Chapter 19
A Prophecy Foretold
"It amuses me how vague prophets are. If you can see the future, why not tell it to us straight?"- Quogoth gro-Baltaag, a character in play Kolgan's Hunts act 3 scene 1. Written by Alegia Tubali, 3E 357 and first performed 3E 359.
She lit the candles with a slow match, the tiny flames burning in defiance of the surrounding chill. The rising smoke met the gently falling snow, blending together. The seven candles rested precisely on the altar, unnaturally bright in the surrounding greyness.
Holding the match up to slate-gray lips, the priestess snuffed out the flame with one quick breath. After tossing the match aside, Araena, the last remaining priestess of Azura in Skyrim, pulled her violet robe tighter. The garment was plenty warm, its rabbit fur lining giving more than enough protection from Skyrim's chill.
Araena was a Dunmer and not one as young as she'd used to be, wrinkles slowly working their way across her face. She had never been beautiful and age hadn't been kind. Her hair was merely dark gray, not the pure silver or white of some of her childhood friends. Her hands were calloused from hard work outdoors, her knees were scraped from constant prayer, and she was thin from limited meals. She could not leave the shrine unattended for long, lest bandits or monsters desecrate this hallowed ground.
Her eyes were the only truly exceptional thing about her, pools of pure night smattered with a twinkling of stars. They conveyed warmth or anger, in equal amounts whenever it suited her. She seemed underwhelming, just one more face in the crowd, yet this was far from the truth. Divine power radiated from her, a clear sign of favor from the Daedric Prince she'd served so faithfully all her life.
Araena didn't care about her appearance. She lived a solitary life, interacting only with the goddess and occasional pilgrim. The pilgrims were becoming fewer in number each year, turning from a flood, to a stream, to a trickle, and finally, they stopped arriving altogether.
She sometimes wondered what would become of the shrine when she died. What her purpose was when no one remained to hear her prophecies. But those days of doubt were few for she held on tightly to her faith. Azura spoke to her with words of comfort. It was enough.
Araena sank to her knees before the altar, inhaling the sweet candle smoke while the snow fell on her face.
She looked up at the massive statue, chiseled from the mountain itself. Thousands of faithful Dunmer had shaped it lovingly over many years, putting back and heart into its construction. The statue depicted the Lady of Mysteries, in all her grace and power, standing watch over her faithful. In one of her outstretched hands was the crescent moon and, in the other, the rising sun. Her gown flowed down until it became one with the mountain face. It was a perfect work, superior to those in Morrowind. It towered above similar monuments to gods and Daedra, dwarfing even some temples.
It saddened her to think of all the work done with so few to see it.
Folding her hands and closing her midnight eyes, Araena began her morning prayers. The sweet smell of incense filled her nostrils as smoke blew past her face. "Azura," she began reverently, "Lady of Mystery, Mother of Dawn, Mistress of Fate, hear my prayers."
Azura answered.
Images overwhelmed her mind. She saw a poorly shaved Nord man accompanied by a woman wearing iron plate. Then there was a fellow Dunmer, dressed in the robes of a priest of Mara. The blasphemous image of Azura's most sacred artifact, her Star, blackened and resting in the hands of a human, followed. There was more, a dragon roaring, an arrow sailing through the sky, that same Nord holding two swords. A grey wolf battling a black one.
This jumble of smells, sights, and sounds was accompanied by a voice sweeter than honey, smooth as silk but dusky as smoke. It was not quite human, not quite elven, not quite mortal, not quite immortal. "My faithful servant, hear me now. This Nord is my champion, an agent of fate. He must be pointed to my Star. You will know where to send him when he arrives. You must send him, for through him the will of fate will be accomplished. He will speak to me and when he does I will show him that which I've shown you."
As suddenly as the vision began, it ended. Araena's head throbbed. She was shuddering, sweating despite the chill. She'd felt the power of the Daedric Prince before and each subsequent visit was just as draining. Leaning against the altar, body wracked with fatigue, Araena slowly regained her composure.
