Song of the Faithful: Just a Formality

Chapter 1: Just a Formality I

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

‘When the Gates of Oblivion swung open, we kept vigilant.

When the Dragonborn Ruler fell and brought peace upon the land, we kept vigilant.

When the innocents slept soundly in their beds while the darkness crept about, we kept vigilant.

When the Daedra return with hunger in their eyes and blood on their fangs, they will know that we kept vigilant.

For we are the Vigilants of Stendarr and we shall pray to Him to grant His mercy upon thee,

For the Vigil have none to spare!

~ The Vigilant’s Creed

She woke up with beads of sweat on her brow, and her hand bruised from clutching the knife she kept under her pillow.

She found herself flat on her back, breathing heavily as if she had been running. The dream that roused her awake wasn’t a particularly new one; it was a spectre that had been haunting her for many moons. The worst of it was that while she couldn’t exactly remember what happened in the dream – it always came back to her in an indistinct, cloudy blur except for the end: A flash of green.

The others, her brothers and sisters were still soundly asleep. She couldn’t see them – daybreak had yet to arrive and the night hearth were now dim embers thought it made little difference – her eyesight was just as rubbish during the day. She could however hear them. Were it not the dream, the sound of their snoring or their teeth grinding would’ve woken her up anyway. She uttered a curse and buried her face in her pillow.

She tossed and turned, trying to get some sleep. She made prayers, counted sheep, and thought of the dullest lectures of her life but nothing worked. The dream, that flash of green, was a herald of pain and adversity. So far though, they have never been wrong. Even more reason to get a wink, she knew.

She groaned, pulled the knife from under the pillow and ran her finger on its edge, slowly. To suffer a self-cut would be an embarrassment, to suffer a self-cut from this dull blade would be an embarrassment tenfold.

The knife was barely a knife. Fashioned from a nail, the blade of it was the point flattened and its side sharpened, and the handle was the post bent to form a crude guard. By all means, this was a terrible knife. The balance was atrocious, and the many dents and chips the blade had suffered over the years made clean cuts all but impossible.

It was however, still her knife.

Annoyed, she rose and twirled the knife twice in her fingers. Then she laid the weapon flat on her side and folded her legs, eyes closed.

She focused on the rhythm of her heartbeat and breathed in and breathed out.

Notes:

Ave, Delta here. I try not to make a habit of author notes, so I'll keep this short. The stories are basically done, all that I have to do is upload them every Tuesday. Feel free to comment or if you'd want to try your hand at it, write a critique/review.
See you next time!

Chapter 2: The Vigilants of Stendarr I

Chapter Text

Nothing new or interesting ever happens in Morthal. Every day was exactly the same as it was the day before; the sun would rise in the morning, and the moons at night and that was how it was and will be till the end of the world. Of course, words like ‘new or ‘interesting’ were subjective and relative words.

Hod secured his gambeson to his body with one final tug of his leather belt before draping a green cloak, the colours of Hjaalmarch Hold, over his body. He then tied a knife and cudgel to his belt, slid on his helmet, and picked up his spear, sighing as he did in preparation for another boring day in Morthal.

Unlike the other Holds of Skyrim, Morthal and Hjaalmarch in general, didn’t have a bandit problem. Firstly, there was nothing worth stealing, seeing that the Hold exported in pitch, crabs, and fish. Nothing of value unlike the fine trees, horses, or precious ores and stones of the other Holds. Secondly, there was no one worth stealing from. Those with any money or sense would’ve left for the other Holds a long time ago. Hod… has a wife.

Hod began his rounds at the Merchant’s Quarter. He cursed as his boot sank into the muddy street. What was that idiot’s name again, he wondered? Orrin? Onin? What was the Jarl paying you for if you couldn’t even gravel the earth properly?

Hod scrapped his boot on a wooden post and then walked from stall to stall, waving by and chatting with boring, familiar faces about boring, familiar things. Did you hear about the body they found in the marshlands? they would ask. Yes, Hod would answer. Was the body dismembered, dissolved or half-eaten? they would continue and Hod would say a Yes or Maybe and then continue his day.

For any other Hold, finding dismembered, dissolved, or half-eaten corpses would’ve been new or interesting, something to alert the criers and summon the guards. But for Hjaalmarch, it was just a Tirdas of cleaning and a Middas of burying. Thinking more on it, the most interesting corpse he found was a man with his flesh that became transparent like jelly. That kept things interesting for a few days but after that, it was another flake of snow in a blizzard.

After the Merchant’s Quarter, Hod made for the Noble’s District. Inbreeds and madmen, the lot of them. The nobles lived in castles of manors, their homes looming a good storey or two above the structures of the commonfolk with none of the sense in them. Hod quickened his pace, the stink of pine tar – a luxury good from the forests of Falkreath always did make his head dizzy.

By the light of dusk, everyone began clearing the streets and prepared for the comforts of home. Not Hod though, he had the night watch again. The town’s lamplighters, really just teenage boys looking for more coin, began swarming the town, armed with flints and canisters of fish oil. By the time Hod had arrived at Morihaus Gate, and tossed a coin for Knut, the local beggar, night and the ever so ominous fog had arrived.

Hod spoke with Ollfred, his gate-partner, of many things. They spoke of their wives, of how Ollfred’s fights with Ulfga has become legendary in the neighbourhood and that Lilet was expecting. Hod hoped for another son and the Nine be kind, a sturdier son. They argued on the rules of Hnefatafl, coming to the conclusion that Erik was a cheating bastard and that his winning move was in fact, void and illegal, and which of the captain’s daughters were prettier. They would talk until the dawn came and they would return to their wives but what they spoke of was well threaded ground for nothing new nor interesting ever happened in Morthal.

Then they came.

At first, Hod thought it were wisps, the spirits of the angry dead seeking to entrance the living to their demise. The fiery lights drifted about as if seeking something. Hod bent his fingers into the sign of Tsun, to ward off the evil spirit but through the mists, the lights casted three humanoid shadows. He looked over at Ollfred, who was already raising his spear in anticipation of a battle.

‘Halt!’ Hod barked. ‘Who goes there?’

Two of the shadows froze in their tracks but one of them kept moving forward. Stepping out the darkness and into the light, the shadow, from an amorphous blob of the mists, grew distinct. Hod saw that the shadow was wearing a tattered cloak of dull brown wool, nothing like the fancy dyed ones the nobles wear. Beneath the cloak was a set of priestly clothes; a short grey robe under an equally grey tabard, held together with a red sash tied around the waist. The shadow’s face was hidden beneath a hooded cowl but the gleam of the shadow’s brooch was unmistakable. It was an iron in the shape of a drinking horn, the sigil of Stendarr, the God of Justice and Mercy.

This shadow, this apparition, this stranger would’ve passed for a mud-stained mendicant priest were it not for a few things. Firstly, they wore armour. It wasn’t just the gleam of metal braces or shin guards that gave them away, it was from the breastplate proudly protecting their heart. Secondly, they were too well armed. It was not unreasonable, especially not in dark days such as these for wandering holy men to carry heavy walking sticks to fend off wolves or the odd scoundrel on the road but this ‘priest’ had a mace hanging off their rucksack. Finally, the shadow had the unmistakable bearing of a soldier, walking too confidently and at the same time, cautiously.

‘Hail, noble guardsmen,’ the stranger said with a woman’s voice. ‘There’s be nae need for that,’ she continued, pushing aside the point of Ollfred’s spear. Hod recognised her accent. This stranger was a Paleman. ‘If you be afraid of us being some manner of spirit or Daedra, know that your fears are unfounded for we are neither. We are Vigilants of Stendarr.’ Hod caught a shadowed smile from under the hood. ‘Please gentlemen, lower your spear so that we may speak proper.’

Hod grunted and lowed his spear. Ollfred after a moment of hesitation, followed suit, adding, ‘Vigilants of Stendarr?’

‘Daedra hunters,’ Hod said, narrowing his eyes. ‘Sellsword Daedra hunters. They think themselves holy warriors but what kind of holy warriors demands coin for doing the Divine’s work?’ He hawked and spat, a real good one to the side.

The Vigilant chuckled. ‘I’d like to think the practical kind. It is after all, fair that any service, na matter how great or small be compensated at the end of the job, nae? And you, guardsman. You who lives in this town, who defends your Jarl, friends, and family. You could be working for free but that wouldn’t be fair, wouldn’t it? You deserve to be paid for your service.’

‘Aye,’ Hod allowed. ‘You have the right of it.’

‘Then we Vigilants; holy warriors, sellswords, what have you, are here for work.’

‘That be your right.’ Hod shifted his spear, blocking the gate. ‘But you can’t enter at this hour. None may pass after nightfall, that’s the order.’

‘If need be,’ Ollfred added. ‘You can make camp over there. We’ll open the gates when the rooster sings.’

‘Oh, I see,’ the Vigilant said. ‘That is a shame because we’d rather sleep within these walls tonight. Be merciful, good guardsmen. We are weary travellers who have walked a mighty distance to Morthal and another night outside would just be cruel.’

‘We can’t,’ Ollfred said. ‘Orders are orders. Do you know what they’d do to us if we’d let you through? We’ll lose our jobs and they’d march us to the stocks.’

‘No entry,’ Hod said, stern. ‘Unless you’re a noble with proof of your status.’

‘Damn,’ the Vigilant snapped her fingers. ‘I’ve left my proof in my other pants. Is there another way you’d let us through?’ she continued.

'She could have a safe-conduct,’ Ollfred suggested.

‘A safe-conduct? I dinnae have one of those but…’ the Vigilant trailed off as she dug into her satchel and pulled something out. ‘Will this do?’

In her hand was a roll of parchment and it bore a broken seal wax of a triskelion, the sigil of the Jarldom of Hjaalmarch. With a curt grunt, Hod swiped the scroll off the Vigilant’s hand and began reading it.

‘This is… this is…’ Hod’s eyes widened. ‘Ollfred, open the gates!’

‘Why, what’s wrong?’ Ollfred said.

‘This isn’t a safe-conduct – It’s an invitation from the Jarl herself! I know not what business the Jarl has with Daedra hunters but the Jarl demands you see her right away.’

‘Hold, noble guardsman. Let us not be hasty. Allow us to sleep the night – the Jarl wouldn’t be awake at this hour, would she?’

Hod hesitated and then nodded. The stranger’s words made sense.

‘Wise and honourable, pray Stendarr go far.’ The Vigilant waved for her companions to proceed. ‘One more thing. Guardsmen? As we are but humble travellers with weary feet and hungry bellies, might you recommend a place where we’ll be able to enjoy a hot meal, an honest, stiff drink, and crackling fire without costing us too much coin, if you understand my meaning.’

‘The Crabber’s Den by the Crabber’s Pier,’ Ollfred said absently. ‘You’ll never find a cheaper place to stay.’

‘The Crabber’s Den? Really?’ Ollfred said in an incredulous tone. ‘That place is more of an outhouse than it is an inn, and I’ve taken sh*ts in outhouses with more class than the Crabber’s Den.’

‘It will do,’ the Vigilant said with a dramatic bow. ‘Thank you again, noble guardsmen. Stendarr’s blessing upon you and may you have a most fortuitous night.’

As the stranger and her companions entered, the gate, Hod felt a chill creeping up the back of his neck. Ollfred closed the gate with a thud and continued their conversation before these strangers, these Vigilants had arrived but Hod wasn’t listening.

Leaning on his spear, Hod was wondering if he really saw what he saw. When the Vigilant bowed, he thought he had caught a glimpse of the stranger’s face and it was pale, as pale as the snow of winter with eyes as blue as ice.

Was it the Pale Lady, he wondered? The ghost of an anguished mother, forever seeking her lost daughter.

He hawked and spat. The Pale Lady? In Morthal? That was at least something new and interesting.

Chapter 3: The Vigilants of Stendarr II

Chapter Text

The guard was right. To call the Crabber’s Den an outhouse was an insult to outhouses.

When one thinks of a tavern or an inn, one would hear the sounds of boisterous laughter and some cups clinking in toasts, the smell of smoky pipes and well-spiced meat, or the warmth of a roaring hearth to keep the chills of work and the cruel outside world at bay. The Crabber’s Den had none of that.

Inside the Crabber’s Den, the patrons, all of four people, huddled in their own corners of the commons, drinking quietly and only making a sound to cough or gag. The stink of stale sweat was typical of these places but the Crabber’s Den had the added aroma fish and marshland and the ‘welcoming hearth’ was a flickering latrine.

The Vigilant entered without any fanfare, not even an acknowledgement from the innkeeper who was suspiciously missing from his rightful post by the taps. They picked a spot that was a far as they could from the other patrons.

Falrielle pulled up a stool, its third leg seemingly fashioned from an old broom handle and sat down with her back against the wall. Gideon slouched on a chair and rested his muddied boots on a free stool. Sven sat stiffly, opposite of Falrielle.

Falrielle bent her head low, and closed her eyes. Thoughts on her breathing. Only her breathing.

Gideon stretched out his arms with a yawn and then pulled down his hood, revealing a man with classic Breton features who has seen at least thirty winters. His light brown hair could’ve been described as flowy if it wasn’t caked in mud. On his right lobe hung two golden rings; the other lobe was slightly torn.

‘Why so skittish, boy?’ Gideon said, scratching his beard. ‘Worried about a dagger in the ribs? From them?’ He nudged his head, indiscreetly at the other patrons. ‘Don’t be. It takes a special kind of stupid to pull a blade against a Vigilant. Go ahead, take off your hood.’

The boy obeyed. Like Gideon, Sven kept his sun-kissed hair long but unlike the Breton, the boy bothered to keep his hair up in a knot. Though he looked classically Nord, Sven didn’t act like one, finding too much time to flush and fluster with embarrassment.

‘Boy,’ Gideon said. ‘Verse VII. Let us hear it.’

‘Fear not the dark for Stendarr watches us in the light,’ Sven answered. The boy brushed his hands on the table before balling them into fists. Falrielle could hear his calluses scraping against the table like grinding stone. She inhaled and exhaled.

‘Mull on those words.’ Gideon leaned back and whipped out a pouch and a pipe. The Breton then tamped some snuff, a mixture of Cyrodiil tabac and other foul-smelling leaves, into the pipe. He stuffed a finger into the bowl and lit his pipe. Falrielle winced when he started smoking – the draw sounded like a sharp whistle and the puff, a raging hurricane.

‘And where’s that innkeep,’ Gideon wondered aloud, blowing a stream of smoke into the ceiling.

Sven anxiously drummed his fingers on the table, each beat a thunder clap to Falrielle. Was that fear she smelled and sickness? Was it Sven? No, not Sven. He was nervous but nervousness had a different scent to it, this was truly fear. But who and why?

Falrielle inhaled deep and exhaled thoroughly. Breathe and focus, she chanted in her mind. Breathe and focus.

‘What’s a man to do to get a drink around here, Innkeeper!’ Gideon said, waving his hand. The Breton had almost whistled for the man but stopped when he chanced a glance at Falrielle. She nodded in appreciation.

Her ears perked up before a voice even cried, ‘I hear you; I hear you!’ Like a bear, a rather large and hairy Nord emerged from the backroom with barrels of something tugged under his arm. He wore a canvas apron and was drenched in sweat. He walked to the Vigilants, each step making the floorboards creak in protest that if he jumped, the man would’ve fallen right through.

‘Priests?’ the innkeeper said with a rasp. The man definitely had taken a knife to the lung, Falrielle guessed, might as well been whistling instead of breathing. ‘Why are you in here and not in the Temple? Sturm sent you here? Well, you can go back and tell him I’m not interested. In this place, the real world, we only trade in coin, not in favours.’

Gideon smiled fiendishly and said, ‘What a worldly man we have before us. That will not be a problem – Zenithar rewards the honest worker and we are in need of your services.’

‘Aye,’ the innkeeper replied, tone unpleasant. ‘What do you want?’

Falrielle’s nose wrinkled when she caught a whiff of the innkeeper’s words. He had been eating sour herring and boiled potatoes downed with musty vodka. She also detected that one of his remaining teeth had been rotting for some time now. She lowered her head even further, noticing the water reflecting from between the boards.

‘We are but weary travellers and we’ve worked up a hunger and a thirst,’ Gideon said. ‘What’s on the tap?

‘Ale and beer.’

‘I don’t suppose you serve wine, do you? Wait, no never mind. I don’t like the wines of Skyrim – they’re goblin piss compared to the ones back home. Innkeep, how much do you charge for a tankard of beer?’

‘Two Septims.’

‘One for me then. Initiate?’

The boy nodded.

‘That’s two. And you, Falrielle?’

‘Hjaalmarch is beer country and so, I’ll have beer,’ Falrielle raised a finger. ‘One for me and keep the froth.’

‘Three beers and- Wait…’ The innkeeper paused and narrowed his eyes. ‘Falrielle? A knife-ear?’ he continued with a sneer. ‘Get out. We don’t want your kind over here.’

‘My kind?’ Falrielle said, pointing at herself with a pout.

‘Elves. Thalmor spies, the lot of you.’

‘I see but…’ Falrielle trailed off as she unfastened the pouch on her belt and dropped it on the table, which made an audible thud. ‘I am a Thalmor spy with money and we’ll pay for your services in advance with a small bonus to looking the other way of my status.’

The innkeeper froze and licked his lips. Falrielle could hear both his breathing and heart quickening. When she chanced a peek at the man, she saw green lights, the essence of greed dancing around his head. As the saying went, money opens all doors.

‘Thr-three beers then?’ the innkeeper said, tone more pleasant. ‘Would masters want something to go with the beer? We’ve black bread and goat cheese if you’d like?’

Falrielle perked her ears and sniffed. The bread smelled staler and harder than their hardtack biscuits and the cheese was moving. While she knew she would be fine if she ate it, Gideon too, the Bretons ate far stranger cheeses – poor Sven would die of a ruptured stomach if he tried.

‘Nae,’ Falrielle said. ‘We’d like something warm to keep the chill away. Does my nose lie or do I smell something boiling? Like crab and fish?’

‘A keen nose you have there and that we do. It’s our house special: Crabber’s Soup.’

‘Crabber’s Soup in the Crabber’s Den. How much for a bowl?’

‘Three coins each.’

‘Thrifty,’ she said dryly. ‘Then one for each of us.’

‘Will that be all?’

‘We seek some lodging for the night.’

‘That’ll be twenty a room.’

‘How about ten for the commons?’

‘Fine. If that’ll be all, pay up,’ the innkeeper demanded.

‘Here you go,’ Falrielle said, clinking coins into the innkeeper’s hand. ‘Fifteen for food and drink, ten for lodging, and five as a tip. Dinnae take too long now.’

The innkeeper stuffed the coins in his pocket and turned to the kitchen. As he did, Falrielle could hear him mumble an indistinct curse, no doubt at having to serve an elf. Falrielle herself paid no heed to their hatred; it was just another fact of life here in Skyrim.

Falrielle took in a deep breath and closed her eyes, then pulling a dark phial from her belt and laid it on the table. She spun the phial between her fingers, Falrielle knew she had delayed this for far too long but she would rather do anything else, even suffer the consequences than deal with it.

She pulled her hood closer in hopes of the cloth muffling her ears but she still heard and smelled it all. The wind blowing against the Den, the windows rattling with a ferocity of an irate poltergeist. The other patrons’ breathing and whispers seemed to grow louder. The pair who sat by the fire spoke of things such as ‘when she’s a sleep’ and ‘hide in the marshes.’ Falrielle heard thundering footsteps outside the Den although no one else acknowledged it. Gideon continued smoking, adding another pinch of snuff into his pipe, and Sven nervously and unrhythmically tapped his foot.

When someone entered the Den, the creaking door made such a shrill sound that Falrielle immediately removed the cork with her teeth and downed the phial.

She sat still or as still as she could, her arms shaking and her knuckles clenched white as her nerves seared with white hot pain. For a dozen heartbeats, the world flashed in a blinding light before dimming to a numbing grey. Sven recoiled and pointed at Falrielle; a grimace of terror contorted on his face. Falrielle gritted her teeth and smiled – she knew how she looked. After drinking the phial, Falrielle’s face would take to the colour of chalk as black pulsing veins bulged out of her skin.

When the innkeeper served the soup and the beer, Falrielle wasted no time, not even to bless the food which so graciously given to them by the Gods, to snatch the earthen tankard and drained it in one, fierce motion. The beer was truly of Hjaalmarch – the innkeeper had watered it down so much with marsh water that it had a distinct tinge of moss, algae, and dirt but Falrielle didn’t care. It at the very least, tasted better than the phial.

Falrielle slammed the chipped tankard on the table, belched, and demanded another.

‘What was that?’ Sven said. ‘And what did you drink?’

‘My curse,’ Falrielle answered with a weary smile. ‘You dinnae stay long in this line of work without picking up some curses or scars. Enough about that, let us pray.’

From Gideon and Sven’s expressions, maybe the Vigilants should’ve prayed harder. The main course, the famous Crabber’s Soup of the Crabber’s Den tasted like salted water with bits of cat feed thrown in for flavour. Sven soaked his hardtack in the soup while Gideon, his beer. The Breton shot Falrielle an incredulous tone when he took his first bite, practically saying, ‘How could you drink this stuff?’ Falrielle answered with a wink, biting through her biscuit with a crunch that sounded like bones snapping.

Though her senses have been dulled, she was still an elf, thus they were still keener than a human’s. She could still hear her companion’s breaths and even their heartbeats, if she chose to. She could even pick out everyone in the room by scent alone. Her senses have saved her at least half-a-hundred times and this time, her ears perked up again when she heard the newcomer, who was dressed in a hooded cloak, mention the word, ‘Vigilant’ to the innkeeper.

While she didn’t see, it was too dark for her to see much of anything anyway, she heard the distinct sound of coins falling on wood. The innkeeper stood up and discreetly shooed the other patrons away, leaving only the Vigilants, the innkeeper, and the hooded stranger in the Den.

Falrielle said nothing, content with sipping her beer as the stranger approached.

‘Greetings, weary travellers,’ the stranger said. ‘May I join your table? Drink does taste better with company.’

Before anyone else could say anything, Falrielle wore a smile and said, ‘Aye, that be true. Come pull up a seat. Gideon, make room for our new friend here and friend, I see that you are without drink and that won’t do. Innkeeper! Four tankards of Hjaalmarch’s finest, please.’

‘Not for me,’ Sven said, face turning green.

‘Nor for I,’ Giden added, puffing a ring of smoke in the air and then leaning back. Falrielle could feel the very air tingle as Gideon prepared a spell which she shot down with a look.

‘Then only two beers, not four.’ She smiled at their new friend. ‘And you’re paying for this round, right? It is only proper.’

‘Certainly.’

Everyone waited silently as the innkeeper returned with their drinks. The man hastily placed the tankards on the table, spilling some froth over before retreating to the backroom. Without demanding for pay even.

Falrielle raised her cup high in a toast and then took a sip. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure, Steward Aslfur?’ She wiped the froth from her lips with her sleeve.

‘Steward? Most flattering of you but why ever do you think I’m the Steward?’ The stranger took a sip from his tankard and gagged though he had the grace to not spit.

‘Please…’ Falrielle said, leaning on the table with her free arm. ‘You smell far too noble to be smallfolk and the Crabber’s Den is far too dull for slumming. Your men, all five of them are much too well-trained to be common thugs, thought this one-‘ She knocked the wall behind her and sniffed. ‘Has the flu. Hey, you. You hear me! Make sure you drink plenty of warm lemon juice with ginger before you sleep tonight. Add in honey for taste, it’ll clear your nose right up in the morning.’

The steward lightly clapped his hands and leaned back. ‘Very impressive, very impressive. I expected nothing less from Senior-Vigilant Falrielle, Master of Combat, the Revenant of the Ancient Stone, the Silver Bloodhound, Stendarr’s Executioner, Thane of Riften, the Shrike, amongst others.’

‘Well done.’ Falrielle raised her tankard in salute. ‘You truly are the Eyes and Ears of the Hjaalmarch. How did that saying go again? The one with the mudskipper and the toad.’

‘If a toad so much as eats a mudskipper on the banks of the Hjaal, I will hear of it. A flattering description of my capabilities but in truth, an exaggeration for if it were true, I wouldn’t be here to ask: What are the Vigilants of Stendarr doing here in Morthal? Why have you come?’

‘Simple,’ she said, reaching into her satchel and pulling a roll of parchment. ‘You asked us too.’

‘Ah.’ The steward grunted, skimming through the roll. ‘I remember scribing this missive. Tell me, Vigilants. Tell me what do you know.’

‘Is this an interview?’

‘Yes.’

‘Vigilant Gideon,’ Falrielle said into her cup. ‘If you will.’

