"A Children's Anuad: The Anuad Paraphrased
Early religious book providing a simplified version of The Anuad creation myth from the Mythic Era
The first ones were brothers: Anu and Padomay. They came into the Void, and Time began.
As Anu and Padomay wandered the Void, the interplay of Light and Darkness created Nir. Both Anu and Padomay were amazed and delighted with her appearance, but she loved Anu, and Padomay retreated from them in bitterness.
Nir became pregnant, but before she gave birth, Padomay returned, professing his love for Nir. She told him that she loved only Anu, and Padomay beat her in rage. Anu returned, fought Padomay, and cast him outside Time. Nir gave birth to Creation, but died from her injuries soon after. Anu, grieving, hid himself in the sun and slept.
Meanwhile, life sprang up on the twelve worlds of creation and flourished. After many ages, Padomay was able to return to Time. He saw Creation and hated it. He swung his sword, shattering the twelve worlds in their alignment. Anu awoke, and fought Padomay again. The long and furious battle ended with Anu the victor. He cast aside the body of his brother, who he believed was dead, and attempted to save Creation by forming the remnants of the 12 worlds into one - Nirn, the world of Tamriel. As he was doing so, Padomay struck him through the chest with one last blow. Anu grappled with his brother and pulled them both outside of Time forever.
The blood of Padomay became the Daedra. The blood of Anu became the stars. The mingled blood of both became the Aedra (hence their capacity for good and evil, and their greater affinity for earthly affairs than the Daedra, who have no connection to Creation).
On the world of Nirn, all was chaos. The only survivors of the twelve worlds of Creation were the Ehlnofey and the Hist. The Ehlnofey are the ancestors of Mer and Men. The Hist are the trees of Argonia. Nirn originally was all land, with interspersed seas, but no oceans.
A large fragment of the Ehlnofey world landed on Nirn relatively intact, and the Ehlnofey living there were the ancestors of the Mer. These Ehlnofey fortified their borders from the chaos outside, hid their pocket of calm, and attempted to live on as before. Other Ehlnofey arrived on Nirn scattered amid the confused jumble of the shattered worlds, wandering and finding each other over the years. Eventually, the wandering Ehlnofey found the hidden land of Old Ehlnofey, and were amazed and joyful to find their kin living amid the splendor of ages past. The wandering Ehlnofey expected to be welcomed into the peaceful realm, but the Old Ehlnofey looked on them as degenerates, fallen from their former glory. For whatever reason, war broke out, and raged across the whole of Nirn. The Old Ehlnofey retained their ancient power and knowledge, but the Wanderers were more numerous, and toughened by their long struggle to survive on Nirn. This war reshaped the face of Nirn, sinking much of the land beneath new oceans, and leaving the lands as we know them (Tamriel, Akavir, Atmora, and Yokuda). The Old Ehlnofey realm, although ruined, became Tamriel. The remnants of the Wanderers were left divided on the other 3 continents.
Over many years, the Ehlnofey of Tamriel became the Mer (elves)
The Dwemer (the Deep Ones, sometimes called dwarves)
The Chimer (the Changed Ones, who later became the Dunmer)
The Dunmer (the Dark or Cursed Ones, the dark elves)
The Bosmer (the Green or Forest Ones, the wood elves)
The Altmer (The Elder or High Ones, the high elves).
On the other continents, the Wandering Ehlnofey became the Men: the Nords of Atmora, the Redguards of Yokuda, and the Tsaesci of Akavir.
The Hist were bystanders in the Ehlnofey war, but most of their realm was destroyed as the war passed over it. A small corner of it survived to become Black Marsh in Tamriel, but most of their realm was sunk beneath the sea.
Eventually, Men returned to Tamriel. The Nords were the first, colonizing the northern coast of Tamriel before recorded history, led by the legendary Ysgramor. The thirteenth of his line, King Harald, was the first to appear in written history. And so the Mythic Era ended."
Imperial Soldiers patrolled the Whiterun fields, their peace treaty with the Stormcloaks and Thalmor still in fruition as the factions met near the crossroads east of the Honningbrew Meadery.
The Thalmor had free reign to walk into Whiterun, and had accosted Heimskr in accordance with the treaty, and the statue of Talos was removed.
The city felt somewhat lonelier without it, and even the Companions had grumbles concerning its absence. Vignar Gray-Mane, especially. He'd lost two of his clan already in Windhelm due to the Daedric incursion, and now, Talos seemed to have forsaken his city, as well. He saw it as appropriate, as Whiterun was, after all, the place where that blasphemous peace treaty was held.
The sun set over Whiterun, casting a warm orange hue across the cobblestone streets. The city's guards, clad in their studded armor, maintained a vigilant watch, their faces stern and unwavering. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of freshly baked bread and roasting meats from the various market stalls.
A small Chapel to Stendarr, dedicated to Cura, stood erect behind Arcadia's Cauldron, facing the eastern palisade wall, adjacent to the minor Guards' Barracks. He saw its thatched spire roof looming over the Apothecary and grunted with annoyance.
"They take away Talos and prop up Stendarr. What utter nonsense." Vignar sneered, stewing in his bitterness. As the evening drew in, the flickering torchlights cast elongated shadows on the stone walls of the Chapel. The chapel stood as a beacon of hope and tranquility, a place where the faithful came to pray and seek solace. Despite the ongoing tensions between the factions, the chapel remained a sacred sanctuary, untouched by the political unrest that plagued the city.
Inside, Cura's vigil was ongoing. Vigilants of Stendarr dwelt within, offering prayers and supplication to their god. The air was heavy with incense, which seeped even out into the streets surrounding the chapel.
Vilkas, out of a sense of curiosity, decided to see the inside of this chapel for himself. Being a Werewolf, he surely knew that he would be unwelcome, but he was undeterred. In fact, Cura would probably have wanted him to see it at least once. Vilkas approached the chapel, his boots echoing softly on the cobblestones. The golden light of the setting sun filtered through the narrow windows, casting a warm glow over the intricate carvings that adorned the exterior of the building. The air was thick with the aroma of incense, a familiar scent that reminded him of countless nights spent in the forest, howling at the moon. He pushed open the doors, and caught a glimpse of the clay and stone interior. The Shrine of Stendarr stood upon an Altar, and behind it was the Cyrodiilic Stained Glass window depicting Stendarr as an old man pouring out a glass of wine from a chalice, his head encircled and hair wavy like the sun, in green and teal colouration.
Vilkas stepped into the chapel, his presence immediately noticeable. The air inside was cool and still, a marked difference from the bustling streets outside. The Vigilants of Stendarr, clad in their simple yet elegant robes, turned their heads to observe the mercenary. Their expressions were a mix of curiosity and suspicion, a natural reaction to someone of Vilkas's reputation.
One thing in the chapel that definitely caught Vilkas' eye was a stained glass on the wall adjacent to Stendarr's window. It depicted a feminine figure with long, blonde hair and elven ears, but with humanlike features, wearing similar robes to the Vigilants in front of him, wielding a plain circular Nordic shield in one hand and a steel mace in her other hand, which appeared to have a halo of light around its head, as though she were holding it up in front of the sun. Beneath the figure, a header read in gothic text: "St. Cura of Skyrim"
Vilkas's gaze lingered on the stained glass window, his mind racing with memories of Cura. He had once fought alongside her, had trusted her with his life, and yet, in the end, she had left him behind, abandoning him and the Companions to pursue her destiny. He was kind of perplexed as to why. He was a remarkable warrior, himself. She could have taken him along. Perhaps he'd come on too strong back in the day, and she was put off by his attitude.