"The Star?" She asked the surrounding winds, "But the Star is lost..." She shook her head, chastising herself for the momentary lapse in faith. Azura controlled the fates of all men and mer. Finding her own sacred artifact would be nothing to her.
Pulling her hood back up, Araena began her daily meditations and hymns. There was no reason to abandon her daily routine just because something exciting was going to happen.
Araena knelt once again before the altar. Whenever this Nord arrived she would be ready for him.
The flames danced around him, consuming timber walls and ceiling. Numerous bodies lay in the grass, some clutching weapons but most were unarmed. The fire was almost hypnotizing but the screams were horrifying.
Grogork held his Orcish greataxe in both hands, already stained with the blood of traitors. The chieftain wanted to take all their heads, his bloodlust demanding he slay them all. But Grogork was no fool, he knew it was over. His little brother had been cunning, ruthless, and thoroughly un-Orcish.
Malacath piss on the runt. This is not the way!
His other brother, Garborz, the middle son, stood faithfully by his side with a mace in each hand. Garborz knew their traditions. He would die for his brother and die an Orc. Garborz had killed three traitors in the span of mere moments, the dance of death he spun was almost graceful.
If only all had Garborz's loyalty to the chieftain, but alas, the little brother had swayed many with promises of gold, women, and glory. Ruthless mercenaries provided the rest of the bodies needed to win this brief civil war.
Malacath will surely curse the Stronghold for such treachery. Bribes are the way of cowards, unworthy of Orcs.
A traitor Orc rushed him, body covered in the blood of a loyalist. The chief's blood boiled with hatred and he crushed the traitor's head with an axe-blow.
"Let them come!" Garborz roared, slamming his maces together, "The simpering bugger hasn't beaten us yet!"
Grogork looked left and right. Everywhere his eyes saw more traitors, too many for even he and his loyal brother to slay. Malacath was calling his name. This was his end.
Yet one thing remained.
"Garborz," Grogork commanded, voice unemotional. "I trust only you, my brother," Garborz looked at him, blood trickling from a deep scar on his forehead. "Go to the longhouse cellar, my son is hiding there. Take him away from here and ensure he lives. He must live!"
"I'm not a wet nurse! Get one of your wives to do it!" The snarl was punctured by the cracking of a mace against ribcage. Another traitor fell to Garborz' fury.
"All are dead or traitors. My son must live and avenge me on my treacherous brother! Malacath will vindicate me."
Garborz did not want to leave. He looked at his older brother with a pained expression. "What of you?"
Grogork's grip on the axe's handle tightened. "I'll buy you time." His lips curled back in a defiant sneer, "My axe is thirsty for blood and I will give her one last drink." His smile faded, "Garborz, there is no one else left and I do not deserve life after failing to stop this coup. Please brother, save my son."
The other Orc's eyes watered for only a moment before he steeled himself. "We will see each other again someday, brother. Take Malacath's strength." With that blessing, he dashed toward the longhouse. Two traitors attempted to stop him before staggering backward with their skulls caved in.
A few went in pursuit of Garborz, but most closed in on the chieftain.
Grogork closed his eyes. Instinct took over. The first traitor fell beneath his axe. Grogork spun and dispatched a second in the same manner. He hewed the arm off a third. The first spear punctured his gut. With a cry of rage, Grogork ripped it free and drove the spear through its former owner.
A hatchet bit into his shoulder, a sword gashed his calf, an arrow punched through his forearm. Still Grogork stood, beating the enemy back with cold resolve. He hadn't seen his traitor brother, a pity but not surprising. The coward would never have faced him in battle, he wasn't a fighter.
Out of the corner of his eye, Grogork saw the horse blast through the Stronghold's flaming gate. He saw the small, cloak-covered package on the saddle behind his brother and knew his son had a chance.
Grogork bellowed for all to come, to try and take his life, drawing eyes and ears. Two more arrows struck him, but in his blood rage they were like flea bites. Another enemy fell. The chief sustained another wound.