‘On the eve of First Seed,’ Gideon began. ‘Two woodcutters; a man, Vilovaar Wide-Feet and an elf, Baranil disappeared one day and never came back. Vilovaar was found half-eaten in a ditch a week after, not too far from where they worked. Officially, Vilovaar’s cause of death was murder with a bounty for Baranil’s head at three-hundred Septims. The state of Vilovaar’s corpse was attributed to scavengers – dogs, wolves, chaurus, corvids, and the like.’

‘Months later in the Ides of Mid Year, three pitch diggers; Botrppr Hairy-Toe, Brylror Rich-Toe, and Glarthir went missing and were found in similar circ*mstances. Half-eaten in a ditch, a mile or so away from where they worked and the elf officially charged as their murderer and a bounty of three-hundred Septims for their head.’

‘A month ago, a party of hunters went missing and need I repeat myself?’ Gideon sucked on his pipe and blowed an uneven ring.

‘And two weeks ago,’ Falrielle added, smiling nastily. ‘A pair of elven woodcutters were lynched in the village of Skorro.’ She sipped. ‘What to make of that?’

‘Aye, their blood be on our hands,’ the steward said slowly, looking ashamed. ‘May the Gods curse us but we say that their deaths are unfortunate but a necessary evil.’

‘A necessary evil?’ Sven said. ‘How are the deaths of any innocents necessary?’

Falrielle smirked and emptied her tankard. She whistled at the innkeeper, demanding a refill.

‘When it prevents a greater evil,’ the steward answered with a cold edge to his voice. ‘What do you suppose holds the realm together? Friendship and brotherhood?’ He shook his head bitterly. ‘If only.’

Sven shrank, as if looking guilty for saying too much and an awkward silence came at the table. It was Falrielle who broke the silence with a hearty belch and a question, ‘The elves, they were missing, weren’t they?’

‘Aye. We’ve never found where the elves went. It was as if they vanished like smoke. But if you think we’ve been sitting quietly,’ he added quickly. ‘Then you be paying us an insult. For the past few months, we’ve been increasing the Marsh Patrol and they’ve returned with the heads of chaurus, spiders, and trolls but that didn’t seem to stop the attacks. The Marsh Patrol however don’t venture deep into the Drajkmyr Marsh, for that we’ve hired sellswords.’

‘Live for coin, die for coin,’ Falrielle said.

‘Aye and those who ventured into the heartland either return empty handed or they don’t return at all.’

‘Anything special about them?’ Gideon said, slowly.

‘No, just your regular motley party of adventurers.’ The steward fell silent for long moments. ‘There was that one party from two weeks ago. In fact, we hired them on the very day we found the missing hunter. They were Raeaf the Wild, a ‘Knife’, Clauiel Jendine, Skanskar, and Aenriath. Yes, this one was interesting because they called themselves ‘monster hunters’ and demanded an extortionate fee for their services.’

‘How much?’ Falrielle asked.

‘Three-thousand Septims, the greedy bastards.’ The steward grimaced. ‘Half up front and half when the job is done.’

Falrielle whistled. ‘And?’

‘The Marsh Patrol wheeled in five corpses the next morning.’

‘So, the elf isn’t missing?’

The steward shook his head. ‘Oh, the elf was missing. Four of the corpses belonged to the party although the Priests of Arkay had a hard time trying to figure out what limb belonged to who. The fifth… we don’t know who or rather, what it is and where it came from.’

‘And so, you’ve hired the Vigilants.’

‘And so, we’ve hired the Vigilants. We’ve called for two with a payment of four-thousand Septims and to my surprise, I see three before me.’

‘Young Sven,’ Falrielle began. ‘Is an Initiate, nae a fully-fledged Vigilant. He’s here with us for his Proving, his rite of passage if you will and if all goes well, he would be judged worthy to join our ranks. To the business at hand, allow me to repeat what we know. People have gone missing in the Drajkmyr and are found half-eaten soon after. The elves however remain missing with nary a trace. You’ve nae knowledge of what’s been attacking them and a recent incursion has left you with five corpses, one a mystery corpse.’

‘You speak the truth of it.’

‘What did your court mage say?’

‘Court mage? What court mage?’ the steward sneered. ‘We’ve no court mage since the last fool walked into the marsh alone and unprotected. We found him weeks later or at least what we thought it was him – just a ring that he wore in a pile of chaurus dung. That was three years ago. Ever since then, we’ve been sending the College a pigeon every month but they’ve yet to reply. Pox on them.’ He lifted his tankard up but stopped short of touching his lips. A frown formed on his face when he realised just what he was about to do. ‘Not from the College,’ he continued, ‘But there was a hedge mage who wandered into Morthal earlier today. Strange man, that one.’

‘How so?’

‘For one, he’s a Redguard. A Redguard mage and if there was someone who hates magic more than we do, it’s the Redguards. Secondly, he asked if he could inspect the bodies. To help he said. I insisted no but my wi- the Jarl agreed. Thirdly, he requested no pay. In his words, his curiosity with the corpses was an “academic” not a financial one.’

‘Where is this mage and may we see him?’

‘Yes, but not tonight.’ He rose. ‘The presence of the Redguard makes the townsfolk uneasy and the Jarl has taken precautions to ensure his safety.’

Falrielle finished her drink and flipped over the cup.

‘And I take, this interview be over?’

‘Yes.’ The steward rose. ‘You will see the Jarl herself after breakfast,’ he said. ‘As you have come to Morthal under invitation, you are welcome to sleep under the roof of Highmoon Hall.’

‘Is there a bath?’ Falrielle asked.

‘We can have the servants draw one.’

Falrielle stood up, smiling. ‘Then what are we waiting for?’

Chapter 4: The Vigilants of Stendarr III

Chapter Text

The Jarl sat feebly and at the same time, proudly on her unadorned throne. She was pale – too pale to be healthy for a human and her spindly limbs reminded Falrielle of gnarled branches. She was about maybe fifty years of age but it was hard to tell. The lines in her face were deep yet her hair was still raven-kissed. She also had an odd smell about her though exactly what, Falrielle could not put her finger on.

To the Jarl’s left stood a large, powerfully built man clad in proud Nord steel. He brandished a menacing great axe and an equally menacing scowl on his face. He was the Huskarl, the Jarl’s chief bodyguard. To her right was a modestly dressed man though his clothes were still of noble fashion. This was Aslfur, the steward.

‘Vigilants of Stendarr,’ he announced. ‘You stand in the presence of Idgrod Ravencrone of Clan Ravencrone, of the lines of Ilma the Seer, Gala the Wise, and Morgrim the Brave, and Jarl of Hjaalmarch. Kneel and pay homage to her grace.’

The Vigilants knelt and bowed their heads.

‘Hail, Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone,’ Falrielle began. ‘I, Falrielle, Senior-Vigilant of Stendarr who speaks on behalf of my companions; Gideon of Wayrest and Sven, son of Sig, humbly thank you for granting us an audience.’

The Jarl gestured for the Vigilants to rise.

‘Hail, Vigilants of Stendarr,’ the Jarl said, voice gravely and weak. ‘On behalf of the people of the city of Morthal and of the Hold of Hjaalmarch, I, Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, bid thee welcome in my hall and in my hearth. Know that I welcome thee not as sellswords but as my guests.’ The Jarl waved her hand and a servant girl approached the Vigilants with a tray bearing bread and salt.

Falrielle tore a piece of the bread, dipped it the salt, and then ate it. Gideon and Sven followed suit and then finally, the Jarl.

‘Now that you have eaten my bread, I can now speak to you as an equal, with brevity without the Jarl speech,’ she continued, her tone more casual. ‘It does grow ever so tiresome after a while, don’t you agree? Come closer so that we don’t have to keep shouting.’

The Vigilants approached.

‘O Vigilants, do you need to keep your hoods up?’ the Jarl said, smiling cheekily. ‘I like look upon my speaking partner in the face when I talk. Please, indulge an old woman this one request.’

Gideon and Sven pulled down their hoods without a fuss though Falrielle hesitated. She felt the Huskarl’s gaze intensified and could hear the grip on his axe tightening.

There was an audible gasp from the courtiers followed by murmurs of ‘ghosts’, ‘Snow Elves’, ‘Mutant’, and ‘Cursed.’ The Jarl raised her hand and rubbed her chin in deep thought. ‘Most… engaging,’ she finally said.

Falrielle’s features wasn’t too different from the ordinary Wood Elf. Her ears were long and knife-shaped though her left had been notched at the tip but beyond that, perfectly ordinary. Her nose was small and her chin pointed; perfectly ordinary. Her almondine eyes, darkened with kohl like the Redguard nomads of the Alik’r Desert, while larger than a human’s, was an ordinary shape for a Wood Elf. The shape was ordinary but their colour, they were blue. Not just any blue but a blue that was as cold as chips of ice. Her hair and her skin also carried the essence of Skyrim’s winters; they were as white as snow.

‘In my maiden years as I wandered around Skyrim,’ the Jarl said. ‘I have only met one other like you. Not an elf but an albino. He was an Imperial and my friend. I tell you this so you know I care not for the superstitions and while I rule, none shall harm you on that fact alone.’

‘Thank you, my Jarl.’

‘I shall speak concisely. Tell me of your experiences. Tell me what you, Senior-Vigilant Falrielle have hunted in service to your order?’

‘Is this an interview?’

‘Yes.’

‘Plenty of monsters. I’ve slain Durzogs, Draugrs, Giants, and Gargoyles. I’ve hunted Trolls, Bears, Wolves, and Sabrecats. On the Daedra, I’ve banished scores of Dremora, Daedroths, Atronachs, and Crows – If its name has been scribed in the Codex Vigilas, chances are, I’ve already slain one or two.’

‘How about werewolves?’

‘My very first gave me this scar on my lip. The third, the scars on my back.’

‘And what would say was your most difficult hunt?’

‘It wasn’t a monster but a man. The closest I’ve been to death.’

‘I’m sure there is a tale there,’ the Jarl said, smiling. ‘One that I’ll summon the skalds to bear witness and to write songs that will liven my hall.’

‘My Jarl,’ the steward interrupted. ‘Time is short, so let us return to the problem at hand.’

‘Sourpuss,’ the Jarl said, pouting. ‘Though Aslfur is right, as he usually is on these things. Now Vigilants, is there anything you wish to ask?’

‘The mage,’ Falrielle answered. ‘The steward made mention of it yesterday.’

‘Ah, Falion!’ Falrielle could hear Gideon twitch at that name. ‘We’ve left him alone in a hovel not too far from here. My guards tell me that his windows were lit from dusk till dawn.’ She rose. ‘Come, I’ll take you there.’

‘My Jarl!’ the Huskarl protested. ‘You are not well, please rest.’

‘Gorm speaks true,’ the steward added. ‘The visions have been returning, haven’t they? I see you tossing and turning in the dead of night. Please, stay here. I’ll guide the-‘

The Jarl raised a hand and both men immediately bowed their heads in silence.

‘I am Jarl,’ she said with power in her voice. ‘And I have spoken. Gorm, ready my palanquin if you think me weak to even thread upon the lands I rule. Aslfur, my love. Your intentions mean well and I adore you for it but I refuse to allow some bad dream frighten me as if I was some small child. Vigilants, let us be off.’

Chapter 5: The Vigilants of Stendarr IV

Chapter Text

Falrielle has been in a place like this before. It was on a hunt, almost five years ago and her quarry was a cannibal with a particular taste for drunks. It was the spirits they consumed. It made them easy prey and it saved her the trouble of marinating the meat.

The building was one of the numerous storehouses on the piers, not unlike the Crabber’s Den. The windows of the storehouse were high up, safe from prying eyes. The roof was thatched and tarred with foul-smelling pitch. The pitch however was not overpowering enough to hide the distinct aroma of embalming fluids.

Inside was a rudimentary, musty room. There was no furniture beyond five tables, one of them was just a plank balanced between two barrels, and upon each table was a corpse though the last one was covered with a sheet. The lamps were unlit though the room was bright as day. Two orbs of light hovered over a man who was bent over a corpse. Falrielle’s skin tingled from the concentration of magicka in the air.

‘Falion!’ the Jarl shouted.

The man looked over his shoulder and then returned to his corpse, barely acknowledging the Jarl’s presence.

The Jarl stopped her Huskarl from drawing his axe and took in a deep breath. ‘Falion!’ she shouted, even louder.

The mage sighed and turned to face his guests. The man wore a set of common travel robes that hung to his knees. He had the hood down, revealing a brown, bony face and a shaved head that was typical of the Redguards. On his waist, he tied an apron that streaked with smears of black and red. It was rather appropriate that Falrielle met the man in a place like this – she found her cannibal wearing the same thing.

‘Jarl Idgrod,’ he said, not even sparing Falrielle nor the Vigilants nor the burly Huskarl a customary glance. ‘I told you before – I’ll send you a full report of my findings when I’m done, not before and right now, I’m a very busy man.’

‘That you are,’ the Jarl answered. ‘And that is why I’ve brought you some help. Meet Falrielle, Senior-Vigilant of Stendarr.’

Falrielle saluted.

‘Gideon of Wayrest.’

Gideon grunted and folded his arms.

‘And Sven, son of Sig.’

Sven waved awkwardly.

‘Don’t be a stranger,’ the Jarl said. ‘Introduce yourself.’

The mage sighed again. ‘I am Falion, Wandering Mage,’ he said tersely. ‘There. You, Vigilants, stand in the corner and don’t touch anything,’ he continued, turning back to do whatever he was doing.

The Jarl let out a small chuckle and shook her head. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She padded her back as she left and both women gasped. For brief moments, Falrielle saw… she saw a wolf and a bear, fighting in a snowstorm. There was much gnashing of claws and teeth and their battlefield was covered in shades of crimson. What did it mean? With a twinkle in her eye, the Jarl smiled, and left with her entourage soon after.

‘I didn’t expect you to join these… fanatics,’ the mage said brusquely.

‘And I didn’t expect the “Master of Conjuration” to fall so low,’ Gideon replied. ‘Reduced to vagrancy? By Magnus, if only the others were here to see you fall so low.’

‘Lads, stop fighting, you’re both pretty.’ Falrielle walked towards the first corpse. It was of a man, a very large man. At first, she was sure he was a Nord but after noticing his intricate tattoos and remnants of a grey tartan kilt; the man probably a Reachman. One with Nord or Orc blood, she couldn’t be sure because his face was missing most of its features except for bits of jaw and a single, deflated eye. The rest of his body wasn’t any better and it wasn’t just the stench of pitch. ‘Mage,’ she said. ‘Was this one missing his liver?’

The mage stopped what he was doing and spun. ‘Yes,’ he said, sounding far too impressed with the question.

‘And his heart?’

‘Gone too.’

‘And I others I take it.’ Falrielle gestured to the second, third, and fourth corpse. ‘Are the same?’

‘Well done, Vigilant. Well done,’ he applauded. ‘It is rare that I encounter a fellow scholar in these parts.’

‘Na.’ She shook her head. ‘I nae be a scholar – just experienced. Speak mage, tell us what have you found?’

The mage began in a lecturer’s tone; very long winded and technical as they poked around the corpses. Young Sven, a farm boy whose most gruesome experience was slaughtering pigs, grew pale and a little green at the macabre demonstration. Falrielle nodded her head, occasionally interrupting to make clarifications while Gideon remained uncharacteristically taciturn. The other three corpses were in various states of mutilation. Beyond the heart and livers, they all had a missing limb or an organ of two though the skull of the fourth one, who belonged to a young woman, were so pulverised that when Falrielle pressed her temple, liquified brain leaked from her ears.

Young Sven did not appreciate the sight. Not at all. Falrielle herself grimaced. Not at the grisly sight – she was well accustomed so such things decades ago but the implications of these victims. In her mind, she’d already narrowed down the possible suspects to three, all terrible and worthy of an evening chugging swill to forget.

The fifth and final corpse was very different from the others. Even before the mage drew back the sheets, Falrielle saw that it had bindings on its wrists and ankles.

‘Now Vigilants,’ the mage said. ‘This is the one that’s left me truly baffled. Let me know what you think of it,’ he continued as he threw back the sheets with a flourish. It was a short, emaciated ‘man’ with pins stuck on his chest. His skin was dry and flaky and had long scratch marks all round. His head well, his head was missing.

‘This one’s an elf. A Wood Elf to be exact,’ he pointed out as he pulled out the pins.

‘How do you know?’ Sven said.

‘From the muscles and the skeleton,’ Falrielle answered, just noticing how lithe the corpse was.

‘You may want to hold your breath.’ The mage pulled the cadaver’s chest and as he did, the air filled with foul miasma that made everyone but Sven cough and gag. The boy ran for a bucket and hurled.

‘The organs,’ the mage began, shifting around the cadaver’s innards with a pair of silvered spatulas. ‘Have atrophied. Its kidneys are gone, its heart and lungs shrivelled – all withered except the stomach. It’s the queerest thing of this specimen – I have never seen it’s like in my entire life, not even in books.’

Falrielle peered over and her suspicions were confirmed. The stomach was not shaped as it was supposed to but was contorted into a sickening parody of itself. The stomach sprawled, pushing away, even absorbing other organs such as the liver and the intestines. The centre of the stomach collapsed on itself, giving the impression of an eager maw, waiting for its next feed. ‘Did you search the stomach?’

‘Oh yes,’ the answered, continuing to move and prod the organs. ‘I found blood. Fresh blood.’

‘A vampire?’ Gideon thought aloud.

‘Yes, but one I’ve never heard or seen, which I hope you Vigilants have an answer for.’

‘I do,’ Falrielle said, peeling back her left glove. ‘This here is a feral vampire; a Bloodfiend.’

The mage raised an eyebrow. ‘A Bloodfiend?’ he said. ‘But Bloodfiends don’t look like this. Is this another strain? If so, then it’s not recorded in the Malleus Vampirum.’

Falrielle drew her knife and nudged the mage aside. ‘The Malleus Vampirum nae an ill book,’ she said calmly. ‘A good read for the academics and the curious but nae the most practical of manuals for the prospective vampire hunter. Watch closely everyone. Sven, come closer.’

She pricked her thumb and held it over the corpse. She squeezed, forcing a few drops of blood into the cadaver’s stomach. The creature’s atrophied organs suddenly pulsated with life and its stomach seemingly lunged upward, hungry for more. Gideon took a step back, Sven three, and the mage a step forward.

‘By the Nine, it’s still alive?’ Gideon said, readying a spell.

‘Nae,’ Falrielle said, sucking her thumb. ‘That’s just a reflex.’ She turned to the mage whose eyes were filled with a manic curiosity. ‘Bloodfiends dinnae live very long,’ she explained. ‘And this one is practically ancient by their standards – at least two years of age.’

‘Then why does it look like so?’

‘A Bloodfiend only lives to glut itself, nothing else. When it hasn’t had a good feed in a while, it starts eating itself; the muscles, the organs – what have you. I’d go so far say that it’s not even a vampire anymore, more of a stomach with arms and legs. Mage, was there anything else that’s weird about this one? For example, its throat?’

‘Hmm. Yes, now that you’ve mentioned it. Ugh, where did I put it?’ The mage picked up his scalpel and dug into the cadaver’s throat. ‘I did notice that the throat was unusually swollen. I didn’t check I thought it was just the ether bloat and it was missing its head so I. Hmm. What’s this?’

The mage reached in and pulled a bulbous, fleshy worm that never seemed to end from the Bloodfiend’s throat.

‘That’s its tongue. Old Bloodfiends start to mutate though what they change is different from creature to creature. This one has developed a stinger and I’ll bet good money that it’ll be missing its jaw.’ Falrielle sighed. ‘I need to sit down.’

‘Why, what’s wrong?’ Gideon said.

‘That we have an ancient Bloodfiend, that’s what’s wrong.’ Falrielle rubbed her temples and groaned. ‘Remember when I said that Bloodfiends dinnae last long? Bloodfiends while growing more vicious, grow weaker. The atrophy you see. For one to grow this old means that it was part of a pack but even when the pack grows hungry, they will devour each other. That it lived this long means that something is controlling them.’

‘Could it be a necromancer?’ the mage suggested.

Falrielle shook her head. ‘Were it so easy.’ She pointed at pulverised skull. ‘That there is the work of a Bann. A Bann with a thing for elves,’ she added wryly.

‘What’s a Bann?’ Sven said, looking pale.

‘The Maiden of the Mist, the Howler in the Dark, the Whisperer of Calamities,’ the mage recited. ‘A Bann is a strain of Greater Vampires, endemic to the North. It is said that to hear the shout of a Bann is to hear the call of death.’

Falrielle nodded. No matter what transgressions or quarrels Gideon had with the mage, Falrielle could not deny that the man knew his stuff and she could respect that.

‘Mentor,’ Sven said. ‘Have you ever fought a Bann?’

‘Now that you mentioned it, I think na.’ She smiled. ‘But I wouldn’t mind crossing this off my list.’

Chapter 6: The Vigilants of Stendarr V

Chapter Text

The Drajkmyr Marsh was a place of many names – Great Marsh of Hjaalmarch, Hundred Mouths of the Karth, Mor’s Wetlands, Morenn’s Grave, Sheogorath’s Bog, amongst other things. Though only extending for about twenty square miles, the Drajkmyr has more than earned some of its more foreboding titles.

On its outer rim, an endless forest of reed, some growing taller than a man, hides many venomous snakes and stalking predators until it is too late. The still waters have made the marsh an ideal breeding ground for unpleasant insects like leeches and mosquitos. The sodden earth makes walking difficult, and mud traps have claimed many lives of creatures and careless adventurers. Unless they have a very good reason to, most travellers would rather wear their feet bloody in the Long Road than cross the Drajkmyr.

And those who do cross Drajkmyr avoid its uncharted heartlands for it is even worse.

Impossible to properly map for every tide transform hills to ditches and ditches to hills, those who dare brave these waters were left to the whims of the Gods. On the shores of the ponds and lakes, weird trees thrive. There were some that were bone white, gnarled like grasping fingers. There were others that bore screaming faces on their trunks, whether it be carved or grown, no scholars can truly say. Falrielle knew of and had personally seen trees that convulsed and twitched – some caused by dark magics, others by poisonous marsh gases.

More than the plants were the animals. There were frogs, turtles, crabs, waterfowls, and fish – nothing too special in marshlands. There were also trolls, chaurus, giant spiders, and other horrors of claws and tentacles that call the heartlands home. So reek with death that it was not unusual to find corpses of eras long past in these waters.

The Marsh Patrol escorted them to Hakkar’s Rock, a landmark on the edge of the heartland. From there, they were on their own and twilight was soon approaching.

The fog thickened as the night grew colder. Falrielle squinted, seeing dancing lights in the mists. She guessed it was just torchbugs or marshlights; a natural phenomenon where the marsh gasses spontaneously combust into brilliant blue. Her mind also did speculate that the lights could’ve been wisps though she shook her head on that. They were here to hunt vampires, not spirits like the mythical Pale Lady of the Marsh.

She climbed under the rock where the Vigilants had made their camp. They burned a small fire, just enough to keep the fog and the chill at bay but not large enough to draw attention to themselves. Gideon sat on one corner, enjoying his pipe. Falrielle took a sniff and gagged. The mage was smoking hemp again. The elf shook her head, mages always claimed that the stuff helped ‘clear the mind’ or some other nonsense but from her experience, the herb only made things cloudier. On the other corner of the rock, young Sven slept against the wall. The boy shivered, whether from the cold or from a nightmare, Falrielle could not tell.

Falrielle pulled out a small unadorned chest, which rattled when she moved. She sat with her companions, holding the chest close like a mother would her baby. She then stretched her legs and pulled down her hood, eyes on the crackling flame.

‘Gideon,’ she said. ‘Do you remember your Proving?’

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘That haunting in Dawnstar. You were there.’

‘I was there.’

‘Then why do you ask?’

Falrielle fell silent for long moments and then turned to the boy. ‘I’ve been to many Provings and the question that never gets easier to answer is: what will return with us? A man or a corpse.’

Gideon puffed a ring of smoke and then said, ‘The Gods know. Stendarr knows.’

She nodded. ‘Stendarr knows,’ she repeated bitterly.

She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. They maybe had an hour of rest before they needed to prepare for battle. Maybe. Such is life as a Vigilant. Falrielle shoved such thoughts to the back of her mind. Instead, she squeezed her eyes and drifted off.

The campfire was already dying embers when Falrielle woke. Outside, there was no sun, only the light of the moon, random insects and marshlights to illuminate their path. The marsh has also grown loud, very loud. Frogs and toads hum their meditative songs in a discordant choir and so did the nightly crickets. In the distance, Falrielle could hear blood curdling screams. Whether it be the cries of a fox or something more sinister, there was only one way to find out.

Falrielle tapped Sven awake with a booted toe, turned to Gideon and nodded. It was time.