The Vigilants moved closer, their robes whispering against the stone floor. One of them, an elderly man with a kind face and a sharp eye, stepped forward.
"Welcome, Vilkas," the elderly Vigilant said, his voice resonating with authority. "What brings you to our humble shrine today?"
Vilkas nodded, his gaze still fixed on the stained glass. "I've come to seek solace, to reflect on past battles and future paths."
The Vigilant nodded understandingly. "Solitude and reflection are essential for any warrior. If you wish, you may take a moment to pray or simply sit in contemplation."
"No thanks." Vilkas declined. "I was just curious to see what it looked like in here."
The Vigilant's eyes softened with a hint of understanding. "Very well. Take your time, but remember, this place is sacred."
Vilkas nodded and stepped further into the chapel, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor. The stained glass window he had been admiring cast a kaleidoscope of colors across the room, creating a serene yet mesmerizing atmosphere. A contrast to the pall that hung over Skyrim in recent years. He approached a pew and sat down, his eyes scanning the intricate carvings on the wooden walls. The chapel was a sanctuary of stone and stained glass, its walls adorned with carvings that told stories of old, but freshly constructed. The style of its interior was reminiscent of the walls within the Temple in Windhelm. The air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of incense and fresh wood.
As he sat in the pew, Vilkas's thoughts drifted back to Cura. The Dragonborn, whose fate was now intertwined with the balance of the world. His mind replayed the scenes of their shared battles and the moments of quiet camaraderie they had shared. He recalled the first time they met, in the bustling city of Whiterun, where the Dragonborn's presence had stirred both awe and apprehension. Over that ephemeral point in time, their bond had grown. Even as Cura struggled as a Werewolf for a time, they ran through the fields together. It was a carefree era.
Vilkas's thoughts were interrupted by the soft murmur of footsteps echoing through the chapel. He turned to see a figure cloaked in shadows, their features obscured by the dim light. The air seemed to grow colder, and the stained glass window's colors shifted, casting eerie patterns across the floor.
"Who are you?" Vilkas asked, his voice steady but tinged with caution.
"Greetings." the figure dressed in darkness began. "I trust that thou must be acquainted with the Dragonborn."
Vilkas's eyes narrowed as he studied the figure. The voice, though calm, carried a weight that seemed to press down on the air itself. "I am," Vilkas replied, his tone measured. "But who are you?"
The figure stepped forward into the dimming light. The figure was a knight clad in intricate, tarnished silver armor that gleamed with a metallic sheen and adorned with the Daedric symbol for Oblivion. The sharp-ridged barrel helmet was particularly striking, featuring a pointed crest and a visor that partially obscured her face, giving the knight an air of mystery and menace. In its slits, Vilkas could vaguely make out the faint glow of a yellow eye. The armor was adorned with sharp, wing-like protrusions on the shoulders, and the Knight wore a black, torn tabard over the armour's cuirass.
Vilkas glared at the dark interloper with suspicion. Vilkas's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, every muscle in his body tense. "State your purpose," he demanded, his voice icy and unwavering. He wondered how the heck she could simply walk into a Chapel of Stendarr bearing such an obviously Daedric set of armour, and then he remembered that he was a Werewolf, sitting in its pews. The Vigilants, contrary to their name, did not appear to be very observant. Or if they were, they must be craven and feared what they swore to destroy.
The knight regarded him for a moment, her gaze piercing through the shadows that clung to her armor.
"I seeketh an audience with the Dragonborn's allies," she declared, her voice echoing with authority. "The fate of Tamriel hangs in the balance, and I wisheth to speak with the Khajiit they call Inigo."
Vilkas was perplexed. "You have a funny way of talkin'." He snarled and stood upright to meet the Knight's gaze head-on. "And you still haven't answered my question. Who are you?"
"They call me the Knight of the Void." the figure said plainly.
The Knight's words hung in the air like a specter, leaving Vilkas momentarily silent. The title alone sent shivers down his spine. "The Knight of the Void," he muttered, tasting the words as if they were poison. "You come bearing ominous tidings, I sense."
The Knight inclined her head, the visor of her helmet glinting with a cold, otherworldly light. "Indeed."
"How's about you and I go for a little walk?" Vilkas suggested, his voice delivering more of a threat than a mere suggestion. "I'd hate to spill blood in Cura's Chapel."
The Knight of the Void's eyes narrowed slightly as she considered Vilkas's proposal. The dim light of the chapel flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced across the stone walls. She nodded, her voice unwavering. "Very well."
As they stepped outside, the crisp night air bit through them, but neither Vilkas nor the Knight seemed to notice.
The Knight of the Void took a few steps onto the street. "If thou desirest to attack me, I'd suggest thy reconsider. T'would service thou not; yea merely set the Guards upon thee."
The way she spoke was quite different, to say the least. It appeared to Vilkas, that perhaps she'd grown up somewhere in High Rock, though he'd never met a Breton that actually spoke that way. It perplexed him and aroused suspicion.
Vilkas's grip on his sword tightened, but he kept his tone calm. "I'm not here to fight, unless you give me no choice. So, what brings you to Whiterun?"
The Knight of the Void turned her gaze towards the city, her voice carrying an almost ethereal quality. "Tamriel is beset on all sides by darkness. Daedra, undead, and dark forces seek to tear the land asunder. Thou knowest this. 'Tis naught but a plain fact. I seeketh those who oppose these forces of darkness."
"And you think Inigo can do it?" Vilkas cocked his head to the side.
"Aye." The Knight of the Void responded. "I hath heard many tales of his exploits by the side of the Dragonborn, as well as the Daedric Scourge in the East. The band of miscreants which hath named themselves the Mythic Dawn, their murder of the Dragonborn, and the evil which they bringst upon our world again. 'Tis an evil most foul, and one I've been steeped in for centuries."
Vilkas studied the Knight of the Void, her words laced with an ancient sorrow that seemed to reverberate through the night. The lights of Secunda and Masser cast elongated shadows across her armor, making it appear almost otherworldly. He could sense the burden she carried, a burden that seemed to stretch beyond the confines of mortal years.
"The Mythic Dawn," Vilkas murmured, his eyes narrowing as he considered the threat. "were a bunch of cowards. They lured Cura to their hideaway in the Velothi Mountains an' killed her in cold blood. She never even saw it coming..." he grunted with frustration. "If only I'd been there. I could've smelled that fake a mile away... I could've saved her."
The Knight of the Void's unseen expression softened as she heard Vilkas's words. Her softened voice was evidence enough. "Verily, the ways of the world are often twisted and cruel. Yet, even in the depths of sorrow, there lies the potential for resolution. The Dragonborn's blood may have been spilled, but it hath not gone to waste."
Vilkas's eyes flashed with anger, but the Knight's words seemed to ground him. "You're right. I take it, with what you seem to know, you already know why the Legion, Stormcloaks and Thalmor are in bed together."
The ominous knightess nodded. "Aye. A mutual threat doth often make allies of foes." She looked off into the distance, unseen behind her dark helm. The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken truths and looming dangers. Vilkas's thoughts were a jumble of emotions - anger, guilt, and determination. The Mythic Dawn's machinations still seared his mind, and he couldn't help but think of all the what-ifs.
The Knight of the Void's gaze returned to him, and she spoke with a quiet authority that commanded attention. "The Dragonborn's ally. Where dost one findeth Inigo?"
"Riften." Vilkas said, relenting.
The Knight of the Void's expression remained inscrutable, her dark eyes glinting with a mixture of curiosity and resolve. "Riften, thou sayest? A city of shadows and deceit. Yet, it is there that our path shall cross."