He couldn't cover all sides at once, he couldn't fight them all. The ring of bodies at his feet grew larger, but the battle was already lost. Grogork never saw the warhammer that struck him from behind. He felt the knife sawing away at his neck as he lay dying.
His last thought was of his son. His last sensation was a firm grip on his hair, ripping him free...
Clob sat bolt upright in his bedroll, breathing heavily. He didn't understand the dream, why it had affected him, why he'd even had it.
Perhaps it's because I'm finally getting down to my bloody business.
The sun was shining brightly, birds chirped, a gentle breeze rolled by lazily on unexpectedly warm air. Everything seemed crisp and bright and not at all like he'd expected when he'd set out on the journey.
Since he was now awake, Clob looked around for his companions. Porkchop was trotting about, grunting and sniffing for grubs. Durgaz was crouched before a roaring fire, and, judging from the mouth-watering smell, frying some bacon and mushrooms.
Yawning, Clob forced himself out of his bedroll, wearing nothing but a pair of shabby linen breeches. The breeze rustled his beard and tickled his chest. After rolling his neck with a satisfying crack, Clob glanced towards the other Orc. "Good morning Durgaz," he rumbled before casting a detect life spell. It wasn't that he didn't trust his new allies, but he'd learned long ago to depend on himself. He detected nothing except the three of them, a few squirrels and a pair of songbirds.
Good, we're safe for now.
"Stendarr's blessings to you on this crisp morning," Durgaz responded in a chipper tone. He'd clearly had sufficient sleep, unlike Clob his dreams were unbothered. Porkchop trotted over to his master and nuzzled against his side, "Do we have a plan for today's journey? We need to eat and move on. The tundra isn't safe."
"First, I must empty my bladder," Clob responded, feeling the serious pressure to make morning water. "Then we'll have breakfast and plan our route." Gathering up his robes and quarterstaff, Clob took a brief leave of the Vigilant. A few meters away from the fire and bedrolls was an outcropping of rocks suitable for his purpose. Maintaining his detect life spell, he dropped his breeches and went about his business.
After finishing, Clob stripped off his sleepwear, dressing himself in the robes that had served him so faithfully. Yet despite his calm exterior, he was internally tormented. The dream still haunted him, gripping his soul with sorrow that would not relent. He was tormented by what would happen following his arrival at Largashbur. Would any of his old friends still live? Would they fight for him? Would there be blood?
He shook his head, adjusting his haversack's position and tightening his belt. He had an image to present, that of a controlled, focused man. Running a hand through his dark green beard, clearing any remaining tangles from the previous night, he breathed out.
Rolling his shoulders once until they cracked as his neck had done earlier, Clob strode back towards the fire, whistling a pub tune under his breath. Porkchop was now lying in the dust next to Durgaz, chewing on something his master had fed him. Durgaz held a pewter plate, a delicious cloud of steam rising from the meat. Sitting in the dirt across from them, Clob gratefully accepted a bowl full of bacon and mushrooms.
After popping a hunk of bacon in his mouth, Clob was struck by a thought, "Is Porkchop bothered by this?"
Durgaz-gro-Borba actually laughed. "Only if he doesn't get any!" He tossed a scrap of bacon towards the boar, who snapped it out of midair greedily, devouring the chunk of meat.
Satisfied with the demonstration, Clob began talking, "If we can maintain a steady pace of travel, assuming we don't encounter any dragons, we should reach Largashbur within a tenday or so." Clob took a handful of mushrooms from the bowl and popped them into his mouth. Chewing contentedly, he pondered his next sentence. "I don't believe there will be violence on our immediate arrival. There might be some shortly thereafter."
"So, you don't know if these people want to kill you or not?" Durgaz asked, confusion obvious on his pale face. "How long has it been since you were last there?"
Clob shrugged. "I could not put a date on it. It was long ago..." he gazed into the flames, still bright and mesmerizing despite the morning sunlight, "A very long time ago..."