Sven silently whetted away his ‘Pa’s Axe’, the quintessential weapon of choice for any farm boy along with shovels and pitchforks. Gideon drew his duelling sabre and rested the blade on his knees. Falrielle had never seen him sharpen the sword, not once for there was no need – he never actually used it. It was just a family heirloom that he liked to carry with him. For luck, he called it.

Falrielle slid on a pair of silver cestus over her fingers, flexing them as she did to get a feel on her knuckles. She reached for her boot and touched the hilt of her knife. Then from her travel pack, she pulled out a steel mace. The mace was well used – the head has several scratches and notches, and the ash shaft was so damaged that it only held together with the use of iron bands. Falrielle leaned in and kissed – it was more than a weapon. It was her friend, it was Bite.

‘Initiate,’ she said as she produced a flask of holy water. ‘Now is the time to choose. Tonight, the Vigilants of Stendarr will do battle with the forces of Chaos. It will be dangerous and it might even lead to our deaths but as we are oath to battle evils wherever we see it, we have no choice but to fight. You however are different, you’re not a Vigilant. Na yet.’

Sven sounded to answer but Falrielle cut him off with a gesture. She blinked her eyes, wanting to be sure she saw what she saw and yes, she did see it – a yellow haze emanated from the boy’s shoulders, the essence of fear.

‘I’m not finished,’ she continued. ‘What we Vigilants do is to be honest, insane. Many, many Vigilants die in service and most perish before the end of their first five years. If your aspiration is to keep people safe: find a safer vocation like a guard. Aye, guard duty may be a bore but it’s an honourable, respectable profession like any other. But as a guard, you keep out of danger unless you need to. As a Vigilant, we look for danger. Meddle in things we nae need to.’

‘You, Sven are nae a Vigilant, na yet. You nae an oathsworn. If you choose to walk away now, there be nae shame in it – it’s just sense. Think hard about what you want. If you are with us, if you are prepared to go all the way; hold your weapon over the pit.’

The haze rippled into an inferno of emotion yet at its heart, Falrielle could sense a faint flicker: courage. Sven raised his weapon.

She began the customary prayers. She prayed for strength for what they hunt was no easy prey. She prayed for protection for strength alone would not carry the night and she prayed for mercy. Not for the Vigilants but for their foes for the Vigilants shall show them none. With that, Falrielle doused their steel with holy water.

Falrielle opened the chest. Inside were twelve identical vials. She removed five. Two of them were filled with a whitish substance that had the consistency of water. The remaining three were as thick and dark as molasses.

‘Initiate,’ she said. ‘At the autopsy, you grew both pale and green. There be nae shame to be found in fear but in the field, if fear petrifies your legs, you’ll be a liability to nae only yourself but also your companions. Freeze and nae only you but me and Gideon shall die too. If you cannot promise that you won’t be freezing, walk away.’

Sven licked his lips. ‘I shan’t be afraid for Stendarr stands by my side,’ he quoted.

Falrielle gave two vials to Sven and another two to Gideon. ‘Let us speak the facts for a moment. From the tongues of our fathers, mothers, and the skalds, we often hear of the feats of great heroes of our past. Heroes like Alrik Ironhammer, who wrestled the Fel Wolf for two years or Ysgramor and the Companion Five Hundred who brought doom upon the Snow Elves. These heroes inspire much pride in our Northern hearts but I will cast off the ornaments and speak only the facts.’

‘First is that mortals like me and you are just that – mortal and if you hope to win that wrestling match with the Fel Wolf, pray that you have divine blood running in your veins. Nae, us mortals cannot rely brute strength alone; our greatest weapon are guile, surprise, and preparation. In your hands are two potions to give you a chance at surviving the night.’

‘That there be Cateye.’ She pointed at the white vial. ‘Cateye enhances your senses – nae just sight but also hearing and sense of touch. Out there, night blindness can be a death sentence, so you want to avoid using lights whenever you can. More than your senses, Cateye also expands your mind so you can actually, you know, process all this information. Take heart, Cateye can be intense the first time you use it.’

‘I nearly clawed my eyes out,’ Gideon said, smiling. Falrielle shrugged, like before, she told him that he was overreacting to it.

‘And what about the this one?’ Sven lifted the dark vial.

‘That one I’ll explain later,’ she promised. ‘Now, the Cateye.’

Gideon popped the cork, followed by Sven. The older Vigilant smiled and clinked his vial with the Initiate’s. ‘Vur!’ he toasted and the two downed the potion. Gideon sat crossed legged with a serene expression on his face like a monk in prayer. Sven keeled over, closed his ears and covered his ears. The boy snarled as tears flowed down his face.

‘Focus on your breathing,’ Falrielle whispered. ‘It helps.’

Sven eventually calmed calm and when he finally opened his eyes, they were slitted, like a cat’s.

‘Be thankful that Cateye calls for honey,’ she whispered with a smile. ‘Now the other one. This one is Sunfire.’ She pulled the cork of her vial with her teeth. ‘Essential to any vampire hunt, Sunfire makes drinking your blood feel like drinking a cup of grounded glass. Incidentally, that is it feels like to drink this one. Vur!’

‘Wait!’ Sven interrupted and winced. ‘Why drink that poison? Wouldn’t garlic work?’

The Vigilants chuckled. ‘All garlic does is give your blood a small kick,’ Falrielle said. ‘And it doesn’t protect you from vampiric infection. Sunfire does. Still, I wish it were that easy, Sunfire doesn’t have honey in it,’ she added before downing the foul potion, followed by Gideon.

At first, the Vigilants gagged from the sharp taste that reminded Falrielle of Legionare Wine. Unpleasant but bearable. Black veins bulged out of her skin and it felt like someone was pushing needles in them. Again, unpleasant but bearable.

That was however before the searing pain in her gut, like she had just been slashed with a fiery knife. Falrielle stumbled back and covered her mouth as streams of dark blood poured between her fingers. She hawked and spat.

‘If you piss blood,’ she gasped and spat again. ‘That’s normal.’

Chapter 7: The Vigilants of Stendarr VI

Chapter Text

The marsh was quiet. Too quiet. The only thing Falrielle could hear was the sound of the water swishing beneath her boots, and Sven’s breathing.

‘Calm yersel' doon,’ she said. ‘Yer hert is beating lik e drum.’

‘What?’ Sven yelped.

‘Calm yourself down,’ she repeated. ‘Your heart is beating like a drum.’

‘Sorry, Mentor.’ The bit his lip and continued, ‘Are you sure Brother-Vigilant Gideon won’t hit us?’

Falrielle smiled. ‘Positive.’ She lifted her head and sniffed. While a Wood Elf’s sense of smell is sharper than a human’s, Falrielle’s was a cut above the rest. She closed her eyes and sniffed again, concentrating. She smelled the musk of scavenging foxes, the sulphurous odour of the waters, the pungent aroma of rotting plants, and the brine of mudskippers and crabs. She nearly gagged when she caught a whiff of pitch. She raised a hand. ‘We’re here.’

Falrielle bit her finger and then held her arm out, letting the blood trickle into the water. The first drops sent ripples across the still marsh. The second drops sent the leeches and the fishes into a feeding frenzy, thrashing about sending specks of water and mud on Falrielle. The third drops made the air heavy. Very heavy.

‘Initiate,’ she said as she unhooked Bite from her belt. ‘Do you feel the change in the air? Like your head is squeezed between an iron vice? That’s magicka and all creatures of the arcane emit them. Remember this feeling – this one belongs to vampires.’

The silence returned though this time, it returned with a smothering presence. Falrielle caught the whiff of death in the air and tightened her grip. She perked her ears, listening to somethings moving amongst the reeds and in the water. She counted at least twenty – a small horde enough to slaughter a village. Falrielle spun her mace, feeling her wrist limber up for the fight. Any moment now, she told herself. Any moment now…

‘Look!’ Sven said, pointing straight up. Balls of fire like comets screamed across the misty sky. Falrielle counted nine – no, ten of them and they were all flying towards them. Falrielle grimaced. Gideon always did like to be thorough when he worked – just like she trained him.

‘Keep your head down!’ Falrielle grabbed Sven and shoved him to the ground. ‘Cover your-‘

The order came too late. Like lightning from the heavens, the fireballs crashed into the earth and exploded with a deafening bang. What followed was an eerie silence, then a blast of air so hot and so powerful, that were it any hotter or stronger it’ll flay the skin off a man. After a moment, Falrielle’s hearing returned though it was no blessing.

The loud crackling of the flames gave her a throbbing headache and the light did her no favours. Falrielle gritted her teeth and rose, focusing on the number of breaths. Twenty-two… Twenty-three…

Falrielle detected the unmistakable scent of burning flesh and readied herself. ‘Up,’ she said, pulling Sven from the ground. ‘If you have to die, die on your feet. Die fighting. Die like a true Nord!’

Twenty-six… Twenty-seven…

They’re here.

An emaciated creature, tore from the burning reeds and lunged at Falrielle. She couldn’t get a clear look at the creature, her eyes barely worked in the best of days, though she did see a faint shadow, a translucent mirror image of the creature shooting out and pawing for her throat.

Falrielle pivoted, feeling the creature following the shadow’s movements and slashed the air. The shadow moved again, clawing upwards and Falrielle leaned back. The creature followed the shadow, unable to stop itself and its momentum carried its body dangerously high. The Vigilant twisted her shoulder and swung Bite downwards, smashing the creature’s head like a gourd. Its headless body crashed into the mud but it kept fighting, clawing wildly at nothing in particular. It is known to vampire hunters that Bloodfiends are quite difficult to kill when compared to their regular, more sane brethren. It wasn’t because of any particular adaptation or mutation to their form – they were just like co*ckroaches and are to be dealt in the same manner: A hard stomp.

The Vigilant freed her leg when more of the mad creatures emerged from the bushes. Some looked fresh; teeth bared sure, but they still had their clothes and hair. Others, hideous aberrations with a menagerie of fangs, suckers, stingers, and talons. Falrielle smirked bitterly – whatever they were now, they were unmistakably elves in their previous lives. A pair came for her while another ran for the Initiate.

‘Sven!’ Falrielle shouted, barely parrying a slash from a Bloodfiend whose jaw was missing. She tried to shove her way through but these vampires were especially keen for her blood. She looked on in horror as one of them leaned in over the boy, its jaw distending like a snake’s.

Sven, no, his shadow moved for his axe. Sven followed and then in one quick motion, smashed the head of the axe at the creature’s face, knocking it to its side. The Initiate rolled free and stood on his feet, axe ready.

Falrielle had the urge to smile in pride but one of the Bloodfiends shrieked and she answered with a swift boot to the ribs. The vermin doubled over, foolishly presenting its head for Bite’s bloody kiss. The creature however was too close to make a proper strike. Falrielle reached over and grabbed it by the waist. Then, with all her might, she hoisted the creature high and slammed the Bloodfiend, headfirst into the ground. Falrielle caught herself grinning from the song of battle-fever that playing in her heart.

She rolled back as a shadow pounced from her flank. A heartbeat later, a Bloodfiend trailed the shadow’s lead and Falrielle spun, swinging Bite and smashing her would-be attacker’s head. Her body moved and she found her fist connecting to the temple of a particularly sneaky vampire. Her attack was imprecise and slipped but Falrielle followed with a precise knee to the chin. Before she could deliver the finishing blow, another tackled her, bringing both to the ground.

Falrielle twisted and turned until she was on top of the creature. The Bloodfiend shot its stinger but it only chinked her breastplate. She seized its tongue with one hand and with the other, pounded its head again and again, laughing as she did. Then with her free hand braced in the creature’s eye socket, she pulled hard, feeling nerve and muscle slowly rip. The creature screamed and steamed with yellow haze before the tongue tore itself free.

She stood up, gruesome trophy in hand and roared. Falrielle could taste blood – her blood in her mouth. For a moment she wondered if she had been wounded before realising that she had just bit her tongue in her frenzy. When three Bloodfiends charged at her, Falrielle bent low in a feral stance, demanding that they give her a fight.

Golden sparks danced between the vampires. The creatures erupted in blinding flame, melting skin and searing flesh. Falrielle watched as the creatures stumbled forwards before blowing away as ashes in the wind. She was furious. She turned, demanding to know who dares? Who dares to steal her kill? She glanced around and found Gideon, firing more spells, incinerating Bloodfiends before they could close in.

Falrielle heard a deep whoosh sound, followed by a pained shriek. She spun; weapon ready only to find a Bloodfiend with an axe embedded in its back. She stomped the creature’s head; its weakened head giving way to her boot and retrieved the weapon. It was Sven’s.

Where was the boy? Where was Sven?

His screams answered her question. A pack of the creatures had pinned the Initiate and Falrielle smelled his blood in the air. She pointed at him and barked, ‘Gideon!’. The mage immediately understood and fired a beam of light, burning away the vampires.

She found Sven bleeding and whimpering but she knew he’ll live.

‘On your feet, Vigilant!’ she said as she pulled him up. ‘The fight’s not over. We-‘

Falrielle’s ears twitched.

She emerged from the darkness, her figure almost seemingly made from the smoke and the mist. Falrielle caught Sven staring, mouth agape although she couldn’t blame him. She was beautiful, very and inhumanly beautiful. Her petite face and loose white dress were too dainty to be in the heart of the marsh. Her skin was almost as pale as Falrielle’s but her hair was long and lustrously dark. Through the chaos of battle, Falrielle caught a whiff of her scent, chrysanthemums, and groaned. Sven took a step forward with an entranced expression on his face though a quick whistle was enough to bring him back to reality.

‘Stay back,’ Falrielle said. ‘This one is not like fighting Bloodfiends.’

‘Mentor?’ Sven raised his weapon.

‘Fall back and help Gideon,’ she said. ‘Deal with the rest of the Bloodfiends. Keep them off me. I’ll handle this one.’

Sven hesitated before nodding and doing what he was told to do, clumsily sploshing in the water. Falrielle took in a deep breath, feeling the very air vibrate in her lungs.

‘You’ve a taste for elves, dinnae you?’

The woman in white smiled pleasantly.

‘I dinnae suppose,’ she began. ‘I’ve bumped into the Pale Lady of legend, have I?’

The woman shook her head.

‘Pity.’ Falrielle shrugged, and brought Bite to her shoulder. ‘I was hoping to meet a celebrity – add another trophy to my collection.’ She flashed an evil smile. ‘But I suppose you’ll do.’ She bent low. ‘Let’s go!’

The two lunged. Falrielle swung Bite down while the Bann brought her talons up. A shadow made for Falrielle’s neck and the elf dodged, but not fast enough. The Bann tore a gash across Falrielle’s cheek though Falrielle’s own attack found no purchase, only swinging at air.

Falrielle spun, avoiding a folly up that would’ve eviscerated her if she was even a heartbeat too slow and parried another slash that made overbalanced her. With elven grace, Falrielle allowed the force to carry her in a pirouette and like a quintain turned and struck with a satisfying crunch.

When the Bann drew in breath, Falrielle disengaged and rolled aside. The creature let out a shriek so powerful that her voice alone smashed a tree into splinters. Falrielle wiped the mud off her face and readied Bite but the vampire was gone. She raised her head and sniffed. The vampire was still here, just a sabrecat amongst the reeds.

The Vigilant pricked her ears up and listed. She heard Sven scream in righteous fury. Gideon’s spells crackled and exploded. Bloodfiends howling in hunger and madness. The fires roaring with rage and the stream flowing peacefully. The frogs, the toads, the crickets singing beyond. She heard all of them and silenced them with a thought. She exhaled and listened. Listened for… leathery wings?

Falrielle threw a hand to her left and bent her fingers into a warding gesture. She focused on an image in her mind; a solid brick wall, a barrier between her and her foe, and held her breath. From the tip of her fingers, a shimmering wall of light, like ice materialised. Right on time.

Water, mists, smoke, reeds, and Falrielle herself recoiled as if hit by a battering ram. Her shoulders still ached when the Bann swooped down having foregone its disguise in favour of its natural form; that of a giant demonic bat. The shadow darted and Falrielle jumped aside, narrowly missing a swipe that would’ve took out her eyes. The Bann grinned widely, proudly showing off her needle like teeth before veering up into the sky, laughing.

She tracked the creature, Bite at the ready. Thrice the Bann dove for an attack and thrice Falrielle repelled the vampire but neither could make a decisive blow. Falrielle managed to clip the vampire but Bite was a mace, not a sword and a mace needed more than clips to do any real damage. In return, the vampire made several glancing blows at the Vigilant, the worst of it dented Falrielle’s breastplate and sent her stumbling on her heels.

The Vigilant pumped out her chest in a taunt, and the vampire hissed and charged. The Bann screamed and the Vigilant raised a ward. The force was much greater than before and Falrielle found herself slowly sinking into the mud. The Bann advanced, not as swiftly as an arrow loosed from a bow but just as deadly.

Falrielle shuddered. She was never particularly good with magic, not even with wards but holding the Bann’s scream back was like fighting a hurricane. However, like a hurricane, Falrielle knew there was an end to this and her brick wall will persevere. She just… needed… to… hold – There.

Falrielle dropped her ward as soon as the Bann stopped screaming and began swinging Bite in an uppercut. The shadow dodged the attack and so did the vampire, who did so with an additional laugh. Falrielle answered by releasing her mace and firing a well-timed cross. Her silver-studded fist found solid purchase in the Bann’s jaw, sending the creature careening through the mud.

She smirked and cracked the knuckles. Falrielle strolled over, playfully bouncing Bite on her shoulder. Before she could bring Bite down, smashing the Bann’s head into wondrous gore, she saw the shadowy outline of the Bann move.

Too late.

The vampire turned and howled a macabre tune. Falrielle reflexively raised a hand though not fast enough to summon a ward. The scream hit her hard, knocking the wind out of her, crushing her bones, pierced her ears, and rattled her brain. The Vigilant flew backwards for a good ten paces and landed on her back. Falrielle rasped and writhed like a fish out of water before turning over to puke. She forced herself to her feet, stumbling as flashes of black, white, and red filled her vision. She puked again or rather heaved and squinted her eyes, trying to find her quarry amidst the spinning world. Was this it, she asked herself? Would this finally be her hour?

A clawed hand, as cold as death, seized Falrielle by the hair and her back, exposing her neck. Glancing up, Falrielle saw not the monstrous bat but the beautiful maiden again. The maiden grinned, baring her fangs before sinking them in the elf’s neck. Warm blood soaked her shirt as she struggled; punching, kicking, wriggling – anything to break free from the vampire’s grasp though she knew it was futile. Vampires like Banns were far stronger than a human.

The Bann suddenly spasmed in agony and loosened its fingers off Falrielle’s hair. The elf spun, took careful aim and dealt a precise blow, crushing the vampire’s throat. The vampire fell back, clutching its throat and foamed dark red in the mouth – the Sunfire’s effect taking hold.

‘f*ck! Did ye hae tae bite sae deep?’ Falrielle feeling her wound. ‘Ah hae tae git bloody stitches fur thae. Wi’ needles! Ah hate needles!’

The vampire choked in response.

‘Whitevur.’ Falrielle reached for her boot, pulled out her knife, and ran her fingers over the blade. ‘Ye knae, A’ve ne’er killed a Bann afore.’ She smiled. ‘Thanks fur bein' me first!’

She giggled and stabbed.

Chapter 8: The Vigilants of Stendarr VII

Chapter Text

A heavy quiet befell in the Hall.

Falrielle stumbled but Gideon caught her before she fell. She grimaced, feeling her stitches strain and her wound opening again. Beyond her neck, Falrielle suffered many cuts and bruises all around her body. That and some fracture bones. Nothing permanent, she thanked the Gods but enough to force her a week of convalescence, two even, if the Sunfire’s side effects were to hit her even harder.

Young Sven was even worse. His chest, arms and legs were wrapped in bandages stained with moss and blood. The lad’s face was terribly damaged, bearing many bites and cuts with the worst being a nasty gash that went from his cheek to his temple. The fact that he was still standing was an achievement in itself, a testament to his Nord constitution. Gideon was muddied but suffered no wounds because of course he did.

‘Hail, Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone,’ Falrielle began. ‘We, the Vigilants of Stendarr, present you the true culprits of the attacks.’ She waved for Sven to approach.

The Initiate limped forward with a bloody sack in hand. He loosened its bonds and emptied its contents before the Jarl. A head, half-human half-bat rolled on the carpeted floor. The face was one of a frozen fear. The court gasped and murmured, until the Jarl made silence with a raised hand.

‘I must admit that this one gave us a bit of trouble,’ she continued. ‘Me knife made it difficult to cut through the spine though by chance we happened to have an axe around.’

‘Is that so?’ The Jarl leaned forward and smiled. ‘And am I supposed to know what this thing is?’

‘A Bann? Truly?’ Falion said, approaching from the crowd of courtiers. The mage lifted the head by her long luscious hair and began prodding at the vampire’s fangs. ‘Did the Bann really scream? Are her vocal cords still intact?’

‘Mage,’ the Jarl said. ‘There will be time for such chatter after. Now, Aslfur, if you please.’

‘By order of Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, Jarl of Hjaalmarch,’ the steward called out in a booming voice. ‘For services rendered for people of the city of Morthal and of the Hold of Hjaalmarch, the Vigilants of Stendarr shall receive a reward of four thousand Septims.’ Falrielle detected clear emphasis on the reward and she guessed it wasn’t just for the Vigilants to hear. ‘The manner of payment are as follows: credit note redeemable by any banks in the Imperial Guild of Bankers, immediate in coin, or any other materials such as precious stones, timber, or pitch of equivalent value.’

The Jarl coughed.

‘In addition to money,’ the steward continued. ‘For favourable and prompt service, the Vigilants of Stendarr shall receive an additional boon.’

Falrielle smiled. ‘Warm food, a hot bath, and a feathered bed. In that order.’

The Jarl chuckled. ‘That is no boon, that is common courtesy. From host to guest.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Aslfur, see that our guess’ needs are taken care of. Now Vigilants, let us return to the question of your boon. Hjaalmarch isn’t the richest of the Holds but we know how to pay. Ask me anything and it shall be yours. Within reason of course,’ she added.

Falrielle staggered forward and dropped to her knees. The Vigilant then bowed her head in respect.

‘My Jarl,’ she said. ‘We the Vigilants of Stendarr, have been called many things. Holy Warriors if they wish to flatter or more commonly, Blasphemous Sellswords, or whatever to that effect. Aye, there be truth to that. Make no mistake, Jarl, we hunt Daedras and other terror for gold but that doesn’t mean we fight for gold.’ She paused, letting her words sink in. ‘Let us be realistic. An army needs food, weapons, armour, and medicine – supplies to fight a war and these supplies cost money. Traditionally, our Chapter has enjoyed the patronage of the Jarl of the Pale but times changed.’

Falrielle raised her head, looking the Jarl in the eyes. ‘For our boon, we seek your patronage. In return for supplies, the Vigilants of Stendarr shall be in the Hold’s beck and call. In matters supernatural of course,’ she added quickly.

A long silenced filled the hall before the Jarl rose from her throne.

‘Skyrim, hear me!’ the Jarl bellowed with a regal power in her voice. ‘I, Idgrod Ravencrone, Jarl of Hjaalmarch grants patronage to the Vigil of Stendarr,’ she continued, walking towards Falrielle. ‘Let it be known that the Vigil shall not be wanting for supplies. Let it be known they shall not be wanting for arms and armour. Let it be known that the people of Hjaalmarch are no fair-weather friends and for as long as the Vigil stays true, Hjaalmarch shall ever stand at their side to the sundering of the world!’

A throaty roar of applause passed through the hall.

‘Rise, Vigilant,’ the Jarl gestured. ‘Rise, Falrielle.’ She extended her arm in friendship.

Falrielle clasped the Jarl’s forearm and the Jarl returned a reassuring squeeze.

‘Farewell, Falrielle, Senior-Vigilant of Stendarr.’ The Jarl smiled. ‘I hope- I hope…’

The Jarl’s finger brushed against Falrielle’s skin.

Falrielle watched the floor rise to meet her like the sun meets the sky. She landed hard with a sickening crack. She writhed on the ground as she saw the wolf and the bear in her mind again. The two beasts fought fiercely, suicidally, tearing flesh and bone but they did not surrender. They kept fighting until the sky darkened, not with clouds… but wings. Someone forced something down her throat, a potion. It tasted foul and it seared her nerves with white hot pain.

The elf turned to her side and spat a mouthful of blood, along with something hard. A tooth perhaps, she wasn’t sure. She closed her eyes, panting as an unnatural, metallic voice echoed in her head.

‘The Gates of Sovngarde swings open!’ the voice said in agony. ‘All the world shall freeze! All the skies shall burn! He returns! He returns! The World-Eater returns!’ the voice continued before rambling incoherently.

Falrielle gasped awake and saw Idgrod convulsing on the ground. The steward sat by her side, holding her head and cooing softly. ‘I’m here, my love,’ she chanted. ‘I’m here. You are strong. Endure.’