Vilkas nodded, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him. "Inigo is there, but he is not without his own set of troubles."
The Knight of the Void's eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze piercing through the gloom. "Troubles, thou sayest? Inigo, the Dragonborn's ally, hath troubles of his own. Pray tell, what manner of troubles doth he face in Riften?"
Vilkas hesitated, his mind racing through the labyrinth of thoughts and emotions that had become his constant companion. "The city is a den of thieves and assassins. Pair that with the fact it's in the East, Soutwest of the Portal to the Deadlands."
As soon as the words, 'Portal to the Deadlands' escaped his lips, the Knight of the Void shuddered lightly. It was a brief sight, but an alarming one just the same. The Knight of the Void's eyes glowed with an eerie luminescence, her demeanor darkening as if shadows themselves had coalesced around her. "The Deadlands," she whispered, almost to herself. "Such an abhorrent place. An abomination to the very core."
Vilkas watched her, a mixture of fascination and apprehension growing within him. "Seems you know quite a bit about it."
"More than I doth care to reminisce upon." the mere thought of it pained the Knightess. The Knight of the Void turned sharply, her dark cloak billowing like a dark cloud around her. "Thou hast my gratitude, Vilkas. May the blessings of the gods be upon thee."
With that, she vanished into the shadows, leaving Vilkas alone in the field outside of Whiterun. He stood there for a moment, the echoes of her words still resonating in his mind. He looked down at the sword on his waist. He had fully expected that to turn into a brutal fight, but apparently not. As Vilkas stood there, lost in thought, the vast expanse of the open field stretched out before him. The sky above was a deep shade of indigo, with the first hints of dawn beginning to creep over the horizon. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of morning dew and the distant call of birds returning to their nests.
Vilkas tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, feeling the cool metal against his palm and returned to Jorrvaskr to begin his morning training.
Coldharbour's sands whipped and whirled in protest the closer Cura and her band of allies got to Malada. The air grew thick with an oppressive, heavy haze, the very atmosphere seeming to resist their progress. Cura, her Meridian Champion armor gleaming with a spectral sheen, led the way, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed the dark landscape. The sky above was a deep, foreboding crimson, and the ground beneath their feet was scorched and barren.
Carcette, the Knight of Order, stared emotionlessly forward as she walked through the sand, like a robot. "Malada is close. It is there that will free the Barrier in the west. And soon, very soon, Laza will arrive, as well."
"Laza..." Cura tasted the name on her tongue. "You mentioned him a while ago. He wanted to kill Molag Bal." She recalled.
Carcette's expression remained impassive, but her voice carried a hint of urgency. "Yes, Laza. He seeks to end the Daedra's reign of terror. But his methods are... extreme. He believes that the only way to truly vanquish Molag Bal is to destroy him utterly, without mercy or quarter."
Cura nodded, her mind racing with the implications. "And what role do you see us playing in this?"
"You are in his way." Carcette informed her plainly. "Laza seeks to kill you so that he can reach Molag Bal first."
The tension in the air thickened as Cura's gaze shifted to the horizon. The fading crimson sky seemed to pulse with an ominous rhythm, as if it itself were alive and aware of their presence. The barren wasteland of Coldharbour stretched out before them, a desolate reminder of the Daedra's dark influence.
"We cannot let him succeed," Gloriel declared, her voice echoing through the stillness. "if Meridia's Champion falls, our hope will fall with her."
Varla spoke clearly. "What do you know about this Laza bastard?" he badgered the discrete Knight of Order. "Stop beating around the bush and tell us what he's capable of."
Carcette glared at him with a blank eye, clear as crystal. "He can move swiftly as the wind, a phantom wielding two swords. He wears the armour of a Knight of Order. He betrayed Jyggalag, and pinned him against his throne using his own sword. But the Daedric Prince knew it would occur, a thousand years ago. When the barrier within Malada is dispelled... then we shall adjourn to the west and awaken him." The group fell silent as her words hung in the air.
Sabrina shook her head a few times, to ensure that she'd heard correctly. "Free Jyggalag? You mean..."
Carcette slowly turned to her, fixing her static gaze upon the plague doctor. "Yes." she said shortly, and curtly.
Mirabelle Ervine stepped forward and stood at Cura's side. "Jyggalag is an enigmatic figure, even amongst the Daedra. He'd disappeared from history for millennia... only to turn up now. Why does he seek Coldharbour to begin with?"
Savos's eyes scanned the group, seeking answers in the faces around him before responding. "Mirabelle has an excellent point. We know Jyggalag's return could be a blessing or a curse. He is known for his intellect and strategic prowess, but his goals are always shrouded in mystery. If he is seeking to free himself and take over Coldharbour, what does it mean for our world?"
As Savos's words hung in the air, the atmosphere thickened with tension, like a storm brewing in the distance. The group of companions stood in silent contemplation, each member grappling with the implications of Jyggalag's return. The enigmatic Daedric prince's intentions were as opaque as ever, leaving their collective minds racing with theories and fears.
Bourlor pondered, "Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything. Jyggalag is a conqueror, isn't he?"
Sir Henrik hummed. "Indeed, he is. Mm-mm. But I wouldn't worry too much; he will likely wish to exact revenge on the other Princes before turning his eyes upon Nirn. Hmm-hmm." He took a sip of ale in his nonchalance about the matter.
Cura's eyes fluttered open, her gaze unfocused yet piercing. "He wants to regain what he's lost." she suggested. "When the other Daedra did... something to him... he must have lost his entire realm. Maybe he just wants a home?"
The area fell into a heavy silence, the weight of Cura's words pressing down on everyone. Mirabelle's eyes narrowed, her brow furrowing in thought. "But why Coldharbour? It's a prison, a place of suffering. Why would he want to bring himself here? There's honestly nothing of value in this disgusting place."
Savos stepped forward, his voice resonating with authority. "Perhaps it's not about value, but about Order. Look around you," he gestured to the decrepit shambled recreation of the Imperial city around them. "the realm, at its core is rotten. Perhaps its unsightliness was what drew him to it in the first place."
Mary nodded in agreement. "And for long has Molag Bal relished in disrupting Order and the natural balances of the world. In his arrogance and hatred, he disrupted dear Arkay's cycle of Life and Death by creating Vampires. He defiled the Goddess of Love by trapping me in his realm, corrupted by the evil within it. He thrives upon general disorder and suffering. His inexcusable use of the Alessian Order to corrupt the souls of all they touched..."
Korn barked in response, backing her words.
Maram and Aria also agreed. Aria whispered, "His mockery of the Aedra mustn't go unpunished. And after the horror he's forced us all to endure..."
Maram agreed. "I, for one, welcome the Graymarch."
The room buzzed with the intensity of their collective thoughts, the air thick with the gravity of their shared experiences. Cura's eyes remained distant, her mind clearly elsewhere, as if she were reliving memories long buried. "Jyggalag's return," she murmured, "it's not just about reclaiming a realm. It's about balance. The Daedra, in their infinite complexity, need equilibrium. His return might be the only way to restore that balance."
Varla wiped some dust off of his cheek as they continued to walk along the path. He felt a cold chill run down his spine once he recognized the large Ayleid structure that loomed atop the high hill many yards away. "There it is. Malada." his voice dropped. "Never thought I'd return there."
Sir Ralvas gestured towards the open area where they found themselves. "Right now we stand on the cusp; at the Plaza of the Eight Saints. To the west, the esteemed Curia Morimath, and to the north, Malada."