"I won't ask more," the Vigilant responded, his hand dropping instinctively to the handle of his mace, "But I'll keep my weapon ready." Porkchop snorted defiantly, his tusks gleaming in the light. Durgaz laughed, "Porkchop is always ready!"
"I'll be glad to have his tusks on my side, if treachery is indeed afoot," Clob responded, and that was the truth.
The stag was a truly magnificent beast. Tracking it hadn't been particularly challenging, but it seemed like killing it would be. The animal led Aela on a merry chase throughout the night, never tiring, never faltering. Thanks to her mighty stamina, she managed to keep it in her sights, even firing an arrow at it at one point. But the stag was too far for accuracy and dodged the shot.
It was time for a new strategy so she dropped out of sight and began following by scent. A few well-placed leaps and a quick climb took her to the tree branches, giving her a commanding view of her surroundings. Leaping from branch to branch with the practiced skill of a life spent in the forest, the Huntress managed a good pace in near perfect silence. Her ebony bow rested comfortably on her back, quiver aligned for maximum efficiency. When the shot presented itself Aela would take it.
From her current perch, a particularly sturdy pine tree limb, Aela watched her prey. Just beyond an arrow's flight was the white stag. The beast looked around nervously, trying to find the woman who'd hunted him. She'd expected to cut him off but not so efficiently. She'd overestimated and was now too far away for a clean shot.
So she waited, silently, so still she hardly breathed, waiting for the anxious creature to take half a dozen steps. If he entered her killing zone she could take him down with a single arrow. For Hircine's glory, she'd kill the beast.
But the stag was clever and cautious. Judging by the size of his antlers it was many winters old, a prize worthy of any big game hunter. A creature like that didn't survive this long by taking chances.
The stag sniffed the air cautiously, glancing about the forest, as if he knew she was there. Aela was motionless save her crimson hair dancing slightly with the wind. She was still.
He took a cautious step forward, placing one hoof out into the open. Aela didn't flinch. Several more steps followed, the stag moving ever closer to her killing zone.
Reaching her hand back cautiously, Aela took up her bow. Silently, she withdrew a single arrow. She maintained her stillness.
The stag moved forward closer, now in range for an arrow but not a guarantee. So she waited. A gentle breeze blew by, carrying the stag's nervous scent.
Yet despite the beast's caution, it had only two choices, advance or retreat. It chose the former. Slowly, one step at a time, the stag advanced. As it moved further into the clearing, the Huntress prepared.
Shutting one eye for accuracy, she drew the bowstring back to her ear, holding the shot. She waited for three more steps...two more...one more…
She released the arrow. It flew through the air, the cracking of the bowstring unnaturally loud in the stillness of the night. The stag looked up, seeing the arrow for just a split-second before impact.
The ebony head bit clean through the flank, puncturing the heart. The stag made a single pitiful squeak and collapsed. She felt its life leave, and saw the pool of blood growing from its rapidly cooling body.
Her task was almost done.
Yet no one who loved Skyrim, who had spent so much time among her trees and mountains, could simply take an animal's life. The sacrifice must be honored.
Returning her bow to its place, Aela released a single breath through her nose before dropping to the ground. She landed gracefully, her boots crushing leaves underneath. She reached for the skinning knife on her belt, knowing she had to take a trophy.
Approaching the stag reverently, Aela knelt before it. A more poetic woman would have said something profound, her mother would have prayed. Aela was neither a poet nor her mother so, after a nod of gratitude, she plugged the blade into the beast's flank.
The instant she did so, an ethereal voice rang out clearly, as if the invisible speaker had been standing next to her, "Well done, Hunteress!"
She leaped back, drawing her dagger while leaving her skinning knife in the stag's corpse. Rising up from the corpse was a ghostly figure. He was like a man, but more savage. His features were fleeting, making him impossible to describe even as she looked at him. The figure clutched a mighty spear in one hand and a horn of mead in the other. He wore animal skins and a helmet made of hide and antlers which, giving him a striking resemblance to the stag she'd just slain. Though his physical features were fleeting she could tell he was pleased. He was no ghost, there was only one being he could be.