‘By the Eye of Magnus,’ Falion carefully approached. ‘Vigilant. You too, a Conduit?’

The pale elf silenced the mage with an icy glare.

The Jarl jerked, shuddered and suddenly, stilled. The steward summoned the attendants but the Jarl found the energy to halt them with a gesture.

‘You too?’ she rasped.

Falrielle didn’t answer.

‘I see. Not like me but something else. Something else but what?’

Falrielle wiped the blood of her mouth and then said ‘You should get some rest, my Jarl.’ She said nothing more but she felt that her silence, told the Jarl everything.

‘And no sects of Vigilant Stendarrism is so well known as the sect that founded this off-shoot of Stendarrism: the Vigil of Stendarr. The Vigil of Stendarr is a paramilitary order of warrior-monks that first came to be after the end of the Septim Dynasty and the 3^rd Era. Drawing in members from all walks of life, the Vigil is upheld by the teachings of mercy and justice of Stendarr the Protector. Armed with faith and steel, it is the duty of the Vigil to march across Tamriel to cleanse the land of the Daedric scourge so never again will the Oblivion Crisis be wrought upon the mortal realm of Nirn.

The modern incarnation of the Vigil is less fanatical than their forebearers and it is this very pragmaticism that allowed the Vigil to outlive contemporaries like the Blades of Talos or the Flagellants of Mara. Instead of marching across the provinces as marauding zealots, the Vigil now operate in a much smaller scale. Now, Vigilants wander the realms of Cyrodiil, Skyrim, and High Rock as wanderers, taking work, preferably of a supernatural sort, whenever they can. In addition to their operations, their very doctrines and tactics have changed.

In the past, all the Vigil needed was good steel and unshakable faith. That was in the period where Initiates are inducted with each passing moon. Now in an age of political, not Daedric strife, the demand of itinerant warrior-monks has dwindled. While modern Vigilants enjoy advancements in alchemy and the proliferation of simple magic, Daedra hunting is still dangerous work and only one-in-ten survive relatively unscathed to enjoy their fifth anniversary of service.’

~ Excerpt from Cults and Religions of Tamriel by Thelonius Finn, Imperial Scholar

Chapter 9: Just a Formality II

Chapter Text

The sound of the Soittaj echoed in the air. Falrielle breathed in, then out. The horn wailed again, this time long and insistent.

Falrielle opened her eyes and sighed. The day just had to begin when she was falling asleep.

The Vigilants rose. Some stretched, some yawned, some had to be prodded by their fellows but all the same, the time for slumber was over. Falrielle leapt of her bed, slipped on her boots, and made for the washing bowl. She cupped the water in her hands and splashed it on her face. The combination of the cold and the chamomile roused her awake. A cup of coffee would be better, even better was a cup of Elsweyr Dark, but coffee was expensive and breakfast was hours away.

The first order of the day was the matins, the morning liturgy. Falrielle was never too good at them – she had a tendency to mix-up the words and prayers. Fortunately for her, Gideon will be leading; it was his turn anyway. Gideon began by reciting with the thirty-psalms followed by the hymns:

O Stendarr, God O Mercy,

We pray to be sober, to be vigilant,

For the Daedra prowls,

And seeks the fools to feed their hunger.

The morning liturgy concluded itself when the Soittaj sounded again, marking the crack of dawn. Now it was Falrielle’s turn. As Master of Combat, it was her duty to ensure the Vigilants remain hale and hearty for service and that training, the never-ending training and the Gods only knew how much she loved the training.

‘Reach for your toes!’ she barked. ‘And dinnae you dare give me lip. How do you expect to fight Daedra if you can’t even touch your toes? Ciara, keep your knees straight and have a go again. Aye, Vilken that’s the way to do it – you’re betterin’. Julian! If you’re nae doing this properly, then the f*ck you even here? f*ck off back to Cyrodiil!’

‘Aight,’ she said, stretching her back. ‘First platoon…’ she held, watching as they squirmed. ‘You’re on cleaning duty. Make sure the sh*tter is clean enough for Stuhnnar to eat out of. Tarkus, you’re in charge. Second platoon, I hope you’ve taken a piss before prayers; we’re hitting Thür. Vigilants, on me!’

If there were any objectors to Thür, they most certainly kept to themselves. Thür was the mountain that shadowed the Hall of the Vigil and in the winter, shielded them from the wrath of the Northern Winds. For most the year, Thür gleamed pure and white, and trying to overcome the mountain on foot was treacherous. However now in the summer when the snows have melted into streams, Thür revealed secret trail, half-a-dozen miles from the base to its peak. Not as grand as the Seven-Thousand Steps of High Hrothgar but Thür did serve its purpose.

Falrielle ran at the fore while Sven kept at the rear, keeping stragglers in formation. It had almost been three years since the lad’s Proving yet he carried himself like a veteran of at least ten – he even looked the part with that grisly scar on his temple. Looking at the lad filled Falrielle with a sense of pride though she never dared to say that to his face.

Hardy evergreens flanked the sides of the Vigilants like the grasping claws of a cat. Bushes sat beneath the trees, cowering beneath its shades. Falrielle took in a deep breath, savouring the aroma of bluebells, honeysuckles, and pine. It would’ve been a pleasant walk, she noted if it weren’t for the ground. Now that the ice and snow have melted away, the ground turned thick and muddy, and climbing uphill in these conditions made for fantastic exercise.

‘Pain is an illusion of the body,’ Falrielle said. ‘Despair, a weakness of the mind. Through training you will learn to overcome them. If you fail and die though, I’ll at least burn your corpse,’ she added.

Thür, while their guardian, was not a very pleasant one. Sometimes the path climbed uphill only to force a sudden drop, making progress feel like a dog who’s had his chain yanked. Sometimes the muddy road was peppered with bits of sharp rocks that tore boots apart. In one occasion, a tree had fallen in the way, demanding a detour of nimble feet.

Falrielle could hear the desperate pants of the Initiates while their more experienced brethren have yet to break a sweat. Overcoming the trail needed more than just raw fitness – it also required precise control of their breathing and a sharp mind. Vigilants were expected to fight creatures that no mortal could ever match in strength or speed. To even survive, a Vigilant has to rely on guile and preparation.

She lightened her footsteps, forcing those behind to pick up the pace.

‘What’s that Kollr?’ Falrielle said, pouting. ‘You sound fair puckled, do you need us to take a break?’

‘No, Mentor!’ Kollr huffed.

‘Sounds like Styrbjorn’s done in, aren’t we Styrbjorn?’

‘No, Mentor!’ Styrbjorn said. ‘I can still fight!’

‘That’s right, Serra. Slow down some more. Mind that First Platoon will be eating breakfast without us. That means if they finish before we return, no scran for us till’ dinner. That means I’ll be training you wee lot while me tummy be hee-hawin’ and you dinnae want that to happen, do you?’

‘No, Mentor,’ the Vigilants answered in unison.

‘What was that?’

‘No, Mentor!’ they answered louder.

‘Show me!’

The Vigilants let out a roar and surged forward with newfound power. Falrielle caught her breath steaming and frowned. To say the Pale was cold was like saying that fire is hot or that Southerners were mollies. Up here in the true North, snow fell at the end of summer and it didn’t stop till the mid of spring. But now was the Ides of Midyear, the first month of summer. Something was affecting the weather; she just knew it. But what, she could not say.

‘Initiate Serra!’ her ordered dragged out. ‘Step out the formation. Now.’

Serra hesitated and obeyed.

‘Sven, you have the lead.’

Sven sprinted to the front and waved the formation onwards. ‘Vigilants, on me!’

The formation grunted and disappeared after making a turn. Falrielle was now alone with the Initiate. She turned and the girl yelped then saluted.

‘Initiate,’ Falrielle said, sternly. ‘Did you think I didnae notice you limping?’

The girl grew stiff. Falrielle regarded the her with a frown. Mud stained; Serra was a scrawny thing at about Falrielle’s height – short for a Nord. From beneath her shaggy fire-kissed hair were a pair of pale eyes and a flat nose. Her skin was pinkish and if it were freckled, Serra would’ve had the classic features of a Paleman Nord.

‘Have a seat,’ Falrielle’s expression softened. ‘Take your boots off, let me see what’s wrong. Mmm… that’s a sprained ankle. When did you get it?’

‘With the tree,’ Serra said. ‘I fell when I tried to climb over.’

‘I see. Well, looks like you’re done for today; nae physicals for you. Aye, you’d be an idiot to put pressure on that foot. Come, up with you and lean on me. We’ll get you back to the Hall.’

Falrielle threw Serra’s arm over her shoulder and pulled the Initiate to her feet. ‘Don’t stand on that foot or it’ll-‘

‘Sorry, Mentor,’ Serra said glumly. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Nah. What are ye saying sorry for? sh*te happens.’ She shrugged. ‘Stubbornness is a virtue but even the trees know to sway when the squall hits.’

Serra nodded. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. ‘I dinnae wantae be a wee scunner but I know I’m better than this.’

Falrielle didn’t answer.

‘I’m going home, aren’t I?’ She sniffed. ‘I’m packing me bags, aren’t I?’

There was a silence between the two, a long, unsettling peace. The peace broke when Falrielle finally said, ‘How old are you?’

The girl hesitated. ‘Almost twenty winters,’ she said quietly.

‘Young to be so far away from home.’

Serra sniffed again. ‘What do you mean? Didn’t you sell your sword at eighteen?’

Falrielle smiled nastily. ‘And where did you hear that? Who gabbed?’

‘The others,’ Serra said. ‘We sometimes talk about…’ she trailed off, realising that she had spoken too much.

‘You know, Thür is a big place, and I’ve seen bears and wolves roaming about.’ She grinned, showing off a full set of teeth. ‘I hope you understand my meaning?’

The Initiate gulped.

‘Speak,’ Falrielle continued. ‘Who talked?’

‘Senior-Vigilant Gideon,’ Serra whispered. Falrielle could see the girl’s face growing redder. ‘He told us before you joined the Vigil, you were working for…’ She paused and glanced over the shoulder, making sure that there wasn’t anyone to eavesdrop. ‘The Saemling.’

‘Is that so?’ Falrielle felt a stab at her heart. She made a note to have a talk with Gideon the Gabber later, a very long talk. ‘Did he also tell you what I did for the Saemling?’

‘No,’ Serra answered. ‘But I dinnae care about any of that. Mentor,’ she continued as a light, one of admiration lit behind her eyes. ‘You’re the reason why I’m even here – why most of us are even here.’

‘Oh?’

‘Aye,’ she said. ‘I mean who hasn’t heard of the tale of how the Pale Elf defeated monsters like the Bàs’du, the Grimm, and the Rot Knight? The first time I’ve heard of you was when I was a wee lass. Mist the Edda came to our village and told us of your adventures.’

Falrielle shook her head. ‘Which one?’

‘Lots of them. With puppets! My favourite was the one when you were hunting the Svartlings in Falkreath. You were so brave, Mentor, and a hero! Ever since then, I’ve always wanted to be a Vigilant.’

Falrielle laughed. She laughed hard and ruefully.

Chapter 10: Blood and Silver I

Chapter Text

Falrielle opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came from her throat.

The sellsword gasped and fell from somewhere high with a thud. There was blood on her lips. When she tried to spit, she realised she was lying face-down on the floor and everything hurt.

She writhed, remembering the last she saw before everything went dark.

She was hiding under the wain when the first arrows whistled in the air and- No. It couldn’t be real, could it? She saw fur-clad savages who gibbered like madmen, dragged her out and pinned her down. They held her head in place to watch as one of them, who wore a headdress of flayed skin and a belt of skulls, tore her chest open like the shell of an oyster. They then reached in to pull out her still beating heart before she finally went out.

Was it a dream? A nightmare?

Yes, there was more. She-they were walking along the Misty Ravine. Falrielle told them not to but they wouldn’t listen. ‘A shortcut,’ they said. ‘No need to pay the tolls,’ they insisted. ‘It’ll be safe.’

The sound of Ivar’s horn rang hauntingly in her mind.

One by one, they were cut down from where they stood. Carlotta died almost instantly when an arrow buried deep in her eye. Khargol held two of the savages back until a third speared him in the side. They then tore him apart like wild dogs feasting on a still living cat. Falrielle remembered how terribly Talon begged for his life as blood spurted from his stubbed knee. Ivar was one of the last to fall. Before they split his head open, Ivar was killed at least three and even then, his corpse was still swinging his axe. And Faerin…

Faerin was calling out for her name when they gutted him like a fish. He fell to the ground and laid there, unmoving. Watching Faerin die was like staring into a mirror. He was her twin brother, and the Gods be cruel that the last she remembered of him was the smell of him sh*tting himself in his final moments.

It finally hit her. They were all dead.

And she lived.

Tears trickled down her face as a new pain blossomed – shame. It was little comfort when she told herself that the others who died, died a death worthy of Sovngarde. But she? All she looked forward for was a coward’s end.

Falrielle couldn’t move her body, not even a finger for the pain was paralysing. She could however move her tongue…

She stuck it between her teeth, feeling her heart beat a little faster. Then, she bit. A pool of blood formed beneath her as she bit harder, fighting the instinct to release. She closed her eyes and saw only Faerin’s final moments. His eyes, dull and glassy yet they judged her. Coward, they accused.

A door opened. Then a scream. A pair of thin shoes ran towards her before pulling her off the floor and up to something warm and soft.

‘By the Gods,’ a voice cried, it belonged to a woman. ‘Vigilants! Get in here!’

A pair of boots stomped in.

‘Many thanks, Matilda,’ the new voice said. This one belonged to a nun, Falrielle guessed. The words were modest and it had a calming quality. Falrielle felt a finger traced along her forehead and the voice whispered a gentle command.

‘Sleep.’

Chapter 11: Blood and Silver II

Chapter Text

It was not the pain but a fervent muttering that woke her.

Falrielle opened her eyes and flinched. An oil lamp burned like a miniature sun on the tabletop, and its light was blinding. Still, she could see a humanoid figure, rocking back and forth on a chair with something clutched in its hand.

‘Forgive us for our wicked excesses,’ the figure chanted, it was the woman from earlier. ‘Forgive us for our unrighteous hubris and grant us the strength to forgive others.’ The woman then made a strange gesture, touching her chest then her head and then declared, ‘I pray it be so.’ She then continued her chanting.

Lit with an orange glow, Falrielle saw that the woman had a light, narrow face. Her cheekbones were high and she had a large, aquiline nose – Very typical Breton features. More specifically, very aristocratic features.

The elf scrutinised the woman. This couldn’t be a nun, could she? The disposition was what she expected of a nun but her clothes told her otherwise. The woman wore a set of grey robes typical of the mendicant faithfuls Falrielle saw from time to time. However, over her robes, Falrielle could also see the glimmer of metal – plate armour to be exact. What kind of nun wears armour, let alone plate?

When Falrielle opened her mouth to say something, a horrid croaking noise sounded out.

The woman jumped.

‘Finally awake!’ she hurriedly said. ‘You have been asleep for almost a week.’

The woman stared at her with large hazel eyes peeking under strands of sun-kissed hair.

‘How are you feeling?’ She continued and smiled, a little too widely at Falrielle. ‘Do you need something?’

Falrielle tried to wet her lips, but her throat was as dry as the sands of Hammerfell. ‘Wa-‘ she managed before her voice trailed into a groan.

‘My apologies,’ she said. ‘I understand not that which you require.’

‘Wa- wa-‘ she continued and then groaned again.

‘Whiterun?’ she guessed. ‘No, we are not in the Hold of Whiterun.’

Falrielle felt a surge of anger when she tried to speak again. Was this woman an idiot? Water, that was the answer. What was so difficult about that? Oh right, she told herself. These fanatical sorts also drew their numbers from the foolish. ‘Wa….’

‘Waaa…’ the woman imitated. She repeated the words before a light lit behind her eyes. ‘Water? Is that what you are in need of?’ She continued chirpily, as she fiddled with her fingers.

Falrielle nodded weakly.

The woman poured a drink and pressed it against Falrielle’s lips. Water, which had never tasted so sweet, flowed down her throat and the sides of her face.

‘Whit happened?’ Falrielle rasped. ‘Whare… whare am ah?’

The woman didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she took the time to fold a piece of cloth into a neat square, dab Falrielle’s face dry, and refolded the cloth again. Falrielle glared icy daggers at her.

‘Whit the f*ck happened?’ Falrielle said, a rage smouldering within. ‘Whare the f*ck am ah?’

The woman placed the cloth on the tabletop, then clasped her hands and played with her fingers.

‘You had been attacked,’ she began sombrely. ‘By wretched heathens. By Reachmen who called themselves the Forsworn. They have been making raids at travellers – looting them for precious supplies, gold coins, and victims as sacrifices for their gods.’

If that was so, did it mean that she was the only survivor? Before she could muster the courage to ask, the woman continued.

‘And where? You are in the Silent Stone Inn,’ she said, her tone annoyingly chirpy again. ‘You should give the fried pork belly a try. Bollin serves them with lots of potatoes and sauce of parsley.’ She clapped her hands. ‘And forget not the porridge of barley – it is especially delectable with honey, blueberries, and raspberries.’

Falrielle feared the woman would start blabbering and she would’ve have shut her up if she had the strength to. The woman gabbered on and on about porridge with the passion of a skald regaling of tales of heroes long past. When the woman started to talk about the virtues of mixing grains for porridge while flapping her hands like a deranged bird, Falrielle felt an itch. She squirmed and then realised something.

‘Whai the f*ck am ah bound?’

‘Ah,’ the woman said, face wincing. ‘You rolled off the bed and fell on your tongue. I will unbind you,’ she continued and loosened the knots. ‘Try not to move much lest the wounds open. Stitched closed they are with a clean thread of hemp, and on them I have smothered an unguent of willow tree bark. It will bear an itch, possibly a swell but you need not fear an infection of your vitae humours.’

Falrielle reached over and scratched her leg. A sense of relief washed over her. She had often heard tales of amputees whose minds are in such denial that they still felt their missing limbs.

‘You are a tough one.’ The woman waved her hands. ‘The others said that death had all but earned its ghastly birthright though you clung to life.’ She nodded. ‘You did die under the knife but I brought you back with magic.’ She paused and then said, ‘That is also why we are still around. Using healing spells greatly saps much of my vitality.’ She smiled brightly with a hint of sickness to her eyes. ‘But you are alive and that is a sacrifice I will make again and again.’

Magic. Falrielle sneered at that thought. Magic was for the weak and the wicked. Magic nearly brought upon the end of the world in the Oblivion Crisis almost two hundred years ago. And as proof that mages in all their pompous ‘wisdom’ never learnt, it was magic that condemned the great city of Winterhold to the seas fifty years ago.

‘Whare the f*ck is-‘ she said when her stomach growled.

‘I see that you have worked up a hunger – you need not worry,’ The woman rose and clapped her hands, sounding a little too relieved. ‘Please wait here. I will return with hot food.’

Before Falrielle could utter a protest, the woman had already closed the door behind her.

‘f*cking caew!’ she swore though her voice was no louder than a whisper. She stamped at the post of the bed and the bed barely rattled. Falrielle felt a storm of emotions building in her. She felt weak. She felt cheated. She felt angry. It just didn’t make sense.

Here she was. The coward who lived while the others had their met their glorious end. Why was she still alive? Why did the Gods spare her? What kind of cruel joke are they playing at? If they were having their fun, they should’ve just taken her arms or legs with it then.

Footsteps at the door.

‘I have returned,’ the woman sang. ‘With a bowl of porridge! It is of barley with some sliced peaches! Open up and-‘

‘Ah wull f*cking feed meself,’ Falrielle said. ‘Eat sh*te if ya think ah wull let ye treat me like a cripple.’

‘Oh. I apologise.’

Despite the peaches, the gruel was a tasteless slop. Falrielle felt a rage boiling inside of her. Even the task of lifting the wooden spoon required an embarrassing amount of effort for her. Were the things weighted? They felt like they were as if two or three pounds. She also didn’t so much as eat the porridge but slurp it, trailing lines of drool down her chin like she was some mewling infant. It was humiliating. The worse of it was that the woman stared at her like she was some sort of freak.

‘The f*ck ye peepin at?’ she growled.

‘What? No!’ The woman stammered. ‘It is just that.’ She paused and then looked away. ‘I have never seen an elf of your like in my life before.’

‘A mutant?’ Falrielle held out her arms and scowled. ‘Gimme yer best joke. Five Septims tae ye if ah hivnae heard it afore.’

‘I apologise.’

‘f*ck yer apology. Say whit ye mean.’

‘It is just,’ she answered after moments of silence. ‘Your skin, your hair, and your eyes…’

Falrielle braced herself for the punch. She remembered in her childhood that the others in the hamlet had called her a bad omen for her white hair, pale skin, and cold blue eyes and she also remembered the cruel games the other children liked to play like ‘Melt the snow’ and ‘Throw rocks at the ghost’. She also remembered that after Ma and Da disappeared and little Leif was taken by the wolves, the hamlet had enough and drove them out of their own home.

From then on, life just been the same thing. Wherever she went, someone always had something to say about her. Though her skin was thickened with scars, words still hurt.

‘Weel? Dinnae tell me ye’v gaen dumb.’

The woman bit her lip as her faced turned cherry red. ‘They-they look so pretty,’ she finally forced out, voice anguished.

Falrielle felt a strange kick in her stomach. She scooped a mouthful of gruel and swallowed without a word. ‘Ye earned yer five Septims,’ she said. ‘Just take it fae me purse.’

The woman studied Falrielle’s face before widening her eyes. ‘I- no!’ she said, flapping her arms. ‘That was not a jest. I was speaking true. I really do think you look beautiful. Have I said something I should not have said? I apologise. When I meet people, I get so nervous. And that makes me talk- She covered her mouth and drew in a sharp breath. ‘I apologise,’ she enunciated slowly.

Nobody said anything for a long time. The woman stared at the details of the floorboards and fiddled with her fingers. Falrielle finished eating and laid down on the bed. They were stuffed with straw, she only now realised.

‘Yer the second body tae tell me that,’ Falrielle said and the woman perked up. ‘Me ma wis the first. Made sense, Pa tellt me she chose me name: Falrielle.’

‘Falrielle,’ the woman repeated. ‘Snow Beauty. A good name, one that I will remember. I am called Carcette. Vigilant of Stendarr.’

Another silence.

‘Carcette,’ Falrielle began. ‘Whit happened tae the lads?’

Carcette when she suddenly stood up. ‘Your chamber pot is full; I will clear it!’

‘Leave me piss alone and f*ck aff with that! Speak proper with me,’ Falrielle said with ice in her voice. ‘Whit happened tae the lads?’

Carcette gave her answer. Not in words, for she said nothing. Her crestfallen expression however was answer enough.

‘Aye, aye,’ Falrielle said evenly. ‘Whai did ah think anything else? Whit a fool, ah will be, eh? Eh?’ She leaned her head back started a laugh that just wouldn’t stop. Was it something she said that she found funny? She wasn’t sure – Carcette wasn’t laughing.

She strained her eyes and noticed that her laughs sounded strange. Faerin had always compared her laughs to a braying ass but now she heard something different. They sounded short and terrible. Like sobs.

Something warm streamed down the sides of her face. Falrielle wiped her face and found tears. Crying? Was she actually crying? That was impossible, she told herself. She wasn’t that weak. She was strong. She had the heart of a Nord, not that of a High Rock milk drinker and every Nord knew that the passing of a friend is to be met with drink and song, not tears.

‘We gave them their rites,’ Carcette added. ‘We even buried-‘

‘Buried? You buried them?’ The sellsword stared at the woman, aghast. ‘Whai wid ye dae that?

‘Because the Gods command us to-‘ she managed to stutter.

And Falrielle spat.

‘f*ck yer gods and that Southerner sh*te. Whare dae ya think yer? Yer in Skyrim. The North. The real North. Mibbie ye Southerners loue tae lea yer honoured deid in the ground so that the dugs, the worms, and the vermin kin feast. Ye lea thain tae the mercy of the Auld Knocker? We Northerners piss on that! We burn thaim with fire sae that Kyne may carry thaim tae Sovngarde upon the winds.’

Carcette reached out to Falrielle but the sellsword swatted her hand away. She shrank a bit, no longer looking like a woman but a timid girl. ‘I-‘ she paused and drew in a deep breath. ‘I was only trying to be helpful but it seems I have poured vinegar over nitre. Again.’ She shook her head. ‘Useless, am I not?’

First, Carcette’s expression made Falrielle feel satisfied then foolish and guilty. The sellsword turned to face the wall. ‘It wid be better if we never see ilk ither again.’ She waved her saviour away. ‘Just f*ck aff.’