"Cura Morimath?" Sabrina asked with a chuckle, having misheard it.
"Curia. Not Cura." Sir Amiel responded with a light chuckle.
"Well. I was about to say, Cura, you've become so popular in Coldharbour that they're naming buildings after you." Sabrina elbowed the Dragonborn in the ribs.
Cura's eyes flashed with amusement, despite the somber mood that hung over them. "Well, if they did, I suppose it'd be flattering," she replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"But... what in Oblivion is a 'Curia?'" Sabrina had to ask, having never heard the term before.
Cura's eyes sparkled with a mixture of confusion and amusement. "A Curia, Sabrina, is a gathering of high-ranking officials, a council of sorts. In this case, it's the Curia of the Alessian Order, I suppose."
Varla, ever the pragmatist, nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, you would be right. The heads of the Alessian Order; Prophet Marukh, Saint Pelan, Lord Amicus Tharn, Pope Megus, Inquisitor Narfin, the Arch-Prelate, and even Emperor Belharza would gather there on important days to discuss the future of the Order."
Sir Ralvas continued, "And when Fervidius Tharn to the rank of Arch-Prelate in the year 1E 1188, the Marukhati Selective, an extreme faction of the faith, began to quickly spread amongst the ranks of the Alessian priesthood, causing a great schism within the Order. While Fervidius openly spearheaded the opposition of the Marukhati movement, he was also, secretly, the true leader of the Selectives. In the year 1E 1200, the Marukhati Selective, wrapped up in its fanatical dogma, would bring about the greatest Dragon Break in known history, which would last for what is normally believed to be 1008 years."
Cura nodded, "Right. The Dance on top of the Tower."
"Sacremnor." Sir Ralvas pointed to the highest Tower, positioned where the White-Gold Tower would naturally rest. "At the top of that tower, they blasphemed the name of Auri-El and cursed the Chim-El Adabal, with the Red Stone at its base."
Mary sighed sadly. "That Tower was meant to exist for the purpose of allowing the mortals to reach the Aedra. It was meant to be a place of communion. I came down from Aetherius to Nirn using a great sum of power to help in its establishment. It was to become something greater than even the Adamantine Tower."
"And then you were discovered by Umaril." Varla realized.
Aria and Maram stepped forward.
"I prayed day and night," Aria began. "for years, for the Aedra to give us a sign. Then Saint Alessia's rebellion was underway, and Mara herself came to us. I was certain that our troubles were over. That once the Tower was built..."
"...The Aedra would have a direct link to Nirn again." Maram completed her thought. "That the gods could walk amongst us freely. Mary proved it to be possible." He gestured towards the woman in green and red robes and her white wolf. "Lady Mara saw the suffering of our world and came to aid us. But, she was limited in what she could do."
"The Tower would have served as a direct conduit to their power..." Savos Aren realized. "Sort of how the Eye of Magnus serves as a conduit to Magnus' own force. The Tower was to be an anchor point for the Eight Divines."
"Exactly." Mary confirmed.
Cura's mind raced as the significance of the Tower dawned on her. She could see the potential for immense power and divine intervention that such a structure would have brought. The idea of having the Aedra so close, walking among mortals, was a tantalizing prospect. She asked Mary, "Why were you able to manifest as a mortal on Nirn?"
Mary explained, "Because, like Akatosh, Mara is one of the oldest Divines." She adjusted a ring on her finger. "Have you heard of the tale of Nir?"
"Nir, the Feminine Force that Anu had loved." Savos Aren recounted the legends. "Their coupling bore creation itself, and Padomay's envy led to her demise."
Cura's eyes widened as she listened to the ancient tale. The words of Savos Aren echoed in her mind, painting a vivid picture of the primordial forces that had shaped the world of Nirn. The story of Nir, the divine mother, and her tragic fate resonated deeply with Cura. "Right; I remember Brother Adalvald reading that to me in the Anuad as a child."
Mary continued, her voice soft yet filled with a profound sense of wisdom. "The Et'Ada cannot truly die. They merely take on new forms. Nir's death created Mara, and Kyne. Each goddess is unique, and yet both are Nir, the wife of Anu-Auri-El-Akatosh-Lost Shezzar."
Cura's mind whirled with the implications of the ancient tale. The idea that the very essence of creation could be reborn into new forms was both comforting and terrifying. She felt a strange connection to the divine forces that had shaped the world, a connection that seemed to pulse through her very being.
It did, at the very least, explain some things, now that Cura considered it. Mara was Tear-Wife of Shor and Handmaiden of Kyne, but as universal mother she was also a wife of Akatosh, as was Kyne just the same.
Cura shook her head, trying to clear the confusion out. The Et'ada were confusing entities at the best of times. "I suppose that explains a lot." she shrugged. "And the Tower was meant to allow the, I suppose, "weaker" Aedra to commune with the people in the world."
Mary nodded solemnly. "That was the intended goal."
"And then the Alessians used it for their own purposes." Varla said with a sneer as his eyes traced the form of the Tower of Sacremnor. "And they broke Akatosh. Unbelievable."
Varla's words hung heavy in the air, a reminder of the Alessians' betrayal of not just their God, but all of them, and the catastrophic consequences that followed. "Or... rather, we broke Akatosh." he closed his eyes solemnly. It happened well after his time, but if he hadn't helped the Alessian Order in their conquest centuries prior, they never would have grown as they did, and this presumably would never have happened.
"You can't keep beating yourself up over this, Varla." Gloriel said firmly to the stubborn warrior. "You need to learn to let go."
Varla's eyes snapped open, his gaze intense as he turned to face Gloriel. "Let go?" he repeated, his voice carrying a mixture of anger and sorrow. "How can I let go when I know that my actions had such far-reaching consequences?"
Gloriel stepped forward, her expression softening as she placed a gentle hand on Varla's shoulder. "You're not responsible for the entire course of history, Varla."
Varla's eyes reflected a storm of emotions, and Gloriel's touch offered a fleeting moment of comfort. "But my choices led to this. Gods damn it all." he muttered, his voice cracking with the weight of unshed tears as his eyes fell upon the entrance to Malada, taunting him from atop the hill in the distance.
Mary shook her head and placed a hand on her son's forearm. "You cannot change the past, but you can strive to prevent similar tragedies in the future."
Varla's eyes narrowed, the intensity of his gaze almost blinding. "Easier said than done, Mother. The past is a heavy burden, and its shadows stretch far into the present."
Mary's grip on his forearm tightened, her voice a soothing balm to the tempest within him. "I know it is, Varla. But you must learn to channel that burden into strength, not weakness."
Varla opened his mouth to retort, but his words hitched in his throat. Instead, he silently nodded and followed the group as they continued onwards.
Cura weaved through the city streets, and the group found themselves in a confontation with more Alessians, though these ones were garbed differently; donning strange steel masques that resembled apes, and donning stout, mitre-like helmets with red rims. They sported black chest armour and high-cut cuirasses, and red sashes. They were the Marukhati Selective, or, as others had known them, the Holy Brothers of Marukh.
The Holy Brothers, their faces obscured by the peculiar masques, eyed Cura and her companions with suspicion and hostility. One of them, clearly the leader, stepped forward and addressed her in a gravelly voice. "Who dares to intrude upon the sacred grounds of the Marukhati Selective?" the leader demanded, his voice resonating with authority.
Cura stood tall, her petite frame radiating an aura of power. "We seek no trouble, but we will not back down from it." she replied, her voice steady and unwavering. "Allow us passage into Malada, or you will die, like so many Alessians before you."