Aela knelt before him, stabbing the point of her dagger into the dirt. Pressing her forehead against the pommel, she spoke four words, "Thank you, Lord Hircine."
The Prince ordered her to rise with a wave of his mead horn, the necklace of bone he wore rattling as he did so. "After a worthy hunt you've slain the white stag! My favor is upon you." Hircine raised the horn in toast, before taking a sip. "Now, I command my faithful Huntress to perform a task. Do so and be rewarded." He did not wait for her response before continuing, "You will head to Bloated Man's Grotto, I will plant the directions in your mind. There is a werewolf there, a pathetic creature named Sinding. He was too weak to rule himself and tried to steal from me. Me! Hircine, Lord of the Hunt!"
His anger seethed, nearly boiling Aela with his rage. His hand tightened around the mighty spear and he shook his head furiously. "You understand the laws of the forest. He is weak, he is fearful, and he has dared steal from the Lord he claims to serve. Go there, kill him, bring me his pelt, and I will shower you with a mighty gift." He looked to the horizon, as if his gaze was falling upon Sinding from this forlorn grove. "A Blood Moon rises and a Wild Hunt begins. Know this, Huntress. You are not the only one who seeks my prize. There will be much bloodshed before your time is done."
He smiled wickedly and vanished in an instant as if he'd never been there.
Aela remained kneeling, her head resting upon the dagger a few moments longer. She'd seen the face of her lord. After her reverence had passed, she returned to the task of skinning the stag.
Let the others have a head start. It doesn't matter. I will reach Sinding. I should have killed him in his cell when I had the chance. I won't make the same mistake twice.
"My Thane," Lydia protested, from directly behind Hammel, "Couldn't we please take the horses?"
Hammel Greymist growled from between clenched teeth, "No. This is sacred ground." He looked up at the sheer steps they still had to climb, noting the ice which coated them. "Besides, it wouldn't be safe for them."
They'd left the horses at the bottom, journeying up the mountainside on foot. While Hammel had physically recovered from the battle with the dragon, his mood had been distant ever since the encounter with that Redguard woman. It almost seemed like he believed conquering this mountain would conquer himself.
Lydia both admired his determination, and loathed his stupidity. Her shield's strap cut painfully into her shoulder after slipping past the pauldron. Her breath came in clouds. Despite being in perfect health she was struggling. She could only imagine how Hammel felt.
She could feel the statue of Azura staring at them from above. It was, admittedly, a beautiful piece of devotion, but Lydia found it uncomfortable. She bore the Daedra no love, even those as benevolent as Azura. Hammel's story had touched her more than she cared to admit. Talos knew she remembered precious little of her own mother, but she'd been blessed with a strong, noble father who'd loved and cared for her. Yet despite her growing respect for Hammel, something she'd be embarrassed to tell him, his fondness for the Daedric Princess couldn't change her opinion.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Hammel slipping and falling to his hands and knees. It was fast. One moment he was up, the next he was trying to push himself upright. "Let me help you, my Thane." Lydia offered, grabbing one of his arms and hauling him to his feet.
He brushed the snow from his shoulders with a weary hand. "Thank you," he muttered grouchily. Being unsure of himself didn't seem to agree with Hammel. Pulling his cloak tighter, he pressed on without complaint.
The statue grew larger as they approached, towering over the small plateau that was their ultimate destination. The altar was simple and humble. Seven small candles sat on it, burning bright against the snow.
Kneeling before the altar in silent prayer was a Dunmer woman clad in a simple deep velvet robe. Hammel stopped and dropped to his knees as eloquently as he could, allowing her to finish her devotions. After gazing lovingly up at the massive statue, he began his own prayers.