Falrielle heard a sniff, then the sound of boots stomping away. A door opened and before it clicked close, the woman took one final breath. ‘We have left your things in that corner there,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘We could not save your cart, but your cargo is in the stables. Farewell,’ she added after a moment of hesitation.

It was only a dozen heartbeats when the elf felt the needles driving into her heart. Falrielle made a prayer, the first in many years for the strength to endure.

And as always, the Gods ignored her.

Chapter 12: Blood and Silver III

Chapter Text

Sweat streamed down Falrielle’s face as the axe eclipsed the sun. It hung there, its black iron quivering the anticipation.

Then it fell, sending chips and splinters flying.

It had been days after the Vigilants left and no one had really spoken to her since. The wench still attended to her and at times, the innkeeper, a whey-faced beanpole of a man with a moustache but they never were keen in meeting her in the eye. Falrielle felt less like a patron and more like a stray dog – to be fed, to be pitied, and to be kept at a respectable distance. With her strength returning, Falrielle needed something to keep her busy. The fresh air and exercise were motive but it was mostly out of boredom.

She raised the axe and took aim.

A tree a day was a meal. Two trees, earned a warm bed. Three trees were five Septims to her purse. Woodcutting was an unthankful work but someone had to do it. Without woodcutters, what would the hearth feed upon or what would they build anything with?

She swung.

Woodcutting was more than just cutting down a tree, hacking it to pieces, and then brought back for kindling. Woodcutting was an art and knowing which tree to fell and which to pass up can take years of training to master. For example, aspens and elms make for terrible firewood – they don’t burn well and they stink to burn. Ash and oak however warm many a king’s hall, burning hot, long and fragrant.

She swung.

Then there was cutting the tree itself. Swinging an axe like a jilted lover finding their wife in the arms of another was wasteful at best and suicidal at worst. Felling a tree required precise cuts and unless one fancies having to explain to Tsun, Gatekeeper to Sovngarde how they were valiantly killed by a tree, they needed good sense to know where to stand.

She swung and the tree came crashing down.

Snedding the branches and diving the log was simple enough. All she needed to do was not to hit herself in the process. Still, this was something she did half-a-hundred times before she even came of age and before long, she was almost done. Ma and Da would be proud. Now to make one last swing and-

The axe lodged itself on the log.

Falrielle frowned. Birch was amongst the easiest of trees to cut and for her to trap the axe was embarrassing. She wiggled the axe free and along it, splintered the final portion of the log, taking a good portion of the bark. Falrielle cursed. If she were just in it for the money, this log would be unsellable. Splinted bark made it difficult to season properly for firewood and the uneven cut made it especially undesirable for furniture.

A tree was a meal. Two was a bed. Three was for coin. This one was her twentieth and Falrielle hadn’t even broke a sweat. Even so, why did she feel so tired?

Falrielle sat on the tree and snapped the bark free. She drew her knife and shaved the inner bits, leaving pale flakes in her hand. She then stuffed them into her mouth. The bark was tough and bitter, not what she would call appetising. There was something funny about a Wood Elf eating trees, she knew but the joke was lost to her.

She swallowed and took another bite off the bark, imaging that it was a flank of juicy goat off the bone - that always helped making these things more edible. She swallowed and took another bite.

This was the flavour of her childhood. Every winter when food grew scarce, Falrielle and her family would feast upon the barks of wood. She always hated the taste and the worst of it was that she had a favourite: pine. It wasn’t even the flavour she admired; it was just that pine was everywhere in the Pale.

She spat.

Life wasn’t fair. The Gods only protected the strong, this was the Nord way and when Falrielle and Faerin left the hamlet, they vowed that one day, they would be strong. That vowed they never again have to live in hunger. That they never again have to feast upon barks, roots, rats, voles, or weeds. That one day, they will feast upon suckling pigs, great pikes, swans, larks, linnets, and anything they wished with no one telling them they couldn’t. They vowed and hoped.

Falrielle reached into her jerkin and pulled out a wad of browned sheepskin. She opened the letter which had deep creases from being folded and unfolded many times. There were lines of chicken scratches but Falrielle was more interested in the wax seal: a mattock crossed with a pickaxe. She didn’t exactly know what this symbol meant; nobody really explained it to her but she did know that it belonged to however hired them for a promise of a thousand Septims upon delivery. She still had the cargo; some ores and a few bottles of Imperial hootch but still…

A thousand Septims. A thousand Septims.

That’d be the most she ever held at once. She brushed her finger against the seal and smiled. With a thousand Septims, what would she even buy with that kind of money?

Maybe a new weapon, she mused. Beater, her oaken club, was reliable and everything but she always wanted something with more heft and less termites – like an axe or even a mace! She need not the replacement be too fancy, honest Nord steel would do. After a new weapon, Falrielle figured she should have leftovers to finally buy a hauberk that was actually her size. Then maybe a drink after and if the Gods be kind, a decent drink of ale. After that…

A pig, the fattest she could find. A cow would be better but a pig would do. Then an altar, where the ravens fly. Kyne, the Envoy of the Gods, and Orkey, the Old Knocker demand a good sacrifice to ensure a warrior’s passage to Sovngarde. Her stomach grumbled. Falrielle remembered the sow she and Faerin bought in honour of Ma and Da. The Gods demanded that all was to be sacrificed: the blood, the guts, the flesh, and the bones – nothing was to be wasted.

She gathered the logs and hoisted them on her shoulder, the defiant bark prickling against her ear.

It was her nose that caught it before her ears. She sniffed again and detected the familiar stench of pack animals – specifically, the scent of mule.

Parked in front of the Silent Stone Inn was a cart practically armoured with horse meat. Its driver, a rotund man covered in robes that made him resemble a pumpkin, embraced the beanpole innkeeper.

Falrielle hawked and spat. Her thoughts on her next destination: Markarth, the City of Stone.

Chapter 13: Blood and Silver IV

Chapter Text

It had been three days by Falrielle’s count. Three days since she left the Silent Stone Inn. Three days of listening to the merchant ramble on about the value of Whiterun horse meat. Three days of a bouncing wagon that did little to soothe Falrielle’s racked arse.

The morning began smothered with a dreary blanket of mist. Falrielle kept her ears pricked up, listening for any signs of ambush whether it be brigands or the Reachman savages. This time, she told herself. This time, she would die like a proper Nord – fighting to her last breath.

The wagon hit a rut and bounced high.

‘Watch whaur yer gaun!’ she growled. ‘If the wagon breaks and ah hae tae carry everything oan me back, ahm nae giein ye a single Septim, ye hear?’

The merchant laughed.

‘You ride with Hafr, stranger,’ he said with a smile that revealed a few missing teeth. ‘And Hafr knows quality when he sees it. This wagon and the girls, Frida and Frima.’ He continued, gesturing at the mules. ‘I bought them a two winters ago and they have never failed me! Not once! And I’ve checked the wheels every night, so no need to fret.’

Falrielle frowned and turned away. They were near a river. Not only could she hear it, she could also smell the waters churning. The merchant seemingly read her mind, said ‘The Karth. We’re on the right track,’ and whistled a happy tune.

The elf flinched.

‘Whai urr ye whistling?’ Falrielle barked. ‘Are ye trying tae let thaim ken whaur we ur?’

The merchant laughed again, ignorant of the icy daggers Falrielle shot at him with her eyes.

‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ He shook his head. ‘Forsworn and bandits don’t come around these parts. Too close to the city you see and if any of them find the courage to come close.’ He pointed his sausage like fingers in the distance. ‘Up there, can you see it?’

Falrielle squinted and saw dark shapes, like giants in the fog.

‘The beacons will be lit and all of Markarth will descend upon them like Ysgramor and the Companion Five Hundred on the elves.’

The sellsword didn’t feel assured but neither was she in the mood to complain. To tell the truth, Falrielle almost welcomed the prospect of crossing axes right now. It would’ve at least given her something more interesting to do than counting trees or rocks. There was a fox, an orange mangy little thing that stared at them. That was different.

The wagon suddenly jumped and Falrielle landed so hard that she was sure that she’d find a bruise that night.

‘f*ckin!’ Falrielle said. ‘How much longer before we get there?’

‘Just over that hill,’ the merchant answered cheerfully. Falrielle wanted to punch the man but found the strength to resist. She instead bit her finger so hard that she tasted blood.

That fire didn’t quite die until they crested the hill. The wagon stopped, the merchant formed a self-satisfied smile on his face, and whipped the mules into action.

They descended down a mighty valley of barley and rye. The Karth ran through the fields and stretched out to the far north. The merchant pointed at something beyond the basin, something massive hiding in the shadows of the mountains itself. Markarth, the City of Stone, the City of Blood and Silver, the City of the Reach, and the City of Sellswords.

‘It is said that the Dwarves built the city,’ Hafr began, a hint of wonder in his voice. ‘They did so, thousands of years ago and to speak truthfully, the Dwarves didn’t just build Markarth. They carved the city into the very rock.’

Falrielle squinted and saw what the merchant spoke of was no exaggeration. Hafr continued speaking to fill the silence. He told her that long ago, the valley was once a forest before the Dwarves took an axe to the trees to feed the furnaces of industry. Below, ore veins creep so deep that after thousands of years of mining, the blood of the mountains has yet to run dry.

The mines are also why the city exists, Hafr explained. Markarth boasts some of the deepest, darkest mines in all of Tamriel and some veins had been worked since before the rise of the Septim Empire. The mountains bled metals of iron, copper, lead and of course, silver. It is said that the finest silver, some gleaming like solid moonlight, comes from Markarth. Clouds of dark smoke hung over the city.

‘Whits that?’ Falrielle said as she pointed at a smaller settlement sitting right out the massive walls of the city. The little thing looked like mushrooms that grow on the roots of a great tree.

‘That’s New Markarth,’ the merchant answered. ‘We call it because it’s new.’

‘Aye, f*cking imagine that,’ she said dryly.

The merchant chuckled. ‘I’ll explain. Do you know what’s the problem with city walls? Other than the tolls; the walls don’t get bigger when the city does. Usually, we’d break down the walls and built then wider but do you know anyone who can builds walls like the Dwarves?’

Falrielle shrugged. ‘Cannae say ah hae.’

As they neared the outer wall, the cart halted before a long line of fellow travellers. Hafr grumbled as he readied his purse. Falrielle caught a familiar scent of death in the air and it came from the city.

‘Dae ye smill that?’ She sniffed again to be sure. ‘Smills like someone died.’

‘What do you mean? I don’t-’ the merchant said before contorting a dour grin. ‘Ah. Up there, do you see it?’ He continued, pointing at the palisade.

Heads, impaled upon iron spikes lined the walls. Each head was in differing states of rot. Some were still freshly pink and the flesh still firm. Some had blackened and greened, and began to slough away. Others were bones, bleaching in the sun. All had an expression of terror, forever frozen on their dead faces.

‘Reachmen,’ Hafr explained, voice a whisper so as not to be eavesdropped. ‘And Nords. And murderers. And scholars. And witches. And tradesmen. Normal people, most of them.’ Falrielle counted. For every ten paces, an iron spike thrusted proudly towards the sky.

‘The f*ck did they dae?’

‘Collaboration,’ he said tersely. ‘What you see here is the handiwork of the Bear of Markarth.’

‘Who?’

‘Who? What do you mean, “Who”?’ the merchant sputtered. ‘He was all the taverns in Skyrim ever talked about! No matter, I’m in a mood to talk but where do I begin? Hmm… how about the start?’ He cleared his throat.

‘Long ago in eras long past,’ he began with his best imitation of the skalds. ‘When dragons soared in the sky and Snow Elves walked the earth, Breton slaves, fleeing the whip of their Elven masters looked east for freedom. Braving blistering winds and deathly mountains, these Bretons eventually found their sanctuary in the rocky crags of the Reach. Over the centuries these people would form union with the Nords, build kingdoms, and their descendants of the two races are the Reachmen.

The Reachmen kings, while strong were never quite numerous. When Emperor Reman marched into Skyrim, the Empire smashed the Reachmen kings and scattered them across the land. Throughout the ages, the Reachmen would try time and time again to reclaim their independence and like the coming of spring, all melted away like snow.’

‘Whit happened then?’

‘The Great War did. With the Empire stretched thin, a Reachman warband who call themselves the Forsworn took Markarth from within and declared independence. They weren’t too bad of trading partners, I’ll admit. They kept the roads clear and tariffs low although they did have Nord landowners hung from the walls but that’s beside the point. A few months ago, Jarl Hrolfdir, the true Jarl of Markarth had gotten tired of being a landless wanderer, turned to a young warrior and-’ He snapped a smile on his face.

Falrielle turned and saw a gang of men, armed with an assortment of clubs, pitchforks, and other polearms approaching them. Leading them was a skinny man wearing a dark iron hauberk over a green tunic. In his hands, he wielded not a dagger nor a cudgel but a thick ledger.

‘Name and business,’ the skinny man said with a nasally tone.

‘To the point, I can respect that,’ the merchant said. ‘I am Hafr, humble merchant of horse meat, this is my help, Falrielle, and these are my mules, Frida and Frima.’

The merchant continued to answer questions and at one point, argued that the cost of admission and the tariffs were too high although Falrielle wasn’t really paying attention to any of that. No, she was more interested in the iron gibbet which hung from the gatehouse itself. Two people were rotting inside. One was a woman; she still wore her tattered dress. The other was either a very short man… or a child.

‘What are you supposed to be?’ yelled a man with a nasty scar on his face. A guard, Falrielle guessed. He didn’t wear a uniform but he was brandishing a spear and a shield bearing goat horns on a green field. Probably a volunteer, too unimportant to be paid in coin but these types got their kicks elsewhere.

‘That’s some Falmer, that is,’ giggled a stocky man with a fire-kissed plait. The man stank of goat. ‘Saw one myself though they don’t usually have eyes.’

‘Then what are you supposed to be?’ the scarred man said. ‘Some kind of mutant? A freak?’ he added with a menacing grin.

‘f*ck aff,’ Falrielle said quietly, eyes front.

‘This one’s got a tongue!’

‘And a nice pair of tit*!’ giggled the stocky man. ‘An elf though. What’s an elf doing in Markarth? You a Dominion spy?’

The sellsword did not answer. She instead procured her canteen and unscrewed the cap. The scarred man knocked the canteen from her hand and spat.

‘Elves,’ he hissed. ‘We don’t like your kind around here. Markarth is an honest city. Markarth is a human city, not an elven city. Go back to your forest, knife-ears!’

Falrielle finally turned to glare at the guard. ‘Howfur aboot ye gang f*ck a goat, eh, ye glaikit Hillman?’

‘What? A Paleman? A f*cking Paleman elf? Don’t you have some herring to go suck on?’

‘Aye, yesterday. Delicious it was,’ Falrielle said. ‘Dinnae a milk-drinker like ye hae a goat tae f*ck?’

‘Knife-ear c-‘

‘What in Oblivion is going on here?’ said the skinny man, the only one who was in a uniform. ‘Gunder, Leif, back to you post. You merchant, carry on.’

The wagon lurched forward but not before Falrielle and the scarred man spat on the ground in front of each other. Falrielle stewed in her seat when the merchant turned to her and said, ‘Where was I? Something about Jarl Hrolfdir?’

Falrielle nodded. ‘Aye, ye wur getting at whit did he dae.’

The merchant leant over and looked her in the eyes with a wicked smile on his lips.

‘He let the bear into the larder, and bears are messy eaters. Welcome to Markarth.’

Chapter 14: Blood and Silver V

Chapter Text

Roofs of thatch and shingles. Walls of timber, daub, wattle, and drystone. Roads of mud and gravel. New Markarth was like any other Nord city. It even reminded Falrielle much of Dawnstar in the North, only with less fish, and more smoke and ash.

Hafr dropped Falrielle and her cargo at a warehouse, an inconspicuous if large structure nesting comfortably next to New Markarth’s market district. The merchant then bid the sellsword farewell.

Squads of labourers scurried in and out the warehouse like an army of ants but Falrielle had to drag her crates of ores and the Imperial hootch in herself. Inside was stuffy and dim, and there were even more labourers milling about.

‘Ye. Aye, ye. Who be the gaffer aroond here?’ she asked one the labourers, a spindly looking thing.

The lad raised an eyebrow and blankly stared at Falrielle. ‘Gaffer?’

‘Aye, the gaffer. The f*cking yin in charge – the bawsman,’ she added slowly with emphasis.

The lad jerked his thumb at a man and continued on his way.

‘Ye. Are ye the gaffer?’ Falrielle said, reaching out and grabbing the foreman’s shoulder.

‘What? Gaffer? Who are-‘ the foreman turned and paused. The man had a red face and his clothes were soaked with sweat. He appraised Falrielle with a snarl. ‘A Paleman? An elf? What is it you want?’

‘Ah hae a delivery tae make and ahm needing somewhere tae stash the goods.’

The foreman snorted, rolled his eyes, and beckoned the elf to follow. The man led her to a counter and invited her to do battle. Not a battle of axes, or swords, or maces, or any kind of battle Falrielle was used to. No, this was a battle… of papers.

Wave after wave of documents, the foreman’s assault was relentless. The man explained that the papers were for something called ‘inn sure rans’ and ‘tek sis’. With a glance, he knew Falrielle did not understand a thing he said and he repeated himself but slower, as if that made any difference. Eventually he gave up and just had Falrielle make chicken scratches on books and papers. If only Ivar was still alive, she lamented. This was his job. Usually at a time like this, she and the others would be enjoying a good run of ale or exchanging fists at a tavern.

Just when the nightmare was over, a second more pressing battle began: the issue of payment. The foreman demanded upfront payment for ‘services rendered’ but Falrielle, unsure if he was trying to swindle her of her coin, insisted that she didn’t need to pay him now. Falrielle wasn’t quite sure what had gotten into her when she reached into her jerkin, whipped out the contract, and brandished it before the foreman.

The foreman snatched the parchment from her hands like a hawk striking a hare. The words had to be magical, Falrielle thought because as soon as the foreman laid his eyes on them, the man grew stiff and pale. When he returned the contract, the foreman was all smiles and courtesy. He bade Falrielle to wait as he fetched something.

Falrielle turned the paper over and over in her hands, and even held it against the candle light, as if doing so would work the magic or at least reveal some secret message in the paper. It did not. She was confused – what was so special about this paper? It was just paper, right? It didn’t look any different from the kind the Imperials used to wipe after themselves.

The foreman returned with a wooden plaque. ‘Here. Take this.’

‘The f*ck is this?’ Falrielle said as she brushed her fingers over the plaque. On them she could feel that the panel had been stamped with strange runes.

‘That’s your receipt,’ the foreman answered. ‘It’s proof that you have goods stored in my warehouse. Safe and sound, I assure you,’ he added nervously when Falrielle stared blankly at him. ‘Just give it to your master and they’ll send someone down to pick their things.’

‘Mah Master?’

‘Yes, up in the Treasury house,’ he answered with a stutter. Falrielle could detect the distinct scent of fear about him. ‘It’s in the Noriclett District up in Old Markarth. You can’t miss it unless you try,’ he added with a mirthless chuckle.

The sun was already hovering at its highest when Falrielle had finally left the warehouse. The sellsword shielded her eyes and frowned. Had it really taken her that long to sign some papers? How did Ivar make it seem so easy, she wondered? They were usually on their third drink when Ivar joined them. If Ivar were still alive, the morning drinking was long done and now was the throwing of fists.

Falrielle hawked, spat, and strode to Old Markarth. The sellsword could not help but allow her jaw to drop when she stood before the walls of Old Markarth. A city of carved stone was impressive enough but standing here, a literal axe’s throw away did the descriptions for Dwarves’ ingenuity little justice. Every section of the wall was not only beautifully crafted but it also had a very pragmatic sense to them. Perching on them like massive stone dragons were various war engines like ballistae, catapults, and strange poles of metal with a crystal orb at the top.

It truly was impressive, Falrielle thought. In particular its size. The walls dwarfed everything around it. Everything except the gatehouse.

The great arch of the gatehouse was huge, much bigger than already imposing walls of Windhelm. The heavy oaken gates were shod with a strange alloy between bronze and gold; the metal of the Dwarves perhaps? Falrielle was certain that a rampaging mammoth would only succeed at cracking its own skull were it to charge headfirst into these gates. Guardsmen, this time proper guards with proper uniforms and proper weapons manned these walls and scrutinised all travellers.

‘State your name and business, knife-ears,’ demanded a guard with a sneer that spoke of a lifetime of roughing up troublemakers, specifically elves and enjoying every bit of it.

Falrielle didn’t answer. Instead, she showed the guard the contract. It endlessly amused her to note the panic in the guard’s face when she saw the seal of a mattock crossed with a pickaxe. The guard looked like she had just kicked a bear.

‘Please, right this way,’ the guard said before turning to bark orders at her companions.

Falrielle gave the guard her best impression of a noble, the kind with that condescending smirk every on their inbred faces. ‘Guid guardsman,’ she said, as haughtily as she could without vomiting. ‘How do ah git tae the Noriclett District?’

‘Just follow the road up the Dryside in the north. Is there anything else you need?’ she added hastily.

‘Nae.’

‘Welcome to Markarth.’

Chapter 15: Blood and Silver VI

Chapter Text

Falrielle blinked. She then blinked a second and a third time for good measure but she could not believe her eyes. In her years as a sellsword, Falrielle had seen her share of cities. For a time, she and Faerin lived in coastal Dawnstar where the Sea of Ghosts would exhale deathly mists on its darkened alleyways. From then, she drank in the taverns of Windhelm, brawled in the cobbled paths of Whiterun, and robbed in the docks of Riften. Great cities they were but it was still hard to compare what the Dwarves had built in Markarth.

A hand shoved her from behind, forcing the elf to march forward.

She emerged from the gatehouse and into a market square flanked by tall, narrow structures. Enterprising merchants hawked their goods with a religious fervour in their voices; demanding all to listen and denouncing their competitors as swindlers and charlatans. Dancers and musicians entertained passers-by while urchins and footpads picked pockets and cutpurses.

Falrielle was surprised. Did these people not notice that colossal temple nor the giant statue of Dibella, the Goddess of Beauty, thrusting her enormous breasts for all to admire? How were they not intimidated by that fortress of a palace that gazed upon the city like an eagle on its eyrie? How could they move about as if none of this was impressive? The elf raised her nose and sniffed. She smelled roasting goat, cooked pies, and hot bread but no trace of the usual filth of piss and sh*t though there was something else. She detected a whiff of smoke, blood, and silver.

She had often heard of rumours that the Dwarves were a highlight meticulous people and for ounce, it seemed that the rumours were true.

Each stretch of street was precisely ten paces wide, and they did not wind and turn chaotically. Falrielle reckoned that if she were to climb somewhere higher, she could look over the other end of the city in a straight line. It did not take her long to figure that the city was divided into neat squares like the very flagstone paths she threaded upon.

North. She had to go north. Falrielle looked up and saw buildings emerging from the cliffside.

The sellsword rested one hand on her purse and the other on the handle of Beater. In the country, bears and wolves were common predators but they were for the most part, reasonable and predictable creatures. Stay away during breeding or feeding season and they would return the favour. Trolls did show up every now and then but trolls cowered at the torch and did not venture far from their dens. Falrielle dealt with them all at some point of her life and they left nary a scratch on her.

People on the other hand…

Predatory eyes were on her. Her ears felt it and so did the scars on her side. Here and there, Falrielle caught sight of the greens of the Markarth City Watch though their presence did assuage her fears. She was, after all an elf. A knife-ear in the city of humans who lived in the carcass of the Dwarves.

The sky had turned orange when Falrielle entered the Noriclett District. She had been walking for hours and ascending all the time. Falrielle dared to peek over terrace and immediately regretted it. The view was grand, she’d admit – she was well above most of the city and she felt like a bird overlooking at ants going about their evening business. Grand but Falrielle just realised how high she was above the lowest floor.

She froze there for dozens of heartbeats and when she finally moved, a wintering finger still traced its icy tip on the back of her spine. Was it the distance that paralysed her? She doubted it. If she were to fell, she was comforted by the fact that a drop this high would make for a quick death.

This was it, she told herself. One final job with the lads. Falrielle decided that after she received her pay, she bought the pig and other luxuries, she’d have some serious drinking to do. Afterwards… maybe find the strength to live by herself but that was a bridge to be crossed when the time came.

Falrielle knew the Treasury house as soon as she saw it. The Treasury was large and opulent like the other buildings of the Noriclett District. Intricate carvings bore upon the stone, and the geometric and angular engravings were illuminated by ornamental lanterns. However, the Treasury was also fortified like a fortress on the marches. The windows were narrow, far too thin for even a child to slip in but enough for archers to pelt arrows at a wide angle. The door was large and strong. If a gang or two would attempt to raid the place, all they would achieve is chipping the masonry before dropping dead from missile fire.

Three men gathered outside the Treasury house.

