had difficulty focusing her bow, and once the Vampire Lord took notice, he turned over to his side, angling Sabrina between himself and Cura's arrow. Cura was not confident enough to attempt to pierce her new friend to hit him.
Savos and Mirabelle stayed their hands as well, for any Destruction spell would undoubtedly hurt their captive ally as well. The Vampire Lord laughed at the lot of them. "Do you fear harming one of your own? That is fine; she will be out of our way soon enough." He licked his blood-coated fangs and readied to sink them back into her neck.
"Son of a-" Sir Amiel tried to find another angle to snipe him with his own bow, but the fiend was sheltered by jagged stones to the right and left. Being on lower ground set the group at a disadvantage. The sands got in his eye, causing the knight to flinch and grunt as he tried to rub them out of it with the back of his right hand. The sharp stinging sensation was distracting.
In that instant, Mary walked in front of Cura, interrupting the draw. She looked back to her ally and nudged her head downwards, informing her to lower the bow, as there was a risk of hurting Sabrina on accident with it. Her focus sharpened and she stood firm, her gaze piercing through the tumultuous scene before her. With deliberate intent, she brought her hands together, fingertips touching, and began to channel her inner energy. A warm glow emanated from the space between her palms, growing brighter and more intense by the second. It was as if she was harnessing the very essence of sunlight, shaping it into a tangible force.
The light coalesced into a brilliant orb of golden luminescence, casting long shadows behind the combatants and bathing the area in its radiant hue. Then, with a grace born of absolute control, Mary thrust her hands forward. The golden orb surged forth in a beam of pure energy, a bolt of incandescent power that cut through the air with unerring precision. It found its mark on the Vampire Lord's right leg, where it exploded in a silent conflagration of light and heat.
The impact was immediate and devastating. The Vampire Lord's flesh sizzled and smoked under the intense heat of Mary's attack, the scent of charred skin filling the air. He let out an unearthly howl of pain and rage, his leg now a ruin of blistered tissue and exposed bone. The golden energy had not only scorched his flesh but had also seared away the dark magic that sustained him, leaving him vulnerable and weakened.
Mary's display of power served as a turning point in the battle. Her allies rallied at the sight, their morale boosted by her formidable display of arcane prowess. The tide began to turn as they pressed their advantage.. The Vampire Lord, now limping and diminished, found himself on the defensive as he struggled to fend off the renewed assault. In that moment he recoiled backwards and dropped Sabrina, who rolled down the nearby rocks, barreling towards the rough terrain below.
Sir Amiel, swift as the wind even with grains of sand biting at his vision, lunged forward in a gallant effort to rescue the Pailune Healer. The ordeal had left her dazed, her senses scattered like leaves in a storm. His attempt at a heroic catch was anything but graceful; she tumbled onto him in a heap rather than being swept into his arms. There they lay, a tangle of limbs and intentions, the aftermath of chaos momentarily giving way to an unexpected closeness.
Cura and her allies began their assault, hurling spells at the batlike fiend as he took to flight with a demonic hiss. The fiend fled westward over the crags and looped back around, firing a bolt of red energy against the group. Cura held up Spellbreaker, but Mary had them covered: she closed her eyes, and with a wave of her hands, summoned a protective barrier around the party, which took the hit before vanishing.
Auriel's Bow loosed a sunlight-fuelled arrow against the beast, and then the Vampire Lord's eye gleamed. He shifted backwards abruptly to dodge the arrow and landed on top of the wooden house behind them. "Wait... I know you. That bow! You can't be..." he hissed furiously, as he was forced to use his arms to hold his posture, as his left leg was gone. His eyes fell upon the Elven Mace on her right hip and Dawnbreaker on her left hip, and Spellbreaker bound on her left arm and a glint of recognition shone in his eyes. Using his dark power, his body began to morph back into its original shape: Vingalmo.
Cura's gaze intensified as she discerned the malevolent figure before her. "It can't be... you served in Harkon's court!" The memories flooded back, of him poised to strike during her initial encounter with the court, escorted by Serana after her escapade in Dimhollow Crypt. It was a moment as vivid as when she first laid eyes on Carcette there, cursed with vampirism post the destruction of the Hall of the Vigilant. It happened all around the time she'd escaped Cidhna Mine. It was all coming back to her now. It was not too long after Lydia died, and before she met Lucien.
A sinister grin spread across his face as he beheld the figure before him. "And here you are, the twist of fate personified! Oh, how the threads of destiny weave such intricate patterns! My glorious Lord Molag Bal, have you bestowed upon us this glorious chance for retribution? We stand humbled and eager to seize the moment. Our hearts pound with fervent zeal as we ready ourselves to right the wrongs of yesteryears. Let the games begin!" a violent cackle erupted from his throat as he savoured the image of drawing and quartering Cura. He could savour the taste of her blood and flesh now, and the crushing of her sinews beneath his teeth.
Mirabelle looked at Cura with astonishment. Cura returned the expression; she'd expected it, at least in part, but at the same time, she hadn't. Or perhaps she thought they would have forgotten her in the realm's madness.