The leader's eyes narrowed, and he signaled to his companions to draw their weapons. "You will not be allowed to desecrate the sacred city of Malada," he growled. "Turn back now, blasphemer, or face the wrath of the Marukhati Selective!"
Sabrina, ever the loudmouth, spat. "You turn back now, or face the wrath of the Dragonborn!" She gestured towards Cura, whose eyes were fixed upon the leader of the Selectives unflinchingly. They were mere Priests in armoured robes; Cura had survived encounters with Pelinal Whitestrake, Morihaus Breath-of-Kyne, Umaril the Unfeathered, and her own Dragon Soul in Coldharbour alone. They were more akin to pests than any real threat.
As soon as the word 'Dragonborn' registered in their minds, the undead Alessians exchanged glances, filled with disbelief and confusion. A Half-Elf? A Half-Elf the Messenger of Akatosh? The notion was heretical; unthinkable to they who split the Elven nature from Akatosh. The leader of the Marukhati Selective hesitated, his grip tightening on the hilt of his Ebony Mace. The other Selectives, equally perplexed, glanced at each other, the eyes of their masked faces showing a mixture of fear and determination. The tension in the air was palpable, the atmosphere thick with the weight of impending conflict.
Cura's eyes locked onto the leader, her gaze unwavering. "I am Cura, the Dragonborn."
"You... you cannot be the Dragonborn..." the leader spat. The leader's voice trembled slightly, the weight of his words evident in the air. His companions shifted uneasily, their masks glinting in the dim light of the Marukhati Selective's sacred grounds. Cura's presence, an enigma to them, seemed to challenge their very beliefs.
Cura stepped forward, her boots making a soft crunch in the gravelly path, causing some of the Selectives to draw their weapons out of fear. They did not make a move towards Cura, but they clutched their weapons as though their lives depended on it.
"The Prophet-Most-Simian declared that only mankind could be host to Shezzar." the Marukhati leader said, his voice shaking. "That Elven blood was taint. A taint upon Aka. Members of our Order cleansed them from Malada long ago."
Cura's expression remained impassive, but a flicker of understanding showed in her eyes. She could see the deep-seated convictions etched into the Selectives' rigid postures, their unyielding adherence to ancient dogma. The Marukhati Selectives had been taught to see themselves as the guardians of divine purity, and she was a direct challenge to that notion.
"Yet, the world is ever-changing, and the power of Akatosh knows no bounds." Cura clenched her fist at her side. She fixed her gaze again upon their leader. "You stripped the Elven nature from Auriel... you broke the Dragon. Perhaps not you lot specifically, but members of your sect did."
The leader of the Marukhati Selectives, his voice trembling, countered, "We did what was necessary to maintain the purity of our faith. The Elven blood was an abomination, a corruption that threatened to tear our world apart."
Cura's eyes narrowed, a storm brewing within them. "And yet, I stand before you now. Dragonborn. I am Man, I am Mer, and I am the blood of Shezzar." She stepped menacingly towards the leader. "You have failed. Auriel is whole, once again, even if for my lifetime."
The Marukhati Selectives shifted nervously, their eyes darting between Cura and their leader. The air grew thick with tension, the sacred grounds of the Marukhati Selective now a battleground of ideologies.
"You dare to speak of failure?" the leader spat, his voice laced with venom. "You are but a fleeting aberration, a corruption born of dark magic and ancient curses. Our faith remains unshaken."
Cura reached onto her back and held up Auriel's Bow. "Surely you have heard of this artifact before?"
The Marukhati Selectives' eyes widened, their gazes fixed on the bow with a mixture of awe and dread. The leader's face paled, his lips trembling as he struggled to maintain his composure.
Cura's grip tightened on the bow, the silver moonstone feeling alive in her hands. The leader of the Marukhati Selectives, his voice wavering, stammered, "Auriel's Bow... it is said to hold the power of the divine, to channel the very essence of the stars. How did you come to possess such an artifact?"
Carcette stepped forward, her crystalline gray armour glinting under the light of the created sun in the sky. She spoke plainly, with the words of Jyggalag. "You could say that it was fate which brought her to the Artifact."
The Marukhati Selectives exchanged uneasy glances, their faith beginning to waver. The leader's face contorted in a mixture of anger and desperation. "The Dragonborn carries the legacy of Al-Esh. You do not carry the Chim-el Adabal, and you do not speak with the Wyrm's Voice."
"She can." Mirabelle Ervine said firmly. "Cura is proficient in the Thu'um. She seeks the Amulet of Kings from St. Alessia herself."
Beneath his masque, the Marukhati Selectives' leader's face turned a deeper shade of crimson, his eyes bulging with rage. He clenched his fists, the air around him crackling with barely contained power. "You dare to challenge our faith? You have no right to speak of Al-Esh!"
Cura took a step forward, Auriel's Bow at her side. "Your faith is misguided."
The leader's voice trembled, his tone laced with both fury and desperation. "You wield the bow of the god of Time, yet you do not believe in our cause. Our faith is pure, and our righteousness is unshakeable." He raised his hands to the sky, and dark energy began to swirl around him, a storm brewing in his very presence.
Cura, undaunted by the leader's display of power, locked eyes with him. "Do you truly wish to force me to prove myself to you?"
The air seemed to thicken, tension palpable as Cura's words hung heavy between them. The Marukhati Selectives shifted, their eyes flickering between Cura and their leader, uncertainty playing out across their faces.
The leader's eyes, burning with a fervent light, narrowed as he gazed back at Cura. "Your words are blasphemy, Mongrel." he snarled.
Sir Amiel stepped beside Cura, his hand on the hilt of his claymore. "Speak the word, Dragonborn, and I will cleave him in two."
Cura shook her head, noting the uncertainty in the gaze of the Marukhati Selectives gathered nearby. "That won't be necessary, Sir Amiel. This is my right to prove."
The leader's face contorted with rage and desperation, his dark energy swirling more violently. "Then prove it! Show us your power and convince us of your righteousness!" he roared, his voice echoing through the gathering crowd.
Cura raised Auriel's Bow, its ethereal glow illuminating the dim surroundings. The Marukhati Selectives took a collective breath, their eyes wide with anticipation and fear. She nocked an ordinary Steel Arrow onto its string and loosed it onto the roof nearby. When the arrow struck true, sunlight burst from its tip.
The arrow responded to its wielder.
"Pah! Meaningless!" the Marukhati leader laughed defiantly. "Anyone could do that!"
Cura's eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a determined smile. She drew another arrow, this one an Elven One. She thought back to the Snow Elf Paladin, Gelebor, and how he'd blessed the Arrows back then in the name of Auri-El. She focused on the Dragon Soul within herself; a raging fire and the power of the sun, bound to her blood by invisible divine tethers; the blood and spirits of Shezzar and Akatosh, and the hope of Martin Septim.
She closed her eyes and saw a vision; a burning Dragon dominating Mehrunes Dagon at the center of the Imperial City. The sky above a smoky crimson, the temple surrounding them in ruins. The Dragon's body forming a shell of stone when the fight concluded.
When Cura's eyes reopened, a fire raged behind her verdant orbs, and the Elven Arrow in her hand caught fire, and glimmered with a fierce golden light. She nocked it onto Auriel's Bow and took aim at the sun in the sky next to the Void, and loosed the Sunhallowed Arrow. As the Sunhallowed Arrow left the bowstring, the crowd held its breath. The arrow soared through the air, its golden glow intensifying with each second. It pierced the sky, and a brilliant explosion of light erupted, filling the heavens with an incandescent radiance that seemed to rival the true sun of Nirn itself.