The first was a large man with a sun-kissed mane and a short, braided beard. He wore runic tattoos on his face and his exposed arms. A scaled vest protected his chest and, on his belt, hung a short-hafted axe. This one was stereotypically Nord as Falrielle had ever seen.

The second man was not as large; squat even but he was stouter than his taller companion. This one was bald except for a dark ponytail. His broken nose and cauliflowered ear gave the impression of a seasoned prize-fighter, as did his ham like fists. He wore a sleeveless jerkin of leather and like his companion, his arms were tattooed from shoulder to finger. When he threw his head back and laughed, Falrielle saw that this one had a few rotten stumps for teeth.

The last man stood out from the trio. This one was not a Nord but a Redguard. Dark-skinned and hook-nosed, the Redguard was the smallest of the trio, being the shortest and the lithest though he was by no means a small man. He wore a brown leather jacket with a bandolier of pouches crossing from his left shoulder to his right waist. Gold earrings shone in his earlobes and his black boots shone in the dying light of the sun. On his belt hung a pair of decorated hilts of two curved swords, the traditional weapon of the Redguards.

Falrielle found them strange. It wasn’t that these men, three heavily armed scoundrels were congregating outside a well to do building like the Treasury house that was the strange part. No, it was how they smelled – like fresh lavenders.

It wasn’t like the Bretons of High Rock. Even with their noxious perfumes, Falrielle could still pick out the sour body odour beneath but these three, they smelled washed – clean. That only made Falrielle notice how she smelled, which was as she looked like – like sh*t.

The Redguard turned to Falrielle and flashed a roguish grin.

‘And a stranger approaches,’ he said in a voice tinged with the rolling Rs of Stros M'Kai. His companions spun and glared at the elf. ‘A stranger that walks with purpose and intent. I wonder what this one wants.’

‘Mah business is in the Treasury hoose. Noo if ye wouldn’t be sae kind,’ Falrielle rested a hand on Beater. ‘As tae mynd yer ain f*cking business.’

The large and the bald one let out a roaring laugh. The Redguard chuckled.

‘Mynd yer ain f*cking business,’ the large one repeated in a mock Paleman accent. ‘Listen to the knife-ear talk, all trying to sound tough. Shouldn’t you be in the forest hugging some trees or something?’

Falrielle grew pale and tightened her lips.

‘What’s that? Nothing?’ The bald one drew a knife from his side and smiled. ‘There something wrong with your ears, elf? Maybe I can help with that,’ he added, flashing his teeth.

‘Gentlemen, please!’ the Redguard said. ‘That is no way to talk to a lady.’

‘Ah’ament a laddeh.’

‘Respected warrior, reliable sellsword, what have you,’ he continued, smiling pleasantly. ‘They call me Camon. This is Kjarl and Rus’, and we are here to make sure no one tries anything funny at the Treasury house. And to what do I call the nameless wanderer before me?’

‘Sellsword.’

‘Very well, Sellsword.’ He grinned. ‘What business do you have here? If you’re here to turn in your credit notes or do some banking yourself, you’ll have to come back tomorrow.’

‘Ah hae a delivery.’ Falrielle produced the wooden plaque. ‘And am supposed tae gie this tae the mick gaffer of the steid.’

‘I see.’ The Redguard held out his hand. ‘No need for you to trouble the Chief – I’ll do so on your behalf.’

‘Whit’s that? Let ye take all the pay?’ Falrielle sneered. ‘Whin ye pull ye rheids oot of yer arses and the dragons return, then mibbie ah will dae it. But now? Ye can go f*ck yourselves.’

‘A pretty mouth this one has!’ cackled the large one.

‘And ears! I’m always looking to add more to my collection,’ The bald one said. ‘Maybe even something else. A flank or just a little piece…’ he added, licking the side of his blade.

Falrielle unlatched Beater from her belt and let the club droop from her wrists. ‘Gang aheed. Huv a go at me, ye f*cking scunner.’

‘Everyone please,’ the Redguard said cheerily as he walked between Falrielle and his companions. ‘No need to get impulsive and make a mess. Now sellsword, your delivery will have to wait because the Chief is a very busy man.’ He flashed a smile. ‘Inspiringly diligent, truly, for he works even after the bankers have returned home to make love to their wives. Come back tomorrow.’

A reasonable proposition, she knew but all the same, Falrielle felt a rage boil within. Here she was, marching one end of the bloody Reach to the other while pulling a wain like some whipped beast. She had endured the cold heights of the rocky crags, shivered in the hail-laden rains, and fed upon tree barks to stave off hunger. She, the coward, survived when all the others earned a glorious death and now, here at an axe’s throw away to closure and now she was being denied. She was hungry, filthy, tired, sober, and skint broke, and she was not going down without a fight.

However, before the sellsword could do anything rash, she pulled out the parchment with the chicken scratches and wordless offered it to the Redguard. When the rogue accepted, Falrielle wondered what compelled her to do that. Whatever it was, it seemed to be the right choice.

As he read the contract, Redguard’s expressions shifted from smiles and charms to one of ice and steel. His companions noticed and Falrielle could smell the fear reeking from them.

The Redguard returned the contract with a smile on his face. A perfect smile. Too perfect, like a painted expression on a mask. ‘You wish to speak to the Chief?’ he said pleasantly. ‘Follow me.’

Chapter 16: Blood and Silver VII

Chapter Text

Falrielle knew of banks but had never been in one before. The Richman’s guards always chased her and Faerin away whenever they got too close whilst spewing insults and accusations of less-than-honest intentions. Falrielle didn’t completely blame them. On one hand, she and her brother never truly bothered to seem presentable – they never needed two. They washed as often as they could – they were Northerners, not Bretons but they still carried the stench of death with them. On the other, the guards never bothered Ivar, Carlotta, Talon, or any other of the human companions of the lads…

Whatever the case, Falrielle admitted that their descriptions of what a bank looks like on the inside fell short.

The sellsword stood dumbfounded in the vast stone hall. Built into the mountain itself, the interior of the Treasury house was much larger than it had been outside. The walls were smoothly carved and were decorated with exquisite tapestries and extravagant statues of the Nine. The ceiling was maybe twenty feet high and from them hung two bronzed chandeliers that glowed brightly like the morning sun. A marvel of Dwarven engineering or a sorcerous trick? Falrielle couldn’t tell.

The Redguard beckoned her to follow.

The hall was flanked by long, stone counters secured with iron bars that extended to the ceiling. Falrielle guessed that when open, these were the battle stations of bankers to do banking things like count money, and scribble things in ledgers. What surprised Falrielle was that these counters, all identical went on and on to no seeming end. Just how many were there? Why were there so many?

‘It’s true that the Treasury house is not the only bank in Markarth,’ the Redguard said, as if he was answering her thoughts. ‘But to anyone with sense, the Treasury house is the only real bank to go to for its vaults rest deep in the deep.’ He tilted his head to the side and smiled. ‘That means if you don’t want to get robbed, the Treasury house is the only place to go. If you have the coin.’

A strange noise filled the air. Falrielle perked her ears and listened carefully. It sounded like something sharp, like a quill scratching on paper. Was there someone working at this hour, she wondered?

‘Wait here,’ the Redguard said. ‘I’ll let the Chief know you’re here.’

Before Falrielle could utter a word of protest, the man strode off ahead to a high counter and leaned over. She propped on the counter, and waited.

She cursed. The longer she remained in this place, the more alone she felt. Juniper incense, stacks of ledgers, fine carpets – these were something from another world, one she had no place in. She was the world of the outdoors, the stink of blood and refuse. Falrielle found herself reaching for Beater. The sellsword knew that even in this sterilised world, it was no less dangerous nor cutthroat than the reality she knew.

The Redguard returned and with a flourish, announced ‘The Chief will see you now.’

‘Whit aboot ye? Whaur the f*ck urr ye gaun?’

‘I have other work to do. Go on now, the Chief doesn’t like to be kept waiting,’ he added with a wink and saw himself out.

A man sat behind the counter, inscribing things in his ledgers, writing dispatches, and making intense calculations with an abacus. The man had a skinny, pallor tinted face. His face was clean shaven, and had short raven-kissed hair. His fingers were stained blue with ink and he wore a pair of spectacles. His clothes while of fine make, did little to make his frame at all flattering.

Falrielle was disappointed. With all the hushed whispers and quivers when someone spoke of the ‘Chief’, she expected more and certainty not a banker. Not just any banker but a typical banker, the very same kind she and Faerin roughed up for some money.

‘Camon told me you have something for me?’ he asked, almost sounding bored without looking up.

‘Aye.’ Falrielle placed the wooden plaque on the counter. ‘The gaffer at the warehouse tellt me tae gie ye this. Said that yer things are safe with thaim.’

‘Is that so? And what is the name of this “gaffer” that you speak of?’

Falrielle froze. The elf realised that she never really bothered to ask the man his name.

‘Ah dinnae.’

‘And from which warehouse did you get this plaque from?’

Falrielle felt like an idiot. She guessed that the plaque would have the name of its owners inscribed on it but she wasn’t entirely sure herself.

‘Ah dinnae.’

‘No, of course you don’t,’ the banker said in calmly. ‘No matter. I’ll send for runners in the morning anyway.’ He dipped his quill in an inkwell and scribbled something on a sheet of parchment. He then continued working, as if forgetting that Falrielle even existed.

She coughed.

‘Still here? Do you need something?’

‘Ah delivered whit ye asked.’

‘That you did.’

‘Am waiting fur me coin. As payment.’

The banker stuck the quill in the inkwell, removed his spectacles, and looked at the sellsword. Falrielle felt a chill when his eyes bore into her. It wasn’t that his steely grey eyes embodied some of the harshest winters she had ever seen or that he had the aura of aristocratic revulsion to them. It was that these eyes never seemed to blink properly, resembling a creature that perfectly wore the face of a man but never quite understanding the subtleties of mortalkind.

‘Snow elf?’ he finally said.

‘Wood elf.’

‘Wood elf then. Tell me, why should I pay you?’

Falrielle raised an eyebrow. Was this man taking her for a fool, she wondered? Was it because she was from the country that he believed he could swindle her or play some cruel jest?

‘Whit the f*ck ye mean whai? Tis in the contract.’ Falrielle whipped out the document and slammed it on the counter. ‘Oan the contract made o’ parchment. Ah know that it means it means something. Whai else wid ye write it oan parchment?’

The banker glanced at the contract and then back at Falrielle.

‘And how much Septims do you think you’re owed?’

‘A thousand.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Tis in the contract.’

‘Oh?’ The banker tapped the paper. ‘Show me. Read it to me.’

Falrielle froze with embarrassment, and the urge to turn and leave. But that would mean that she wouldn’t get paid and everything, from lugging the cargo to the deaths of everyone, was for nothing.

‘Ah cannae read,’ she said softly.

The banker rolled his eyes and tilted his head. ‘What was that?’

‘Ah said ah cannae f*cking read. Ye deaf, ye goat f*cker?’

The banker leaned back and narrowed his eyes.

‘Indeed?’ he said. ‘Indeed, indeed, indeed. I have a few words for you sellsword but first allow me a question: do you know who I am?’

`Yer the yin wham am needin tae make the delivery tae. Is there mair ah shuid know?’

‘You don’t ask questions – that’s good. I respect those who know how to keep their noses to themselves. As to who I am…’ The banker slipped on his spectacles and returned to his work. ‘I am the one who always keeps to my word and pays my debts. To those who do good by me and my own, it is I who will personally see that they shall be met with reward, and my hand of gratitude is a most generous one. To those who wronged me, well, there is a popular saying around these parts. Blood and silver are what flows through Markarth. Remember that.’

‘Whit the f*ck is that supposed tae mean?’

‘Need I spell it out for you? Very well, I shall keep it simple and clear. I am a man who holds my words to be as good as gold, more even, and I always keep my agreements to the letter. I know not who promised you what but all you need to know is that I have made no such oath, thus, I have no obligation to pay you.’ He tapped the beads of the abacus and scribbled something down. ‘If it helps, think of it as “compensation”. You courier types tend to bark on your “punctuality” and “promptness” but you are a moon late on my shipment. Are we done here?’ he continued, not having the grace to look up.

Falrielle grounded her teeth. Employers trying to skim out of paying their sellswords was an expected work hazard. The solution was always simple – a few broken fingers and dark bruises often made them pay and then some.

The sellsword reached over the counter, grabbed the banker by the collar, and spilling the inkwell all over the papers.

‘Listen here, ye wee son of a-’

‘I’m listening,’ the banker said calmly, too calmly. He did not even flinch.

‘Ah- we did as ye asked, ye f*ck,’ Falrielle growled, demanding that the banker look her in the eye. ‘We dragged oor f*cking arses all ower the f*cking Reach. We wur f*cking attacked by f*cking screaming naked madmen and am the ainlie f*cking yin left. Noo am peched, hungry, and ah f*cking stink, and if yi’ll want tae keep signing ye f*cking papers, ye’ll gimme mah f*cking money!’

Falrielle felt good, exhilarated even when a bloodlust washed over her. She could see it now – her fists bashing out the teeth of this wretched bureaucrat and him, on his knees, begging for mercy. The very thought made her mouth water.

‘First,’ the banker began in a tone one would use to a misbehaving dog. ‘Release me.’

Silence. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Here he was, trapped within her hands and waiting for a beating, and he was making demands? Who did he think he was, Falrielle wondered? Though a rage boiled within her, though all sense of reason told her not to, Falrielle let go.

The banker adjusted his collar. ‘Second, you’ve made a mess.’ He gestured to the counter. ‘I’m feeling kindly today and thus, I shall let the snow melt in the sun and pretend that it was an unfortunate accident, like a man struck by lightning. But know that my kindness is unlike my generosity – I am rather skint on kindness and you’ll do well to remember that.’

‘Up yers-‘

‘Third,’ the banker interrupted coolly. ‘Do you think that swearing every other sentence, spilling threats, or calling me names somehow make you sound tough? intimidating? By the Nine, all it does it makes you sound like a blithering provincial or an unruly child.’

Falrielle glared at the man.

‘Fu-‘ the word came out before dying behind her teeth.

‘My point exactly. Are we done here?’

The sellsword looked at the banker up and down, then she spat on the carpet.

‘Charmed,’ he said, picking up the inkwell and clearing the counter. ‘I’ll be clear on my meaning. I am a generous man but I am not a man of subtleties. If you want something, you’ll need to be clear with me, understood?’

Falrielle gritted her teeth. In the Pale, there was a popular saying, ‘It is better to be without gold than it is to be without honour.’ It was a code, that even as a sellsword she clung on to. She’d beat, steal, and even kill for gold but never had she ever begged for gold.

That was of the highest humiliation. Yet…

She hadn’t had a proper meal or drink in awhile and she needed something proper for the Gods. She wasn’t going to slaughter some dog in the streets!

The sellsword sighed and with strain she said, ‘May ah hae some money, please.’

‘Much better isn’t it? You’d expect your parents to teach you some manners.’

‘Me maw and da died a lang time ago.’

‘Is that so? Condolences then.’ The banker drew from inside his pocket a pouch rattling with coins. ‘Here is about three hundred Septims. Take it and get out of my sight.’

Chapter 17: Blood and Silver VIII

Chapter Text

Three hundred Septims was a good amount of money.

With three hundred Septims, one can buy many things. It was for example, was enough for a fitting hauberk, a brand-new helmet or even a weapon. If one wasn’t in the market for new equipment, three hundred Septims would buy one a clean bed for a few nights and maybe even something warm to eat. Falrielle however did not any of those. She did not buy herself a fitting hauberk nor a helmet nor even a new weapon. She didn’t he buy herself somewhere safe to sleep in for the night nor anything warm to fill her belly.

She instead bought a pig.

A thin sheet of drizzle dripped from the grey sky as she took her fiftieth step to the altar where the ravens fly. The altar was a place hidden in one of the many eyries of the city. Falrielle shook her head, ‘hidden’ wasn’t the right word, ‘forgotten’ was. The Nords of today have long abandoned the Old Ways, choosing to worship the gods of the South. These Nords, mostly townies, have learned to embrace the decadent life that their ancestors of cold Atmora would’ve disapproved.

Falrielle, a Wood Elf, kept to the Old Ways because if not she, then who? Someone had to do it. Someone had to remember. In the old days, rites such as these would’ve seen a mighty gathering of clan and companions but today there’s just her.

No one mourns for sellswords. That’s just the way it is.

With one final effort, Falrielle pulled herself up and found herself at the mouth of a clearing. In the clearing was a spent firepit and monolithic slab with runes long faded. In the edges were juniper bushes, roots deep into the mountains and the bush overgrown through the years. When the pig, a runt really, caught the whiff of dried blood, the swine shot into a frenzied but futile panic.

Ravens cawed hungrily as Falrielle placed the struggling creature on the altar. She then gathered some branches, threw them into the pit and started a fire. The pig kept squealing, its last desperate cries to stave off the inevitable.

Falrielle drew her knife and the pig squealed the loudest it ever had. The elf noted that its pathetic shrieks eerily reminded her of a babe’s. Slowly, she raised the knife over her head and closed her eyes. Were it any other day, this was the moment when everyone had their final says, usually a song commemorating the courage and the skill of the fallen but today, there was no point. Falrielle was alone.

The knife hung in the air, shuddering. It took a dozen of heartbeats before Falrielle opened her eyes. There was a strange moment of peace so beautiful that Falrielle wished the world would freeze just so she could be in it for a little longer before the memories struck her like a dagger in the ribs.

‘Kyne! Orkey!’ she announced the world. Falrielle took a deep breath to steady herself. ‘Zu bol daar zahmiik!’ she continued in the tongue of the ancients and drew her blade deep, piercing the heart of the pig. The creature sputtered for a few more heartbeats, fighting for the final few precious seconds of life before it laid completely still. Falrielle took in a deep breath and then she began.

Airiú, Airiú,

Dee Zeynmah,

Fahvos das nusaan?

Dee Breenah,

Fahvos das nusaan?

She ripped the blade out of the pig’s chest and blood, almost as dark as the night sputtered wonderfully, flowing from the wound and off the altar. Falrielle soaked her fingers in the blood and sprinkled dark droplets at the juniper bushes.

Orkey, Orkey,

Aal hai ken feen sos,

Aal hai kos gejahrii,

Aal hai kos gemogur,

Aal hai kos fusond!

Falrielle gutted the pig, separating flesh, fat, and sinew from bone with practiced precision. She then removed the still warm guts, spreading them about on the stone altar. The ravens cawed and pecked hungrily at the air but the corvids kept their distance.

Kyne, Kyne,

Aal hai ken feen sos,

Aal hai kos gejahrii,

Aal hai kos gemogur,

Aal hai aak feen deelon!

The elf smeared a line of blood over her forehead as she gathered the meat and the bones. Standing over the fire and reeking of blood and offal, Falrielle threw her offering into the flame. On cue, the ravens swarmed the altar, pecking and tearing away at the remains. Falrielle heard the commotion behind her but she did not turn to look.

Airiú, Airiú,

Feen nahl lovaas fah hai,

Feen nahl lovaas do hin kul deenok,

Feen nahl lovaas wah Kyne ahrk Orkey,

Foon nahl lovaas ful mu aal grin ahst Sovngarde!

As the last syllable of the song left her lips, the meat sizzled and the bones ashen. Falrielle stared at the flame. She kept staring until the roaring flames were but dying embers and the rains smothered what little life, they had in them. Then, she felt a thirst.

Chapter 18: Blood and Silver IX

Chapter Text

The beer was awful.

Falrielle was promised that the whatever-name-tavern was the best place in Markarth for a cheap, decent tankard of brown ale. What she got was beer for ten Septims a flagon, a metallic aftertaste with every sip and the worst of all…

The beer was warm. She downed it anyway, all to its last drop.

The sellsword didn’t care. She didn’t care that she was being robbed blind by the innkeeper. She didn’t care that donkey piss probably tasted better than this swill. She didn’t care what’ll happen in the morrow – she just didn’t care. She didn’t have the strength to. What she did care however was that she wanted to have another drink.

‘Innkeeper, keep thaim pouring!’ she demanded. She reached into the pouch and withdrew ten Septims, tossing them onto the table. They clinked, spun, and one rolled off the floor.

A wench hovered by, scraped the coins into her hand, and leaving a fresh flagon in their place. Falrielle lunged, grabbed the flagon, lifted it to her lips, and swallowed. She then slammed her flagon back on the table and coughed. She was drinking so fast that some of the beer went down her nose. The elf stuck a finger into her nostril and blew.

When she lifted the flagon and tipped it back, Falrielle tasted nothing. The elf tipped the cup over the table, producing only a few sad drops.

‘Whit in Mara?’ she growled. Was she already done? She had just started with that cup and it was already empty! She didn’t recall drinking it that quickly, she didn’t even feel it go down. Was there some foul sorcerer playing their tricks on her? Whatever the case, Falrielle was too furious to care.

‘Innkeeper! Oi, Innkeeeeeeep-er! Gi-gib-gib- anither yin!’ she demanded.

The innkeeper, a rat-faced man came by and sneered. ‘You’ve had enough, knife-ears.’

‘F-f-f anither ah say, anither!’ Falrielle gagged. ‘Ahm aye awake. Whit? Dae ye think that fur ahm an elf, ah cannae haud mah dram? F-f-f tae Auld Knocker with ye! Mibbie ye Southern milk-drinkers cannae bit we fae the north – the True North kin haud oor ain!’

‘You’ve emptied eight flagons. Get out before I summon the guards to throw you out. You scare my customs but I tolerated you because you pay well but-’

‘Whit? That’s it?’ Falrielle interrupted. ‘This aboot money? Of coorse tis aboot money, that’s all ye soft Southerners ever blether boot. Fine, ah kin play yer gam.’ Falrielle reached out and dropped her coin pouch on the bar. ‘Thare shuid be aboot a hundred or sae Septims in thare. Take it. Juist f-f-f- take it all, ah dinnae care anymair. Ah juist wantae drink til a’ve forgotten me name.’

The innkeeper inspected the coin pouch with hungry eyes and all but drooled. ‘Forget your name you say? I’ve something for you.’

Rat-face returned with a darkened flask and a small metal cup.

‘This here is a bottle of Markarth Mash, a drink only for those with the heart of the mountain. Quite popular with the boys down in the foundries – they use it to clean the forges of the grime and to have a good time after the day is done. Ha ha!’ He held his breath, uncorked the flask, and cautiously poured the spirit. The drink, if it could be called that, gave off a sharp, metallic smell. ‘Careful now, some big folk from the Dryside, young nobles slumming here have gone blind from drinking-

Falrielle snatched the cup and downed it in one swift gulp. Falrielle had her share in spirits; akevitts, jaggas, samogons, scrumpies, sujammas, sheins, vodka even a whole canteen of Legionare Wine but nothing hit quite like this one. As the colourless liquid slid down her throat, Falrielle truly understood why this one was called Markarth Mash, a drink only for those with the heart of the mountain as it felt like she had swallowed molten steel. That and she had the sensation of someone hitting her in the back of her head with a club.

At first, her belly burned so hot that she was sure she’d start coughing out blood but when the flame died down, the world seemed so much more colourful.

‘Impressive, very impressive. Most people would’ve been knocked off their feet with one drink.’

‘F-f- ye, ahm a Paleman and proud.’ She belched. ‘How much fur a boattle?’

‘This one’s on me. You just tell us when you’re done.’

Now this was more like it. The first shot was dreadful but the second, third, fifth, and the one after was absolute bliss. The spirit grew easier and sweeter to drink the more glasses she tossed back. It reminded her of the lads, enjoying a good binge after a job well done. Where were they, Falrielle wondered? She could hear their laughter but she couldn’t see them. Had she gone blind?

‘Mutant!’

The scent of goat caught Falrielle before she spun.

A large man with a fiery plait wobbled towards her. His stocky form seemed vaguely familiar although Falrielle wasn’t quite sure where she saw it. To his right was a man with a very scarred face.

‘Wit? Wit ye waant?’ she slurred.

‘Get out of our city, elf!’ fiery plait slurred back.

‘Whai? Whit did ah dae noo?’

‘You’re a Dominion spy!’

Falrielle squinted. ‘Whit?’

‘You’re an elf. All elves are Dominion spies. Everyone knows that.’

‘Abody knows- ‘ Falrielle shook her head to clear her wits. ‘Whit ye gabbering aboot? Ahament a spy, ye goat f-f-fondler. Lea me be. Innkeeper! Tell thae scunners tae-’

Scarred face knocked the cup from Falrielle’s hand. The metal cup bounced cacophonously on the floor. The other patrons, most of them native Reachmen who worked the forge or mines, kept silent to their drinks. None stood up or even spoke a word to help. The innkeeper and the serving wench too were conveniently silent. Of course, they would be, Falrielle thought bitterly. Why would anyone help a knife-ear?