Varla stood in front of Cura and drew his bow at Vingalmo. "You will not touch her."
"You're finished, Dragonborn. Vigilant. Dawnguard." Vingalmo spat each title out like a sour grape as his eyes fixed onto Cura's familiar face.
"You will not touch her!" Sir Amiel spat as he loosed an arrow into Vingalmo's stomach, causing the Altmeric Vampire to recoil.
Korn, with a deep growl resonating from her throat, paced back and forth. Her eyes, fixed intently upwards, glinted with a predatory sharpness. Each bark was a thunderous demand, echoing through the air, a clear challenge to the fiend. She implored, with every fiber of her being, for her adversary to descend into her domain, where her fangs awaited eagerly to engage him.
Vingalmo doubled over backwards, barely able to hold himself upright. The searing pain from Mary's Restoration attack rendered him in unthinkable anguish. He instead began to levitate and hovered above the house. "See you in Castle Volkihar... if you have the courage to face us again."
Cura released another arrow, which he swiftly evaded in his agile maneuvers. The ensemble unleashed a barrage of spells and arrows in his direction as he ascended, with one of Varla's keenly aimed bolts striking his right side. The impact caused a momentary lapse in his aerial grace, yet he regained composure with haste and vanished from sight, navigating beyond the distant bluffs.
Sir Amiel slowly moved Sabrina off of him and stood upright, tracking Vingalmo's flight. "By the looks of it, this Castle Volkihar may be near the desolate Island due East." he gazed into the distance, his eyes fixating on the memory of the ominous expanse of dark waters that stretched beyond the rocky cliffs that obscured their view. "It's over the blackened waters," he remarked solemnly, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken fears. "I suspect it would be a treacherous path to reach it." Cura's other companions of Coldharbour nodded in agreement, their faces etched with concern.
Mary spoke up, reminding him of things past. "Perhaps even the Leeches that once dwelled in my prison may lurk within the waters. Ones who may have escaped my influence when Sabrina opened the valve."
"I'm just the gift that keeps on givin', it seems..." the plague doctor murmured sarcastically, her voice barely rising above a whisper as she lay sprawled atop a bed of coarse sand. The lighter winds carried away her words, leaving behind a silence that was almost tangible. She felt the strength seeping out of her with every drop of blood that stained the earth beneath her, her consciousness flickering like a candle in the wind.
Cura paused, her mind racing with the implications of her presence being known to the Volkihar Court. The certainty of their impending onslaught weighed heavily on her, like the ominous circling of scavengers above a dying prey. Yet, she cast these foreboding thoughts aside with a determined shake of her head and turned her attention to Sabrina. The wounds inflicted upon Sabrina were not as bad as she'd thought; a mere scratch in the grand scheme of their dire situation, though blood was flowing from the holes left by the fangs. Thankfully it was not much worse. With swift hands and a steady heart, Cura began the delicate task of tending to Sabrina's injuries, all the while keeping a vigilant eye on the shadows that might harbor their next challenge.
Varla walked over to check up on his mother's wellbeing. He was awestruck by her performance in that conflict. "Your magic was incredible. It looked divine. Like the flames of Mara herself."
The compassionate Healer scanned her surroundings for her wolf, who promptly joined her side, and responded to his remark with a fact. "That is what persuaded the multitudes to believe me to be her previously. I have always possessed a knack for this magic."
Mirabelle approached Mary as well, astounded by the immense power she had unleashed upon the creature. "Now I understand why Colette held Restoration in such high regard. It is indeed a formidable art when applied in the right circumstances."
Savos Aren conceded. "Were we still alive I would send her my regards."
Once Cura sealed up Sabrina's wounds, the Pailune Healer slowly opened her eyes. "Hng... Cura? I screwed up. My apologies." She slowly sat upright and looked at Sir Amiel, who was massaging the back of his neck. "Hey, thanks for the catch."
Sir Amiel stood upright and loosened his shoulder. "You would do well to not rush forward in haste in the future, Sabrina."
The sandstorm was brewing again, blowing dust off the mountains nearby. Cura stood tall in the toiling winds and looked to the east. "Keeper Carcette is in this realm, too, isn't she? I'll find her first, before encountering the Volkihar Court. I am sure she'd want another round with Harkon." She spun around and pointed at the Prison Tower, due west of where they were situated. "We'll head through there first, and enter the city, like we planned. Keep an eye out for vampires in the meantime, and we'll try to keep a low profile."
"Sounds like a plan." Sir Amiel agreed.
Cura looked to her party. "Are we all in agreement?"
Mirabelle, Savos, Sabrina, Sir Amiel, Varla, and Mary each nodded, and Korn barked in response.
"Good." Cura confirmed the decision. "Let's be off."
And so, with blades drawn and spells at the ready, Cura and her allies departed from the desolate Tele Village - a desperate defiance against the cruel machinations of Oblivion itself. Their fate would hang in the balance, and the echoes of their footsteps reverberated through the void.