The Marukhati Selectives shielded their eyes from the blinding light, their faces contorted with awe and terror.
The solar explosion that erupted began to rain down columns of light, which pierced areas of the city and the buildings. The light from the Sunhallowed Arrow cascaded down, illuminating the city in a brilliant, ethereal glow. The once-dreary sky was now a canvas of vibrant hues, with streaks of gold and crimson dancing across the horizon. The light seemed to pulse with a life of its own, as if it were a manifestation of the divine power that coursed through Cura's veins.
When the spectacle died down, the Markhati Selectives trembled in their places.
The Marukhati Selective leader, his face hidden behind the imposing steel masque, clenched his fists and bellowed, "Enough of your tricks, devil! You are a blasphemous Abomination, and nothing more! You may have dazzled our eyes with your light display, but it will not save you from our wrath!"
His voice reverberated through the city, echoing off the stone buildings and causing dust to pick up around him.
Cura sighed, "Fine. It means nothing to me to destroy you, especially for all the evil you've wrought upon Tamriel."
The Marukhati Selective leader's eyes narrowed behind his mask, his voice dripping with venom. "You dare to threaten us? You, a mere mortal, wielding the power of the gods? We will see how long your arrogance lasts."
He raised his mace, and began to channel a Fireball. The other Selectives hesitated, standing back. As soon as their leader lunged towards Cura, she merely stood in one place, unfettered.
"FUS RO DAH!" Cura Shouted, her voice conjuring a massive wind tunnel against the Marukhati Leader, sending him reeling backwards and rolling across the cobblestone street.
The Marukhati leader's body skidded across the ground, his mace slipping from his grasp. The ground beneath him cracked and shattered, sending shards of stone into the air. The leader's eyes widened in shock as he struggled to regain his footing, but the wind from Cura's shout had left him disoriented and vulnerable.
The other Marukhati Selectives, witnessing their leader's fall, cried out in surprise. "The Wyrm's Tongue! She speaks with the Wyrm's Tongue!" One of them declared, his voice a mixture of excitement, horror, and surprise.
Cura stood firm, her stance unyielding as she gazed upon the leader who now struggled to rise. The wind from her shout still swirled around him, making it difficult for him to focus. Her eyes, filled with an ancient wisdom and power, locked onto his, unflinching.
The Marukhati leader's face contorted with rage and fear as he tried to steady himself. He snarled, "You will not triumph over us, Impostor!"
Cura's eyes darted from left to right, surveying the crowd of Marukhati Selectives, who began to shrink under the weight of her gaze.
"Kill the blasphemer!" their Leader commanded them. The Marukhati Selectives, their faces twisted with a mixture of fear and defiance, hesitated for a moment. The leader's command hung in the air, but the power of Cura's presence seemed to paralyze them. One by one, they began to back away, their eyes wide with uncertainty.
Cura's voice, calm and commanding, cut through the tension. "Do not let fear guide your actions. Stand by your convictions, or fall by your doubts." She narrowed her eyes. "Will you stand with your Akatosh, or will you battle against your Shezzar?"
The Marukhati Selectives exchanged uneasy glances, their resolve wavering. The leader, still struggling to regain his footing, clenched his fists and shouted, "We will not be swayed by your words! We will fight for our faith!"
With a roar, he lunged at Cura, his mace swinging in a wide arc. But before he could strike, a gust of wind from Cura's Unrelenting Force shout sent him stumbling back once more. "FUS."
The leader's eyes widened in shock as he crashed into the ground, his mace clattering out of his hands. Cura's power radiated from her like a storm, and the Selectives around her took another involuntary step back, their bravado faltering.
The leader scrambled to his feet, his face twisted with rage and desperation. "You think your little tricks will defeat us? We are the truest followers of Akatosh, and we will not be intimidated!"
"This is kind of pathetic." Sabrina whispered aside to Sir Amiel with amusement.
Sir Amiel's eyes flickered to Sabrina, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Indeed," he replied, his voice low but laden with authority. "Akatosh's followers, yet they falter so easily."
"He can't even land a hit on her." Varla was bewildered. To defeat the Leader of the Selectives, all Cura seemed to need to do was open her mouth. She hadn't moved an inch from her spot.
The leader of the Marukhati Selectives, still breathing heavily, raised his mace once more. He was determined to prove his strength, to show the Dragonborn that his faith in Akatosh was not in vain. The leader of the Marukhati Selectives, his face a mask of fierce determination, raised his mace high. The air seemed to crackle with his resolve, and the other Selectives, though wavering, stood by him, their eyes burning with a mix of fear and loyalty.
Cura watched him with a calm, almost detached gaze. She knew that the leader's bravado was a facade, a desperate attempt to mask his true fear.
"You don't have to keep doing this." she said kindly. "You were deceived by Molag Bal. I understand. You need to come to terms with that. Put down your mace and let me pass."
The leader's grip tightened on his mace, knuckles whitening. He hesitated for a moment, the weight of his words pressing heavily on his mind. "Deceived? No," he said with conviction, though the uncertainty was clear in his voice. "I have chosen this path, and I will see it through."
As he took another step forward, Sabrina's voice cut through the tension, a cool and measured counterpoint. "A choice born of ignorance, I suspect."
The leader's eyes narrowed, his resolve hardening like tempered steel. "Ignorance? Or an imposition of faith?" he retorted, his voice dripping with conviction. The Selectives around him murmured in agreement, their eyes flickering with a mixture of defiance and doubt.
Cura's expression remained serene, her gaze unwavering. "Faith without reason or truth is blind," she said gently. "and imposed, blind faith can lead to destruction. This is why the gods teach us. This is why they walked amongst us," she turned briefly to Mary and Korn as she said this. "because they want us to prosper; not suffer as we have. Don't you see it?"
The leader's eyes narrowed, his grip on the mace tightening. "The gods are distant, unreachable," he said, his voice echoing with a bitter edge. "we must rely on our own strength, our own convictions. Al-Esh knew this. She prayed, and she acted. And she made mistakes. She told Prophet Marukh this. She made a mistake when she combined the Aldmeri and Nordic Pantheons. Auri-El was the corruption of Akatosh, and he needed to be purged of Elven Filth!"
The air seemed to grow heavier as the leader's words reverberated, the conviction in his voice stirring an uneasy ripple among the gathered Selectives. Cura remained composed, her expression serene but her eyes sharpening with the intensity of the moment.
"Your anger is misplaced," Cura continued, her voice soft but unyielding. "Saint Alessia did what she needed to do to unify the lands. Prophet Marukh is in error."
The leader's face contorted with rage, his eyes blazing like hot coals. "Prophet Marukh sees the truth, and I will not be swayed by your words," he spat, his voice echoing with the weight of conviction. The Selectives around him murmured in agreement, their faces etched with a mixture of determination and fear.
Cura stepped forward, her presence commanding. "Your Prophet is in Malada, isn't he?" She inquired accusatorially. Perhaps even he, the Phrophet Marukh, is imprisoned here in Coldharbour. Perhaps even he, in his desire to rewrite what the gods established; he, who dragged countless souls into Coldharbour, was too, trapped within its confines.
The leader's eyes flickered with a moment of uncertainty, but he quickly masked it with a glare of defiance. "We are not here to speak of Marukh or his whereabouts," he snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a sharp blade. "We are here to... to ensure that the corruption of the Elven gods is purged from our hearts and our lands."
Cura shook her head. "There's no reasoning with you, is there?" She drew her Elven mace and twirled it in her wrist. "This is your last chance. Allow us passage into Malada, or you will die."