‘Ahament a spy,’ she said, resolute.

‘You’re an elf,’ fiery plait hissed as he grabbed Falrielle by the shoulder. This close, Falrielle could smell the garlic and cheap beer on his breath. ‘We don’t want your here kind in Skyrim. Skyrim belongs to the Nords. You hear me or are your pointy ears just full of sh*t?’

‘Juist… aff, aricht? Ah juist wantae-wantae-want-‘ The words lodged in her throat before she let out a spew of vomit, all over the man’s face.

‘Knife-ear whor*!’ Fiery plait cursed and threw a punch.

With a drunk’s precision, Falrielle curled on the spot, dodging the blow by a hair’s breadth. Her body moved on its own as she delivered a hard knee to the gut that sent fiery plait keeling over.

Scarred face swung wide and Falrielle blocked the haymaker with her forearm. The sellsword then followed up the action with a swift fist to the face. The burly man reeled back, clutching his now bleeding nose.

Falrielle had to get out. All her instincts screamed at her to get out but in her drunken haze, finding the exit was like trying to start a fire in a raging blizzard. The world swirled beneath her feet and the ground rose to meet her with a hard crash.

Why was there blood and dirt in her mouth, she wondered? Why was she on the floor?

The elf suddenly rose from the ground and had her back slammed against the bar.

‘You’ll pay for that!’ a voice snarled followed by a sharp pain as if someone had hit her with a brick. Before she could even move, another wave of pain blossomed followed by another and another.

She tasted the ground again and this time, something heavy was pressing on her chest. The world dimmed all around her as she gasped like a fish. She saw stars as pain and laughter echoed in her ears.

This was it. This was how she was going to die.

Falrielle reached for her boot and drew her knife.

In a flash, streaks of crimson splattered across the floor and an emotion stirred within Falrielle.

It was a rage, a joy, a sense of chaos and peace. It was a fire that was always within her. Falrielle felt no pain, no fear, nor worry. Only an unquenchable lust. It was the Bloodlust; the drum beat of the Nords.

Falrielle smiled. Then the smile became a wolfish grin, one that hungered for more.

Through a red mist, Falrielle pulled the knife out of fiery plait’s neck and stabbed him again and again and again. She wasn’t sure when he got off her chest or when she was on top of him, carving his face in a frenzy but she felt great.

When someone held Falrielle’s shoulder to pull her off, the elf leapt onto her attacker and tore their throat with her teeth. Flesh had never tasted so sweet.

‘Guards! Guards! Summon the guards!’

Falrielle roared, spitting blood, and threw herself at the nearest person. The warding swing was pitiful and slow. Falrielle ducked under and slashed them open with a single swipe. Warm blood washed over her face but it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

A squad of guards rushed in the tavern with their shields and truncheons raised. Falrielle bent low and charged.

The guards countered charged, one bashed Falrielle with their shield and the rest jumped her. She screamed as they held her down and painfully bent her arms behind her back.

Then the last she saw before entering the embrace of darkness, was the hobnailed sole of a boot.

Chapter 19: Blood and Silver X

Chapter Text

Falrielle bit into the last crumb of her bread and felt something moving in her mouth. She spat into her hand and found a maggot, no bigger than the tip of her pinkie, writhing in her palm.

The elf frowned as she swallowed the grub. It was the first morsel of flesh she had in… how long? She wondered when was the last time she saw the sun? Days? Weeks? Months? She wasn’t quite sure anymore.

At first, she tried scratching marks on the wall to represent the passing days. Unfortunately, someone took her spot and finding where she made the scratches was an exercise in futility. She then tried noting when the cart delivering the grog and bread rations arrived, believing they were a daily thing but soon learned that they didn’t arrive on a schedule – they arrived when they felt like it. Everyone down here can either kill and eat each other or starve for all they cared.

A pained scream echoed in the tunnels followed by a series of wet, popping sounds. There was a plea of help or mercy in there, Falrielle knew but down here, it was hard to tell.

Falrielle finished her food and sniffed her canteen. The grog or whatever this thing was, smelled extra oily today. If she didn’t know any better, she’d guess that she was drinking fermented cooking grease.

The victim, a man, pleaded clearly one last time before his voice gurgled, and then silenced. Mayhaps he was a thief, a rat, or someone just didn’t like his face. Whatever his crime was, it didn’t matter – he was dead, that was all there was to it.

Before, someone getting attacked was quite a novelty to Falrielle. Now, it was like seeing a bird passing by in the sky – it was interesting as it flew but as soon as it went out of sight, it was out of mind.

The elf threw back the grog, swallowing the swill in one swift gulp. When two tears trickled down the sides of her nose, Falrielle remembered the first time she drank the thing. She threw up of course, not because it hit her in all the right places but because the taste was unbearable. How she wished for even a mug of watered-down beer or a shot of Markarth Mash but alas.

Such is life in Cidhna Mine.

You dig until you’ll pay off your debt to the Reach. That was what they told her though Falrielle wondered whenever that was.

Down here, she saw a few prisoners with hair as white as hers, with beards reaching to their ankles, and backs stooping like gnarled trees. She had seen them literally working themselves to death but they didn’t even seem to care – life and hope died within them a long time ago.

That was the other thing they told her. No one escapes Cidhna Mine. No one but the dead.

‘Get up you lazy rats, get up!’ bellowed the foreman. ‘Remember why you’re here: you’re all punished for your crimes against the people Skyrim. But the Gods are kind, for they have given you the chance for redemption! Work hard and freedom is yours!’

Freedom is yours, what horsesh*te, Falrielle thought.

Freedom? Redemption? Falrielle didn’t care anymore. What was the point? Faerin was dead, Ivar was dead, Carlotta was dead – everyone was dead. All she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and die and she would have done so, were it not for the swill.

Falrielle swigged back her canteen, this time to the last revolting drop and grabbed her pickaxe.

If nothing else, she had to give the grog some credit. It gave her the strength to endure.

Chapter 20: Blood and Silver XI

Chapter Text

‘Elven bitch!’ the Reachman cursed.

Even though the punch was clumsy and predictable, Falrielle still ate the blow like a good little elf. The Reachman co*cked his arm back for another punch, and again he struck Falrielle hard, this time in across the face. She could taste metal as she began to drool.

‘Disgusting!’ the Reachman said before he drove a knee into her gut. Falrielle keeled over but the Reachman’s goons propped her up and the beating continued.

These Reachmen had accused Falrielle of thievery; specifically for the crime of stealing their hard-earned ore but Falrielle did no such thing. Why would she? What was the point? Yes, the grog and bread were earned in their weight in silver but Falrielle had learned that the strange mushrooms and the scurrying co*ckroaches and worms made for better eating than the bread. The grog was grog. A cart of ore would fill a canteen – no more, no less.

A club, of which Falrielle didn’t manage to prepare for, struck her in the head. She saw stars as the pain shot down to the tip of her toes.

Falrielle knew the real reason why they were giving her a beating, the real reason why she had to endure this humiliation every other day – it was because they could. This was the law of the world. The strong took from the weak because they could. They weak suffer because they had no choice.

The Nords took these lands from these Reachmen because they could. The Reachmen let out their frustration on the one knife-ear in the tunnel because they could. There was no justice in the world. Only strength.

The Reachmen suddenly released Falrielle, letting her fall limply to the ground, feeding on dirt. One of them spat on the back of her head and said, ‘Falmer trash.’

Lying on the ground, the tunnel darkened as the Reachmen took the lantern and left her for dead. Falrielle would of have welcomed it but the elf still had some pride… and regrets.

Falrielle found her hand grasping a rock and the idea came to her like air. If she were to die now, at the very least she’d die fighting. Like a true Nord.

She rose and swiftly struck one of the Reachmen in the back of their head. The Reachman, a pale, sore covered creature, dropped dead, splattering bone and brain fragments everywhere.

Before the Reachmen even understood what was happening, Falrielle smashed another in the jaw and brained their leader. The strike stunned the Reachman long enough to give Falrielle an opening and she used it well, striking him in the face, again and again and again, turning his eyes into jelly.

The last one groaned, pulling himself together but Falrielle did nothing. In fact, she hoped this one found the courage to jump her and smash her skull against the wall, ending it all. The best part was that it would be quick.

‘Troublemaker!’ a voice called.

Falrielle turned and saw men, clad in steel breastplates and leather helmets approach with truncheons raised.

No. This wasn’t fair. Why were they here now? Why of all times, were they here now?

They swarmed her, like wolves upon a cat. They bound her hands and hit her so hard in the stomach that Falrielle puked.

‘To the Pit with this one,’ a guard sneer.

Falrielle didn’t utter a word in protest. There was no point for a worthy death eluded her once again.

Chapter 21: Blood and Silver XII

Chapter Text

In however a period of time since Falrielle had seen the sun, people have often said that there was no worse fate for a true Nord than to be sent to Cidhna Mine. It wasn’t the sort of fate that one couldn’t die. Quite the opposite – Cidhna Mine is death. But it was the wrong kind of death, the long, drawn-out kind of death like an ant having its limbs pulled apart by a cruel child. Down here, there is no glorious death to be found. No worthy end for a warrior to earn their place amongst the Hall of Valour in Sovngarde. There was only a silent death.

These people lacked the imagination, Falrielle decided. They never saw the Pit.

The Pit or rather, the Pits were holes in the ground in one of the many abandoned passages of Cidhna Mine. Bled dry of their precious metals, these long forgotten tunnels are strangers to light, to sound, to life for what business does even the most wretched of beings have here? Falrielle found out, someone more wretched and the most wretched of beings – herself.

Falrielle hung limply between the guards, her bare feet bleeding from the journey. The guards, for good measure, hit Falrielle a few more times, sending lances of pain coursing through her. They then threw Falrielle into a hole in the ground, covered the top with a wooden panel, and left.

Falrielle remained still for… she wasn’t quite sure how long before her faculties returned to her, the taste of blood and the bruises the only reminder that she was alive and awake. Her limbs and back contorted painfully, and when she tried to move to relive the pressure, she just couldn’t. There was just no space.

Her breathing quickened. In her time down here, Falrielle, being a short, skinny Wood Elf, had to squeeze between holes less than a foot wide to get to places the bigger miners could never reach. It wasn’t at all a pleasant experience but even she got used to it like one would to a numbing pain. This was different.

The elf finally orientated herself and stood up. Thud. She hit her head on the panel. Falrielle shifted her body around, wiggling some space for her to stretch out her left leg, and she stood up again. Thud.

Falrielle blinked and only now did she notice that she was in true darkness. Her breathing sounded very loud. Darkness was not a foreign concept to her. In the city or in the forest, under the canopies of a new moon, Falrielle had been in places where there was no light but that was not true darkness. True darkness was this.

Down here, away from streams and the dying whispers of the wind – this was true darkness. True darkness had no light, it had no sound, it had no space to breath or even cry for help. True darkness was the crushing blackness all around her. True darkness was the cold, heartless walls that sapped her strength. True darkness was this.

Falrielle’s heart thumped quickly in her chest like a woodpecker drumming a tree. Her mouth felt dry and hairy, and her body wouldn’t stop shaking. Why wouldn’t she stop shaking, she wondered? Cidhna Mine wasn’t a cold place, in fact she was sweating buckets now. So why was she shaking?

She needed to do something, she needed to move. That’s right, all she needed to do was move, Falrielle told herself. She stood up and thumped her head on the ceiling. She stood up again and again and again. Falrielle wasn’t sure how long she tried standing up but she found herself panting when something warm and wet streamed down the back of her neck.

A screaming voice, coarse and shrilly began echoing in Falrielle’s ears. The eeriest thing was, she recognised it as her own.

Chapter 22: Blood and Silver XIII

Chapter Text

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Falrielle opened her eyes and saw…nothing. Of course, she saw nothing, what did she expect to see?

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

The sound grew louder, like something was scraping against the panel again. Was it the guards? If it was, why was there no light? Even the guards needed the light to see – they always brought a light with them when they gave her a visit.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

When was their last visit anyway, she wondered? Every… when they-someone came, they would pour some water over her, sometimes even opening the panel and tossing in a chunk of bread. When they arrive, they never did say anything even when she screamed at them. Falrielle knew they weren’t just figments of her imagination because when she tried to stand up, they always hit her to cow her back in.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

There it was, that sound again. Falrielle licked her lips and called out to it. She waited and waited and waited…

Nothing. Nothing happened.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Ivar leaned against the bar, exchanging suspicious notes with the landlord. Carlotta weaved between table to table, helping herself to unattended coin pouches for extra drink money. Khargol lounged at the corner table, surrounded by a bevy of admirers as he regaled tales of his ‘exploits’. Talon congregated with the woodcutters and quarrymen, arm wrestling for gold and honour. Faerin sat across her with that clay mug in hand, cheering and hooting as Falrielle downed two flagons at once, opening her gullet and pouring it all down.

Falrielle knew this was a memory, was it? Yes, it was a memory. The scent of noxious smoke and stale sweat made her nostrils turn and the frothing beer tasted watered down. But if this was a memory, how did Falrielle see the elf on the table? This young elf with her snow-kissed hair and skin, who drank as the great companions of Ysgrammor, who did not understand what was about to happen.

Falrielle shouted and shrieked her dire warnings, screamed until her throat was dry and coarse. At one point she managed to reached out, grab the elf by the shoulders but the elf laughed and belched.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch…

Scratch… Scratch…. Scratch…

Falrielle’s arms and fingers felt wet. Curious, the sellsword stuck one finger in her mouth and sucked. Strange. Something came loose and it tasted of blood…

Chapter 23: Blood and Silver XIV

Chapter Text

Voices murmured from above. Falrielle pricked her ears and listened closely.

She had been left in this hole, nearly forgotten in the darkness for what felt like years. She learned not to bother talking to her benefactor, whoever they may be, and always kept her eyes closed when they came to feed her. She always pretended that they didn’t really exist – that her ration of food and water merely apparated on her. The only voice she ever heard was her own and now, she wasn’t quite sure – was she hearing things again?

‘Are you sure this is the one?’ a voice said.

Falrielle opened her eyes and winced.

An orange glow, like a speck of the sun seared her eyes. Something groaned above her before removing the panel.

Rough hands seized her arms and hauled her out. Everything hurt. Not just because of the sudden movement but because her cramped body had to endure the freedom of space once more. She quivered on the floor, stretching out limbs she had nearly forgotten were there as the sensation of pain was a welcome.

Falrielle squinted her eyes and saw a shadow squatting next to her.

‘You’re finally awake,’ a voice called.

Falrielle blinked in confusion. Was someone actually talking to her?

‘Camon?’ she rasped, vision returning to her eyes.

‘Yes, it is I, Camon, welcoming you back to the land of the living, Sellsword,’ the Redguard smiled. ‘Colour me impressed; most have gone stark raving mad from being in the Pits after a week. You’ve been here for two months!’

‘T-t-twa months?’

‘Yes!’ he said cheerfully. The Redguard shone a lantern over Falrielle and saw the scars on her arms. ‘Well, you’ve remained mostly sane.’

Falrielle groaned a response.

‘Consider yourself lucky, Sellsword. The Chief wants to speak to you and that’s not a request.’

Chapter 24: Blood and Silver XV

Chapter Text

Falrielle was still shaking when they washed her down with buckets and dressed her in fresh linen tunic and trousers. They then put a bag over her head, shoved her around the labyrinthian tunnels of Cidhna Mine before stopping to knock a door.

As the door opened, Falrielle’s nose twitched at the kaleidoscope of scents. It wasn’t that the scents smelled bad, quite the contrary. Through the roughspun bag which smelt of old potatoes, was the aroma of fine juniper incense. She also caught the whiff of burnt flesh – not the charred odour of a man’s but roasted mutton spiced with garlic, nutmeg, and other herbs. She also detected the scent of turnips and butter, the latter which she’d never had the luxury of tasting in her life.

When someone sat her down and pulled the bag off, Falrielle found opened her eyes to the last place she expected to be in – an office. It was of modest size and even modestly furnished but it was an office all the same.

On the desk was a familiar man, scribbling away at a ledger.

‘Ye!’ she said.

‘Me,’ the banker replied, not even bothering to indulge a glance. He dipped his quill in ink and continued writing.

Falrielle noticed that they were not alone. At the far wall behind her stood Camon, braided beard, and broken nose. To her right was a woman in a ragged dress with her arms and legs bound, sitting on a stool. Sweat drenched her fire-kissed hair while she mumbled something through her gag. Candlelight illuminated the strange tattoos that covered her face and the strip of cloth over her eyes.

There was a long silence in the room, filled only with the sound of a quill on parchment, fire crackling, and the terrified sobs of the woman.

‘I will say, wood elf,’ the banker finally began, pouring salt over his book and leaving it aside to dry. ‘You are not what I expected.’

‘Oh? And whit did ye be expecting?’

‘A dead elf.’ The banker pulled the cork off a large glassware demijohn in a wicker basket and poured something into a cup. It was something strong, Falrielle smelled, and the scent made started the shakes again.

‘Your kind don’t do so well underground, so I’ve seen,’ he continued. ‘I’m not saying this as you’re a wood elf. I’m saying that your kind is not welcome here in Markarth, more so in here in Cidhna Mine.’ He paused midway from his first sip. ‘You do know what kind of people end up in Cidhna Mine, do you?’

‘Aye, ah dae,’ Falrielle answered. ‘Reachmen. Elves. Poor people. People.’

‘Killers, wood elf, killers. And rapers. And spies. And saboteurs. And traitors. All scum really to get straight to the point. If there were justice in the world, all you vermin ought to meet your end at the end of the axeman’s tools, but the Gods are kind – they have granted thee a second chance to redeem yourselves. To pay for your crimes, so to speak.’

Falrielle eyed the half-eaten lamb leg, drenched in a mysterious brown sauce on the wooden tray. A knife stuck from its haunch.

‘Most would find redemption in death but sometimes, Gods reaches out with an extended hand, offering another way – a way through service. Take our friend Kjarl here, he’s a wanted man for quite a few deaths in not a few Holds. Or perhaps Rus’, who’s no longer allowed to be near the Temple of Dibella. Look at them now, well fed and behaved. Is that right, boys?’

‘Yes, Oniikar,’ the two said in unison.

There too was a loaf of wheat bread. Real wheat with no traces of sawdust.

‘Wood elf,’ he said, snapping Falrielle back at attention. ‘Do you know what this is?’ He added, smacking a wad of paper on the table. Falrielle squinted and saw a broken seal.

‘Mah contract?’

The banker shook his head. ‘Not yours. Ivar’s.’

Falrielle felt her heart leap into her mouth. ‘W-whit?’ she sputtered.

‘So, he didn’t tell you? No matter. Camon! Kjarl! Rus’! You may wait outside.’ The banker gestured to the men. They opened the door and quietly vacated the room. Once they were gone, the banker took another sip.

‘Since you can’t read, you need not know the details, so I’ll keep it short. I’ll been eyeing Ivar for some time. Fierce, resourceful, and blessed with a fair bit of charisma; I’ve judged that he’ll be a fine fit into the Brorgyr. This contract is also a summon – that someone of the Silver-Blood family, I, if you have yet to parse that one, wish to speak to him. All he needed to do was pick up a shipment for me on his journey to Markarth.’

Falrielle’s stomach grumbled. ‘Wait, then whit aboot the rest of us?’

The banker shrugged. ‘Who knows. He could’ve have slit all your throats for all I care or he’d keep you around as his own eyes and ears – it made no difference to me. All I cared about was results and the results now are clear: he’s dead and you’re not. To be honest when I received news of his death, I gave up on that shipment. It wasn’t anything special, but gold is gold and a loss is a loss.’

The elf wiped a line of spittle off her chin.

‘Then to my surprise, a week or so later, you showed up. Most sellswords would either abandon the job or steal what they can and run but you actually showed up. To be honest, I was disappointed when I finally met you and when at the same day, you had yourself thrown in Cidhna Mine, I was again ready to wash my hands off this contract.’

‘But you have a way of bruising my ego, do you not? An elf, months in Cidhna Mine and in the Pits, yet you refuse to die? I must say, I admire that determination, that strength in the work.’

Silence filled the room.

‘Ye be done with that scran?’ Falrielle said, pointing at the lamb.

The banker raised an eyebrow. ‘I am. Do you want it?’

‘Aye.’

‘Then kill her.’

Falrielle grabbed the knife off the tray and tore the woman’s throat open. Before the woman even hit the ground, Falrielle sank her teeth into the lamb with the fervour of a starving dog. Her hunger only grew when the mutton slid off the bone. She never knew meat could be so tender. Was it always like this? Was this always what the mighty have feasted upon?

The woman continued thrashing and squirming on the floor, yelping as she did.

Falrielle reached for the turnips and took one big bite. Streams of tears went down the side of her cheeks. Butter was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted in her life.

‘How’s the food?’ the banker asked without emotion.

‘Scrumptious,’ she managed between bites.

The blood and air rasped from the gash in the woman’s neck as her bound arms and legs made her resemble a fish on land.

‘Try dripping the bread into lamb sauce. How is it?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Don’t forget about the spices.’

‘Hmm.’

Falrielle wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and belched. ‘Dae ye hae anything to drink?’

Without waiting for an answer, Falrielle reached for the demijohn, ripped the cork with her teeth, and swigged it down. The familiar, pleasant warmth bloomed once again in her belly and when she smacked the bottle down on the table and smacked her lips, she had drunk the liquor to its last drop.

‘That there is Ambry - Ambry Brandy. One of the finest liquors in all of Tamriel. A black label costs a thousand Septims,’ the banker added dryly.

‘Mmm,’ Falrielle replied before she snapped the lamb bone in half to suck away at the marrow, slurping like no tomorrow. It was only when she was done, did she realise that the room was deathly silent once again.

‘Do you even know why I wanted her dead?’ the banker said finally, nodding his head at the woman.

‘Shuid ah?’ Falrielle answered and munched on a piece of bread.

‘No, I suppose not.’ He paused. ‘I have a proposition for you. I am in need of someone of your… disposition. You do as you’re told – you don’t ask questions. You kill without hesitation and you know your way around a knife. I’ll draft a new contract, just for you. Work for me and I’ll give you anything you want, within reason of course. Food, drink, gold, someone to warm your bed, do as I ask and it’ll all be yours. Think it through, I think it is a most generous offer, is it not?’

‘Ah suppose ah cannae refuse this “generous” offer, kin ah?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘A bath.’

‘What?’

‘A bath. Ah want a bath.’

‘Those too. Sign a contract with me, seal it with blood, be my bloodhound, and I promise you – if you never fail me, you shall never be found wanting again.’

Chapter 25: -Appendix-

Summary:

These titbits of exposition are not needed for the story to work (though they may contain spoilers) but they hopefully would make for a fun read, emulating the feel of the games. Again, I'll update these at least every Thursday. Now because I don't want to overbump my story, I'll sometimes just update an existing appendix entry, which I'll make note of it below.
Appendix I: Codex Vigilas: Bestiary (Updated 15/1/2024)
Appendix II: Codex Vigilas: Locations (Updated 26/5/2022)
Appendix III: Codex Vigilas: Treatise de Percusssionis
Appendix IV: Codex Vigilas: Recipes (Updated 14/4/2022)
Appendix V: Miscellaneous (Updated 2/6/2022)
If you want to nerd out in the comments, feel free to do so.

Chapter Text

-Codex Vigilas-

The Codex Vigilas is the sacred tome, though not the primary scripture of the Vigil of Stendarr. The Codex Vigilas outlines many details important for the Vigilant to carry out their duties such as operational organisation, strategy and tactics, field intelligence, a monster bestiary, and other bits of trivia. The Codex Vigilas is never finished – it is always updated as new information comes in. Each Chapter of the Vigil carries their own Codex and it is the main duty of the heads of each Chapters to guard the book, hence why they are called Keepers.

-Treatise de Percussionis-

The Treatise de Percussionis or colloquially, the Vigilant Combat Manual is the main martial arts manual of the Vigil. Originally penned by Senior-Vigilant Garuuk, the first Master of Combat of the Vigil, the Treatise de Percussionis details numerous techniques, forms, and weapons for use in a Vigilant’s duties. The treatise also describes and recommends certain training regiments to better prepare the mind and body for combat.

Chapter 26: Appendix I: Codex Vigilas: Bestiary

Notes:

-Vampires-
Ia. What are True and False Vampires?
IIa. Banns
IIIa. Bloodfiends

Chapter Text

- Vampires -

Ia. What are True and False Vampires?