"I've been awaiting your arrival," the priestess announced in a soothing voice, "Greymist, faithful of the goddess." She rose, turning to face him in one fluid motion. The edges of her cloak rustled in a hypnotizing fashion. "I am Araena, the last priestess of Azura remaining in Skyrim, and I am honored by your prescience."
Judging by the look on his face, that wasn't what Hammel expected her to say. "I'm sorry, what do you mean?"
Araena hid her hands within the opposite sleeves of her robes, "You have found favor with Azura. When she mentions you, it is with fondness."
Dropping to his face before the altar, Hammel responded reverently, "That the Lady of Mysteries would pay me any thought at all, is an honor far beyond what I deserve."
Lydia mentally rolled her eyes. Groveling was all well and good, but she doubted any Daedra would be taken in by it.
She was waiting for Araena to respond to this with some eloquently sounding platitude. However the voice that rang out didn't belong to the priestess. It was certainly a woman's voice, but it didn't belong to the Dunmer. It was smooth and rich, like velvet with an otherworldly power behind it. It came from everywhere and nowhere, with a song-like quality to it, like a river flowing downstream over rocks. Hauntingly beautiful, the voice swept over her like a wave, leaving a numbing sensation.
"Hammel Greymist," the voice sang out, "You are offered the chance to serve me and perform a vital task. It will be dangerous, but you are capable. Do you accept this responsibility?"
"Yes." His voice was unbroken, his resolve unwavering.
"My Star has been stolen by Malyn Varen, a servant of my enemy, Vaermina. He took it into one of Vaermina's monasteries, far from here. Go to Dawnstar and seek out a Dunmer Priest. He can take you where you must seek. Recover my Star and return it to my shrine for purification. If you do this, you will be blessed."
With that, the voice, and the sensation, disappeared as quickly as it had come. Lydia stood there quietly, feeling a strange sense of abandonment.
Hammel shook his head, his pack making rattling noises as his helmet clinked against his mug. Pushing himself to his feet, he looked Araena dead in the eye. "What," he asked, "Is the quickest route to Dawnstar?"
Lianna spent far more time at Niranye's house than she had intended. Her friend was doing well, safe from the war behind Windhelm's walls. They'd shared tea and gossip, discussing their different business', Niranye's lack of a love life, and their hopes for Skyrim after the war.
By the time the friends were saying their good-byes, night, and a storm, had fallen. As the two women embraced, Niranye expressed her concern, telling Lianna, "Be careful, I don't want my best friend in this city going missing like those poor women."
While her concern was touching, Lianna wasn't worried. The missing women had mostly been drifters, refugees, and the like. They weren't armed, they weren't warriors, and, more than likely, they had simply moved on to better pastures.
If anyone wants to try and take my life, they're welcome to try. My blade's waiting.
The walk to the small house she shared with Ralof shouldn't have been a long one. She knew Windhelm well enough that the snowstorm shouldn't have delayed her much, but she found herself walking slower than normal. The Orcish steel sword almost sang in its sheath, waiting to be used.
Still, she wasn't expecting anything. Not in Windhelm where Ulfric held dominion. She knew it was a safe city, not perfect of course, but safe nonetheless.
When she heard the bloodcurdling scream of a woman, Lianna was shocked. It took a moment before her instincts kicked in. She rushed towards the sound, drawing her blade as she did.
The scream trailed off, cut off sharply in a manner that Lianna instantly knew meant the woman was dead. She doubled her pace, trying to catch the murderer in the act, getting vengeance for the woman.
Her steps took her to the graveyard, not so far from Windhelm's Hall of the Dead. By the time she arrived, the killer was long gone. The woman was stretched across one of the tombstones, stripped down to her undergarments and covered in blood. She'd seen too many bodies to doubt for a second that this woman was dead.
As she stared at the corpse before her, a woman slain when she should have been safe, a guard came up behind her, just managing to avoid bumping into her. "Damn it all," he murmured, starting at the scene before them, "It looks like The Butcher has struck again."