The leader's face turned a deep shade of crimson, his anger boiling over like a pot left on the fire. "You dare threaten us?" he roared, his voice echoing through the cavernous space. "We are the Marukhati Selectives, and we will not be intimidated by your empty words and feeble threats."
The Selectives around him exchanged glances among their ranks, and slowly nodded to each other. They slowly lowered themselves to the floor and laid their maces and swords upon the ground. They knelt down, prostrating on all fours.
"Forgive us, Messenger of Akatosh." one spoke aloud. "We surrender."
Cura's eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on her Elven mace. The Selectives' sudden surrender was an unexpected twist, and she could feel the tension in the air as they laid down their weapons. She studied their faces, searching for any sign of deception; however, their masques made that harder to detect.
"Rise," Cura commanded, her voice steady and unwavering. "Why do you surrender so easily?" She then commanded them, "Remove your masques. I wish to see your faces."
The Selectives hesitated for a moment, their masked faces flickering with a mixture of fear and confusion. Slowly, they lifted their heads and pulled off their masques, revealing their true visages. Their faces were scarred; rotted; undead.
One by one, they stood, their glossy white eyes wide with a combination of relief and trepidation. Cura scrutinized each of them, her gaze piercing through the dim light.
The Selectives, now bare-faced, stood before her, their undead visages stark and unsettling. Their skin was pale, almost translucent, and their eyes, though empty, held a glimmer of awareness. Cura's mind raced, trying to decipher their motives and the nature of their surrender.
"Why do you surrender so easily? What happened to your convictions?" she asked again, her voice firm yet measured. The Selectives exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of fear and resignation.
One of the Selectives, an older man with deep, hollow eyes, stepped forward. His voice was barely a whisper, almost lost in the cavernous space. "We have been deceived," he said, his words trembling. "Our leaders; they promised us a world of power, of Divinity, of immortality. But it came at a terrible cost. Our souls are bound to the will of Molag Bal."
The Marukhati Leader snarled. "You are all cowards! Abbot Cosmas will incinerate the lot of you for your treachery."
Cura's eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on her Elven mace. The Selectives' words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their deception. She could see the fear in their eyes, the desperation to break free from the chains of Molag Bal's influence.
"Abbot Cosmas?" Cura repeated, her voice echoing through the cavern. "That name rings familiar."
"He was a student of Jhunal's." Varla informed her. "A powerful master of untamed fire magicks. I fought alongside him during the slaughter at Malada."
The Marukhati Selective leader's eyes widened at Varla's revelation. His face contorted in a mixture of rage and desperation. "You... you are Lord Varla the Man-Hunter." he seemed to recall the stories he'd heard. "Our predecessors wrote of you. The Right hand of Emperor Belharza who retreated to his manor in East Cyrod and became a serial murderer, hunting Men and Beastfolk for his own sick satisfaction."
"You could say I was fed up with people." Varla responded dryly. His words hung in the air, a dark reminder of the man he once was. The Selective leader's eyes flickered with a mixture of fear and determination. "You were a great hunter, but you are no match for Abbot Cosmas," he spat, his voice trembling but filled with resolve. "even if you kill us now, you will never pass him."
Varla narrowed his eyes dangerously. "I wouldn't be so confident about that if I were you."
Cura turned to the son of Mara. "Varla, I need your expertise," she said, her voice firm. "you know what to expect in Malada."
Varla's gaze hardened as he considered Cura's words. He had fought alongside her before, and though their methods differed, they shared a common enemy. "Malada," he muttered, the name alone conjuring memories of blood and fire. "That place is a furnace, a graveyard of souls."
Cura nodded, her eyes locking onto Varla's. "We need to prepare. We cannot face Abbot Cosmas without a plan."
"I say we storm the place. Slaughter the slaughterers on the way up." Varla recommended. He turned to look at Mary, "I will take your advice. I will turn my sorrow and regret into strength, rather than to weakness." He walked up to the Marukhati Leader and shoved him aside with his large hand.
The Marukhati Selective leader staggered back, his eyes wide with shock and fear. "You... you won't get away with this." he stammered, clutching at his robes as if they offered some semblance of protection.
Varla's voice was cold and unyielding. "We already have," he said, his words echoing through the cavern. "We have a mission to complete, and no one will stand in our way." He looked to Cura and nodded. "Dragonborn, you take the lead."
Cura was surprised, but felt a surge of determination at Varla's approval. "Yes; let's be off."
Mary stepped forward, her green pilgrim robes fluttering slightly in the dim light. "Visions of Aetherius are growing brighter and brighter. For the first time in millennia, I can see the Golden Wheat Fields." she said, a hopeful smile forming on her face as she pet Korn's head. The white wolf panted happily in response.
Cura's eyes gleamed with resolve as she took her place at the front. The path back to Skyrim was fraught with danger, but she was determined to see it through. With a nod to her companions, she began the journey, her steps firm and purposeful.
The Marukhati Selective members quickly pulled to either sides of the road, allowing the Cura and her Allies to pass.
As they ventured deeper into the city, the air grew colder, almost to the point of breathlessness. Cura felt a shiver run down her spine, but she ignored it, focusing on the task ahead. A long staircase rode the hill up to the large fortress which seemed to overlook most of the City. Directly on top of that fortress was a small, floating island. Immediately, the group was beset upon by Dragonrider Knights, but they fell before the group like mere fodder. Their red and gold armoured forms came crashing down the stairs like collapsed stone, and Cura marched onwards. As she and her party reached the top of the stairs, a familiar figure seemed to be there, waiting.
Inquisitor Pepe, his deformed, tentacled face barely obscured by his golden mask. His red and gold robes shifted in the light breeze of the realm, and he spoke, his voice dripping with sarcasm and annoyance. "Of course it was you who lit the sky up, I presume."
Cura's eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on the Elven Mace in her hand. "Inquisitor Pepe," she acknowledged, her voice steady and unwavering. "I see you're still as welcoming as ever."
Pepe's eyes glinted with irritation, but he quickly masked it with a mocking smile. "Oh, I see. So you're here to cause more trouble. How... predictable." He shifted lightly. "Well, you've lasted longer than I thought you would. I'll give you that."
Mary stepped forward. "Pelan."
The Inquisitor stiffened at the sight of her. "Mara..." He sighed, a deep sadness evident in the sound that escaped his throat. "I see you're freed from your Prison in the sewers." The tentacled Inquisitor sighed and held his hands behind his back. "This place is full of memories." He fixed his gaze on the structure behind him and he turned to address Cura directly. "I can see the images of days past in my mind... Oh, but everything is lost now." He sighed sadly and hung his head. "Where did I go wrong? When I burned Mary, or killed that Sload...?" He began to pace the sand-covered floor. "Or when I met Marukh in the jungles of Colovia? Everything is gone now and I don't know anymore..."
Mary looked at Inquisitor Pepe with an expression of pity.
Cura watched Pepe's erratic movements, her expression a mask of calm determination. "Inquisitor Pepe," she began, her voice steady and measured, "you speak of memories and regrets, but the path you've chosen is one of darkness and destruction. The lives you've taken, the pain you've caused - these are the things that define you now."
Pepe's tentacles twitched, his eyes narrowing as he regarded her. "I know, and I am not worth your pity. Just move on, and forget about it."
He clasped his hands together as a torrent of bad memories swirled around him. "This is Malada, the "High Fane" of the Ayleid. Fanatics brought it here. Supposedly so they could dance here, to erase the Eight Divines from Mundus..."
Mary groaned and massaged her brow. "So even in Coldharbour, they still refuse to learn from their mistakes."
Cura's eyes remained unwavering as she gazed at Pepe, her expression a blend of sorrow and resolve. "You are not beyond redemption, Pepe. Your sordid past doesn't need to define your future. The choice is still yours."
Mary nodded with agreement. "Yes; you can join us, forge a path to redemption for yourself. Even now, the gods offer you this chance."
Pepe scoffed, his laughter echoing through the open air like a haunting melody. "Redemption? You think it's that simple? I have seen too much, felt too much pain. I have burned you at the stake! It's my fault you've been trapped in this hell for thousands of years. Why would you care about me?"
Mary's expression softened, her voice taking on a gentler tone. "Because even in the depths of Coldharbour, there is still a spark of good within you. It may be buried under layers of darkness, but it's there. And it's worth saving."
Pepe's laughter faded, replaced by a heavy silence. He looked away, unable to meet Mary's gaze. "Just tell me... are you really Mara?" It was a question that haunted him from the day he encountered her in the Prison Tower cell.
Mary's eyes softened as she regarded Pepe. "I am Mara," she replied, her voice gentle yet firm. "And I believe in the power of redemption. Every soul has the capacity for change, no matter how deep the darkness that surrounds them appears to be."
Pepe's tentacles twitched again, but this time, there was a flicker of hope in his eyes. "If you truly are Mara, then why have you stayed here all these years?"
Aria and Maram stepped forward, standing at either side of Mary, and Korn stood in front of her. Aria narrowed her eyes dangerously at the Inquisitor and Maram was holding himself back from smashing the squid-faced man to pieces with his maul.
Mary began, "Because the nature of Coldharbour, as you know, traps its inhabitants in an endless cycle of reliving their worst moments. For millennia I was trapped in those sewers, as you were aware; twisted, corrupted, and in pain. And sorrow... eternally separated from my true self, and from my Wolf Totem. I was powerless."
Pepe's tentacles curled around his middle, as if the mere memory of his torment caused physical pain. "You... you suffered too?"
Mary nodded, her voice thick with emotion. "Yes, Pepe. And in that suffering, I found strength. Not the strength to escape Coldharbour, but the strength to hold onto the fragments of my soul that were still good. To find a way to maintain hope, even in the face of overwhelming despair." She walked up to Cura, and wrapped her arms around her friend's arm. "And it was Cura; this brave soul, who freed me. Who saved me from this torment."
Cura stirred at the gentle touch, her heart warmed by Mara's compassion. Mary's comforting presence enveloped her, contrasting sharply with the dark shadows that loomed around every corner. Cura's heart ached for the trials of everyone trapped here, their suffering a never-ending cycle of pain and regret.
"Pepe." she insisted. "Come with us. We'll save you, too."
Inquisitor Pepe fell silent for a few moments, and he changed the subject to the matter at hand. "There is a portal in this building: the Holy Brothers of Marukh Priory, once the bridge to Malada. It will take you straight to Malada, the floating island above. But the Marukhati Selective, fanatics at the best of times, have been driven even more mad here in Coldharbour. The ones roaming the streets are their last vestige of sanity, it seems." He crossed his arms. "The ones within the Priory will likely attack you on sight. But you're probably used to being preyed upon in this realm by now."
"We have strength together." Cura said confidently. Her voice resonated with unwavering resolve, her eyes locking onto Pepe's with a fierce determination. "We've faced worse odds and emerged victorious. We will not falter now."
Gloriel the Valkyrie clutched her Dawn Spear. "Indeed; I think it will be rather easy. And if Malada is as it once was, we shall navigate with few issues."
Varla nodded, his voice dry in his throat as his gaze rose to the island hovering above. "I stormed this place once, long ago, and killed thousands of Ayleids. And now, I shall turn my swords upon their slaughterers."
"Thank you for the information, Inquisitor Pepe." Mary expressed her gratitude softly, and Korn sat on her hind legs, staring at the accursed priest.
Maram growled, finally losing his tongue. "I can't believe you would grant redemption to that freak, Mary. He burned you at the stake; he took you from us! We killed those Alessian Scum in your name because of what he did!" He barked angrily at her decision to forgive her killer.
The tension was palpable as the void crackled above the area. Mary's eyes reflected a calm resolve, a tranquility that seemed almost otherworldly. Her hand gently stroked Korn's fur, her fingers weaving through the thick coat of the white wolf. "Redemption is not a grant, Maram," she began, her voice carrying the weight of ages. "It is a gift."
Aria, who normally whispered, spoke aloud, voicing her distress. "But... but... why would you offer him that gift? He ruined everything for us. He betrayed us all! He deserves his damnation. He should be left here to contend with the Graymarch!"
The green-clad Priestess spoke to her follower sharply. "And what about what you have done, Aria? As Maram admitted, you've both headed a slaughter in my name. That is unacceptable, and yet I have chosen to forgive you both, as well." The air was thick with unspoken words, each one pressing down on the group like a heavy mantle. The island above, surrounded with a swirling vortex of dark energy, seemed to pulse in rhythm with the tension below.
Aria lowered her face in shame, unable to argue back. "I... you're right... I'm sorry." she whispered.
Mary's gaze softened as she looked at Aria, her voice gentle yet firm. "Forgiveness is not about forgetting the past, but about acknowledging the harm that has been done and choosing to move forward." The words hung in the air, resonating with the gravity of their significance.
Maram shifted uncomfortably, his fierce demeanor softening ever so slightly. "You're right, Mary. But it's hard to trust someone who has done us such harm."
Mary's eyes met Maram's, her expression a mixture of sorrow and understanding. "Trust is earned, Maram."
Korn barked in agreement with her human half. The group stood silent for a moment, the gravity of their decision settling like a heavy fog. Aria's eyes remained downcast, her shame evident in the way she slumped, her shoulders barely holding themselves up. The tension between her and Maram was palpable, a heavy, unspoken weight that pressed down on them both.
"Then what do we do now?" Maram's voice was gruff, tinged with frustration. "If we don't kill Pepe this time, your death will never truly be avenged."
"It was our intention the first time to end his life." Aria explained. "We killed all of the Alessians we could find until we were slain, but... it was him we really wanted. And we couldn't find him."
Mary's eyes narrowed, her gaze piercing through their souls. "We can't keep dwelling on past grievances. We need to focus on the present and the future. Pepe is a symptom of a larger problem, and we need to address the root cause." Her eyes fell upon the Tower of Sacremnor, which was more visible from this height. At its top, Molag Bal's throne lay.
Maram's jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. "You're right, Mary. But it's hard to ignore the pain he's caused us."
Varla snarled at Maram and aggressively pushed past his large form. "It happened; it's done, and it's in the past. Let it go and get on with your lives. We have something we need to do here, and we're going to do it. If you want to sit out here and cry, be my guest. I just want to get this over with."
The group stood in silence for a moment, the gravity of their decision settling around them like a heavy fog. The air was tense, filled with unspoken words and unresolved emotions.
Maram's eyes finally softened, his fierce demeanor giving way to a reluctant acceptance. "You're right, Varla," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "I guess him being stuck in here was justice enough."
The group began to move inside of the Priory's weathered old structure, their steps heavy with determination. Cura nodded silently, knowing that the worst of Coldharbour was behind her, now. At least, she hoped.
The journey to the Tower of Sacremnor was long and arduous, each step echoing with the memories of past battles and fallen comrades. The landscape was bleak, the sky perpetually shrouded in a dark, foreboding haze. The very ground seemed to writhe beneath their feet, as if it too felt the malevolent presence of Molag Bal. However, the oppressive air appeared to be somehow lighter.