In popular thought, any haemophagic creature is a vampire. However, treatises on vampirism like the Malleus Vampirum, the Compiled Journals of Movarth Piquine, the Abaserc Chronicles, and the Librum of Vampirism often throw a hissy fit, pedantically and categorically classifying and defining what is and what isn’t a vampire. For the sake of brevity, Codex Vigilas instead opts to divide vampires into two primary categories: True and False Vampires.
True Vampires are haemophages born of the legacy of the First Rape by the Daedric Prince of Domination and Corruption. True Vampires were once mortals, transformed into their cursed form through an infection, the vector which varies from strain to strain. True Vampires are ageless, forever frozen on the day the disease takes hold and consequently, they cannot reproduce through conventional means. Like the stories, True Vampires are immune to other diseases, are weakened in the sun though they need not feed on blood to survive.
False Vampires are mostly non-sentient haemophages of either Daedric or Magical nature. Unlike True Vampires, False Vampires are not undead. False Vampires do not procreate by spreading the disease, they reproduce sexually as with any other living creature. False Vampires unlike True Vampires are not ageless, are vulnerable to diseases, and they must feed on blood to survive. They are however resistant to sunlight.
It is important to remember that the category of vampire cannot be identified by sight alone. The insectoid Kaj-Wakota of Black Marsh for example bears very little resemblance to mortalkind but by the definitions as noted of their origins to the First Rape, their method of transmission, and their sentience, the Kaj-Wakota are classified as True Vampires. Inversely, the humanoid Giant Bat are False Vampires for while they consume blood, they reproduce naturally and one cannot be turned into a Giant Bat from their bites.
~ from Codex Vigilas: Bestiary: Vampires: What are True and False Vampires? by Senior-Vigilant Tomasin Gwenn, Master of Healing

IIa. Banns

Name(s): Bann or Dame Crieuse or Bean a' Caoineadh
Classification: True Vampire
Province(s): High Rock, Skyrim
Average Height: Varies (In disguise), 5ft 8in (In True Form)
Average Length: Varies (In disguise), 6ft 10in (In True Form)
Average Weight: Varies (In disguise), 130lbs (In True Form)
Quick Description: Powerful type of vampire. Can disguise themselves as dark-haired, human or elven maidens dressed in white. True form that of a humanoid bat with sharp claws and fangs. Can use voice to enthral victims. Can scream to kill.
Extended Commentary:
The first collected folklore of Banns hails from the province of Cyrodiil. Ironic, considering that there have been no Bann sightings in the Imperial heartlands ever since the end of the 1^st Era, no doubt the work of the bloodsuckers of the Unseen Court. The tales and legends of Banns vary but the core details of their origins are the same.
As the story goes, the first Bann was a farmer’s wife, heavily pregnant with their firstborn. Their marriage however was not a happy one for their union was not only loveless but the husband also took to drink. As she carried, the farmer grew paranoid, suspecting that the child she bore was not his but another. Despite her protests, the farmer would not listen and one night, after drinking too many a cup, the farmer forced himself upon the woman, stabbing her in her stomach before leaving her to die on the floor of their house. With her dying breath, the woman cried out to the gods for vengeance. She called out to Nine and the Seventeen but only one answered, He Who Corrupts.
The woman rose as the first Bann and tore her husband limb from limb. After the kill, the black hunger took her and though she slurped up all of his gory remains, she felt no satisfaction, no satiation. Still ravenous, the Bann sniffed around, finding prey in the terrified farm animals but again, that was still not enough. She sniffed around for the third time and caught a strange, sweet scent. This one coming from within. Mad with hunger, the Bann reached for her own stomach, ripping it open to feed on babe which she sought vengeance for. Only after did she finish licking her fingers did she return to sense. Realising what she had done, the Bann cried out in frustration, her eerie voice echoing in the valley, the harbinger of a violent death.
Stories of the Bann often involve travellers or nocturnal village folk encountering beautiful, pale maidens with long-dark hair wandering about in the light of Secundus. They would also say ladies also carry upon them the aroma of chrysanthemums or plumerias. The people in these stories, usually young men, would find themselves entranced by the supernatural beauty of these creatures before they froze in terror as the maidens would transform into a monstrous form with fangs, wings, and talons as they tore them apart.
Separating truth from fiction is an arduous task, like shifting saw dust from flour with a roll of paper. Some are easy, like the superstition of never allowing things like dogs barking or clothes to hang outside overnight – no doubt a measure to ensure a restful sleep and to avoid tempting the village pervert, respectively, some aspects of the Bann are more difficult to cipher. However, thanks to the tireless work of our predecessors like Senior-Vigilant Gilen Mandavu and the independent hunter Salzaarthi Camon, we do have some clear facts of the Bann.
Their famous disguise of pale women or or she-elves with long, dark hair, wearing white funeral gowns are true. No other descriptions have been reported. It is unknown if it is mere coincidence that Banns have the same fashion sense, or that they’re all brunettes, or if the Bann’s strain of vampirism would induce such a mutation but what matters to us is that they’re disguise is consistent. Also like in the stories, the overpowering scent of chrysanthemums or plumerias herald their presence, so it would do one well to familiarise themselves with what those flowers actually smell like. When these parasites are ready to feed, bones snap, skin tears, as the talons, fangs, and the wings reveal themselves, making them resemble giant bats. Their appearance nonetheless cannot be mistaken with Giant Bats for their mishappen faces and bodies still bear some remnants of their disguised forms as can be referred to in following autopsy sketch by Senior-Vigilant Mandavu.
Banns are highly territorial, refusing to tolerate the presence of any other True Vampires in their domain. This also makes Banns rare, with the sporadic reported sightings of the creatures limiting themselves to the remote regions of High Rock and Skyrim. Banns have a supernatural need to dominate and are known to entice False Vampires, mortal thralls, and other dark creatures to their servitude. The most infamous of these was the Nameless Chieftess of Svartskög who enthralled villages for generations before the Dawnguard mounted her head on a spike.
Vigilants fighting Banns will have their skills tested to their limits. Banns are fast, vicious, and messy eaters and have no issue with feasting on ragged scraps off their talons. Their uncanny ability to fly gives them unappareled control of the fight. Banns also have magical voices, whose whispers unheard yet still felt by the ears require the strongest of wills to resist lest they be charmed and whose shriek carries the strength to send a pack horse flying. They however are not without weaknesses.
Banns with their need to dominate, will never back down from a challenge no matter how futile it may seem. This makes them straightforwardly predictable and easy to goad into making mistakes. Banns attack and only attack. Vigilants only need endure before the parasites make an opening for a counterstrike. Mages may set up mental barriers to ward off the creature’s attempt to charm but if magic is not an option; hard, practiced meditations will train the mind and even if that is not possible, a pint of Thunderkeg Ale or anything strong will provide some mental shielding. Regarding their infamous shouts, a solid barrier is the safest option, followed by a ward. Banns like all Undead are weak to fire and the use of holy water, either as a weapon coating or projectile is also effective. Silver as always. Frost magics are useless and so are poisons.
Stendarr be kind, Banns rarely spread the curse of vampirism. It’s their territorial nature. They would rather kill than risk the propagation of a rival vampire.
~ Excerpt from Codex Vigilas: Bestiary: Vampires: Banns by Senior-Vigilant Isran, Master of Wards

IIIa. Bloodfiends

Name(s): Bloodfiend or Blutfiend or Feral Vampire
Classification: True Vampire
Province(s): All of Tamriel
Average Height: Varies
Average Length: Varies
Average Weight: Varies
Quick Description: Humanoid. Strong resemblance to their original, mortal form. Pale, sickly, peeling skin. Emaciated frame. May feature fangs, maws, suckers, stingers, or proboscises.
Extended Commentary:
Bloodfiends are the honest reflection of what vampires are: parasitic vermin driven by the need to feed. However pathetic they may be, they like all vampires should not be underestimated for they are dangerous creatures. Bloodfiends are the end result of vampires who were denied of blood for far too long and this process is not reversible.
When a vampire turns feral, their bodies mutate. The first of these mutations are not of the body but of the mind. The next stage of these mutations is that these creatures growing sallow, their skin will often be heavily disfigured by clusters of boils and scratches, and they no lose the ability to walk upright, leaving them to crawl like beasts. Most Bloodfiends die at this stage for the blood madness leaves very little room for a self-preservation reflex and Bloodfiends if masterless, Bloodfiends will fight amongst themselves, feasting on each other. Should they survive, the third stage of mutation is the most dramatic of the three.
Externally, the Bloodfiends will lose what little remained of their original forms, common mutations include fangs, maws, suckers, stingers, or proboscises. Bloodfiends also grow skinnier, almost emaciated with spindly spider-like limbs. Internally, the stomach as ravenous as the parasite itself, feeds on and atrophying the other organs while it itself grows larger. This mutation is fatal to the Bloodfiend for if the creature does not die of unhinged humours, it will when the heart is finally absorbed to feed itself.
Bloodfiends lose intelligence the further they fall in bloodlust and mutation, leaving them in a constant state of voracious rage, attacking with all their might to rip prey apart. This also means that Bloodfiends cannot be reasoned with, so don’t bother. Sunlight does little to deter Bloodfiends. It is not that the vermin have any inherent immunity – it is that they lack any self-preservation when in search of food. Unusual they are for True Vampires is that Bloodfiends will also feed on corpses should they get the chance.
Note that feral Bloodfiends tend to drift on their lonesome. Should these creatures move about in a pack, this is a sign of a greater, more cognizant vampire in their midst.
On fighting these creatures, take joy in knowing that while twisted, animalistic, and vicious, Bloodfiends are vampires at their weakest state. They don’t move as fast, their blows are no longer supernaturally enhanced, and they lack powers of regeneration. Thus, while fire, holy water, silver, or aspen is preferable, Bloodfiends can be felled by any sort of weapons used on their mortalkind counterparts.
Beware however for the greatest danger of Bloodfiends are not the creatures themselves but the curse they carry. Bloodfiends carry an especially virulent strain of the vampiric disease and not only those who endured a bite would turn within a night or two, even the dead are not safe for they shall rise again as Bloodfiends. For the living, potions like Sunfire or Laudanum would render the victim temporary immune to vampirism. For the dead, cut off their heads and burn their corpses. It’s the only way to be sure.
~ Excerpt from Codex Vigilas: Bestiary: Vampires: Bloodfiends by Senior-Vigilant Isran, Master of Wards

IIIb. Bloodfiend Dissection

DISSECTION REPORT: 19^th Frostfall 4E191

SUBJECT: Sanguineus Bestia Deformis (Formerly Hilda Arngeirdotte of Clan Viken, Nord)

AGE: Sixteen – Eighteen SEX: Female

CORONER: Gabil the Lion, Vigilant of Stendarr

PRELIMINARY IMPRESSIONS:

Subject was Hilda Arngeirdotte (4E173 – 4E189) of Clapastead. Suspected initial infection of Porphyric Hemophilia in 4E189 after encounter with haemophage. Presumed deceased and processed in Clan Viken family tomb. Escaped in 4E190 and found inanimate in 4E191. Cause of torpor was aortic dissection following unspecified period of auto cannibalism and malnutrition.

WARNING: Keep subject clear of fresh blood.

(a). Head. Cranium analogous to human skull. Vertical plate features ridge, purpose unknown. Bone tissue is fragile, almost osteoporotic [see d]. Mandible bifurcated [see b]. Mandibular teeth have been moved to the tongue [see b]. Ocular organs have atrophied. No sign of scarring to suggest depreciation a result of external trauma. Auditory receptors and scent canals are highly developed.

(b). Mandible and Tongue. Bifurcated mandible with overdeveloped masseters and bony protrusions on the tips. Tongue and pharynx have fused into proboscis. Mandibular teeth have arrayed as stylets on end of proboscis. Muscles of proboscis overdeveloped.

(c). Muscles and dermis. Muscular systems have atrophied. All fat has been absorbed by the body. Dermis is green tinged and fragile.

(d). Bone and Marrow. Bones have significant reduced density compared to human bones. Bone protrusions erupt from dermis as result of compound fractures. Bone marrows are depleted.

(e). Chest cavity. Evidence of metaplastic transformation to columnar epithelium is apparent in heart. Lining of the heart is significantly thinned. Tear in internal face of aorta detected. Left pulmonary organ liquified. Right pulmonary organ ruptured. Cause of rupture: gastric acid.

(f). Abdominal cavity. Pancreas, spleen, and kidneys are depreciated. Liver undergoing digestion. Small intestines have been fused to enlarged stomach [see g]. Large intestines undergoing digestion. No faecal matter detected in intestines. Trace amounts of gastric acid detected on surface of organs.

(g). Stomach. Enlarge stomach attached to other viscera. Stomach excreting gastric acid on surface tissue. Organ highly reactive to blood. Even when dissected from body, stomach convulses upon contact with blood.

(h). Extremities. Phalanx and phalange have fused into talons. Phalanx and phalange do not feature density decay as is observed in general endoskeleton [see d].

(i). Reproductive systems. Ovaries and uterus are depreciated. Birth canal vestigial.

Chapter 27: Appendix II: Codex Vigilas: Locations

Notes:

I. Markarth
II. Morthal

Chapter Text

I. Markarth

Situated on the roots of Karthmad and imposing its own shadow over the Karth Valley, Markarth is the lonesome capital and city of The Reach. Originally the surface outpost of the Dwemer city of Nchuand-Zel, Markarth, a name derived from Reachtongue meaning ‘above the Karth’ is no stranger to bloodshed and other diabolic activity ever since the disappearance of the Reckoning of the Dwemer in the 1^st Era. A common saying in the city is ‘blood and silver flows through Markarth and into the river Karth and it is this blood that keeps the lands fertile.’
The city’s complicated past is difficult to forget and even more difficult to properly and completely archive but of note to the Vigil is the taint of Daedra upon the settlement.
Markarth, enduring millennia of bloodshed, congeals with dark magic. The Reachmen, known for their worship of the Daedra have been recorded to practice perverse rituals like human or elven sacrifices to their dark gods. More than that, the secrets of the dwarves, who lie quietly in wait in the earth below may belie a threat as to what may challenge the Oblivion Crisis of the previous era.
~ from Report: Markarth 4E 171 by Vigilant Hanzgrol collected in Codex Vigilas

II. Morthal

Morthal, the only major settlement and thus the capital of Hjaalmarch, lies where the River Hjaal meets the Drajkmyr Marsh in its southern banks. Named after Morihaus, the Winged Bull, Morthal in its golden years was one of the great trading centres of Skyrim. As land travel through Hjaalmarch is dangerous and arduous, Morthal provides a beacon and a roaring hearth for the weary travellers, in particular to caravaners who braved the Labyrinthian. However, when the shipping lanes of the Sea of Ghosts were properly established, and when the Labyrinthian was overrun by monsters, Morthal, within a generation fell into dilapidation.
Morthal today is a city with a grim reputation. When the air is still in Hjaalmarch, thick fogs gather, giving Morthal a ghostly visage. When the winds of the Sea of Ghosts blow, rain or hail almost always follow, as are thunderstorms so fierce that fires by lightning strikes a common occurrence. More than water and ice, the tempests from the Sea of Ghosts also brings forth higher concentration of Magicka to the region.
Through this combination of remoteness, harsh weather, and high concentration of Magicka has made Morthal and Hjaalmarch a hotbed of supernatural and occult activity. More than causing the unusually high prevalence of monsters, vampires, and Daedra, these strange conditions have also attuned the people of the hold to be especially sensitive to the flow of Magicka. The most well-known instance of this can be found in the ruling Clan Ravencrone of the line of Ilma the Seer.
~ from Report: Morthal 4E 152 by Vigilant Ulfhildr collected in Codex Vigilas

Chapter 28: Appendix III: Codex Vigilas: Treatise de Percussionis

Notes:

I. Introduction to Maces
II. Commentary on the Flail

Chapter Text

I. Introduction to Maces

The mace has often been called as nothing more than a glorified variant of the humble club, and while this is an oversimplification of the weapon, it is not entirely wrong. Deployed in situations against armoured opponents, the mace is a weapon specifically designed to defeat such foes. The mace does so through percussion and while the mace may feature additions such as spikes at the tip or bladed flanges, it is primarily a percussive weapon. The design of the mace is simple: it consists of the head, the shaft and the hilt.
The head of a mace is the striking body of the weapon. It can be made of any hard material from rock to bone to metal. Despite their artistic depictions in the many tapestries that hang in the court of lords and kings, the head of a mace need not be massive – at biggest, the size of an orc’s fist. Any bigger and the weapon would be too heavy and cumbersome to actually swing around. On the shape of the head, they vary from simple orbs to flanges which bite into armour.
The next component of the mace is the shaft. The shaft is the entire body of the mace and its performance is most sensitive to its material construction. Ash, to make the point clear, is popular for a reason. Ash is cheap and plentiful, and Ash absorbs shock well, protecting the macemen wrong fatigue. Oak is stronger than Ash, allowing the macemen to strike with greater might but Oak splinters far easier than Ash, requiring greater maintenance. The Elder Birch of Eastmarch can be found in many of the greatest maces of the world as not only is the wood strong, it also does not splinter easily. The Elder Birch however is rare and only the wealthiest of macemen would dare to use such fine timber. The length of the shaft varies from two to five feet and may be suited for either one- or two-handed usage.
Finally, we speak of the hilt. The hilt is the handle of the weapon, and may be as ornate as the hilts of a sword or be as simple as a leather band wrapped around the shaft. While some maces do feature a pommel, many maces do not have this component. Words of caution of the pommeled mace: the mace is not a sword and holding the mace like a sword may lead to deadly consequences.
However, before learning the proper techniques and grips of this humble weapon, the clever Vigilant must first learn to understand the strengths and limitations of his weapon. For one, the mace is a short-ranged weapon by necessity of design to prevent it from being overtly cumbersome. This in turn leads to a range disadvantage in comparison with weapons such as spears or swords. Secondly, blows of the mace must be precise. While the head of the mace allows it to strike from any angle unlike hammers, like hammers, only the head is capable of doing any meaningful damage. Thirdly, the mace is too simple of a weapon which makes it predictable. Fourthly, the mace, as a tool to combat armoured foes, will find trouble finding purchase in lighter, unarmoured targets.
But one may ask, why use such a weapon? Why not a spear? Why not a hammer or even a sword? That inquisitiveness is a virtue which the Vigil of Stendarr endorses.
For what is a weakness of a weapon can also be a strength. While it is true that the mace is not as deadly as a spear or a sword against unarmoured targets, the mace is far better at avoiding mortal blows, thus allowing the Vigilant to subdue targets without killing them. Secondly, the Vigilant is commonly expected to fight in cramped conditions like tunnels or corridors, making the short-ranged nature of the weapon a non-issue. Thirdly, the primarily purpose of the mace, to defeat armoured opponents is crucial in the service of Stendarr as some of the Daedra, like the vile Dremora or foul Daedroth who clad themselves in unholy armour and have thick hides respectively need more than a pointed edge to properly vanquish. Fourthly, the mace, the simple weapon that it is, makes for easier mastery requiring only strength and dexterity. More to that, macemanship fundamentals may be applied to any other clubs: truncheons, staves, cudgels, branches, chairs, tables, stick – any other clubs. Finally, and most importantly, maces are cheap and easy to maintain. Unlike bladed the weapons, the metals of the head need not be of quality – copper or even pig iron will do.
Remember above all else, KNOW YOUR WEAPON. It matters not the mace, the hammer, the sword, the axe, or the spear, a weapon will do more harm than good if the Vigilant knows not its strengths and weaknesses.
The following chapter will discuss proper grip techniques for the mace.
~ Excerpt from Codex Vigilas: Treatise de Percussionis: Introduction to Maces by Senior-Vigilant Garuuk, Master of Combat

II. Commentary on the Flail

Experienced legionaries or guards often have tales of the dreaded flail with some even having the scars to prove it. Developed from the farming tool which shares its name, flails are similar to the mace in that it is a percussive weapon that heavily relies on the user to constantly generate momentum for effective use. The defining difference between the two weapons however is that the striking head of the flail is separate from the handle, held by a rope or a chain.
Usage of the flail is simple as any farmer chasing off wolves, bandits, and other predators might attest – swing towards the target and the head will do the rest. Over the mace or rather, any other percussive weapons, the flail can go over the opponents shield and, in some cases, may tangle on the opponent’s limb or weapon. Expanding on this, flails are very difficult to guard against as no one, not even the user itself can fully predict on the trajectory of the head.
Nonetheless despite the advantages of the flail over the mace, I must stress on my aversion to the training and adoption of the flail in the Vigilant’s training curriculum.
For one, the training of the weapon itself defeats the key purpose of our curriculum: simplicity. Maces, clubs, and staves are easy to train with and in a pinch, a Vigilant can use anything with some proficiency should they be trained with the three weapons which can be done within a month. Flails take months of training and are dangerous to their own users in training and in battle. A mistake with a mace might result in a strained wrist but with a flail? A cracked skull.
Secondly unlike the mace, the flail has even less mundane utility for adoption. Unless the Vigil plans to thrash rice, there is very little reason for a Vigilant to carry a flail about and on the smaller variants, the ball-and-chain is a cumbersome carry to begin with potentially snagging on loose objects or protrusions. Yes, the flail and the mace are battle tools but at the very least the mace can be used to break down barriers if need be. It has been argued that the chain of the flail can bind a target for arrest but I’d argue that the Vigilant might as well be carrying rope or a chain rather than risk the flail.
However, should any Vigilant insist of mastering this strange weapon, let us begin by looking at Treatise de Baillairgé…
~ Excerpt from Codex Vigilas: Treatise de Percussionis: The Flail by Senior-Vigilant Garuuk, Master of Combat

Chapter 29: Appendix IV: Codex Vigilas: Recipes

Chapter Text

I. Sunfire

Name: Sunfire
Classification: Potion
Nature: Alchemical
Description: When facing Haemophages, the question of when, not if the hunter will be bitten is something all Vigilants must prepare themselves for. In such an occasion, a vial of Sunfire, which not only renders the imbiber a temporary immunity to bloodborne diseases but also turns their blood toxic is often the clever choice. A word of caution. Sunfire will also curse the imbiber will haemophilia as wounds will have a far harder time closing in addition to other side effects like bloody vomits, urine, or stool, headaches, and general discomfort.
Ingredients:
5 lbs of blooming Sweet Clover
5 lbs of aged Hay
2 lb of fresh Giant Lichen
1 lb of powdered root of Blessed Thistle
Alcohol solvent
Honey
Preparation:

Grind and mix Sweet Clover and Hay in a clay crucible until it becomes green paste.
Leave paste to sit in a paper parcel for at least a week.
Ready alcohol solvent in a still. If more advanced stills are unavailable, an alembic will do but note that alembic brewed potions are imprecise and impure.
Grind Giant Lichen into paste. Mix powdered root of Blessed Thistle well.
Dissolve the pastes of Sweet Clover and Hay, and Giant Lichen and Blessed Thistle in alcohol solvent. Use glassware as vessel.
Operate the still until the solvent boils.
Collect distillate in glassware.
Add honey for taste.

Chapter 30: Appendix V: Miscellaneous

Notes:

I. The Imperial Pantheon
II. Vigilant Stendarrism: An Introduction
III. Stendarrite Virtue: Charity
IV. Letter from Korir Kovirsson to the Guild-Master of the Imperial Guild of Bankers
V. The State of Banking in Skyrim
VI. Introduction to Free Companies
VII. Alchemy of Two Natures
VIII. Interview with a Woodcutter
IX. Old and New Markarth

Chapter Text

I. The Imperial Pantheon

Amongst the numerous faiths in Tamriel, the most widespread and popular religion is the Imperial Pantheon of the Nine and its influence expanded in parallel to the reach of the Tamrielic Empire. Founded by prophetess Alessia I in the 1^st Era, Imperial Pantheon, originally consisting of Eight Divines of a composited combination of the Aldmeri and Nedic Pantheon. After the ascension of Tiber Septim at the end of the 2^nd Era and the dawn of the 3^rd as Talos did the Eight become Nine. The Imperial Pantheon is vehemently against slavery, a belief that finds its roots in its origin as a slave religion and theologically, slavery violates the grand commandment of the Nine: that one do unto others that they would have done to themselves.
Akatosh, Dragon God of Time, Sword and Shield of Tamriel, and King of the Nine. His is the circle of emperors and kings. However despite his theological importance as the ruler of the Imperial Pantheon, Akatosh is not widely worshipped outside of the province of Cyrodiil, the seat of the Empire for Akatosh does not concern himself with the everyday trials of the common man. Akatosh is represented as the wise man with two heads; one of a man and the other of a dragon.
Arkay, God of Life and Death, Lord of the Wheel, and Ferryman of the Dead. His is the circle of mourners, undertakers, and the living. As the aspect of Life and Death, Arkay overlooks the cycle, theologically known as the Wheel making sure that the balance is maintained for death while unpleasant is a natural state of being. This makes Arkay the enemy of necromancers and the undead. As such the Priesthood of Arkay tend to enforce the rites of funeral and the sanctity of the Wheel. Arkay however is not commonly worshipped by the common folk for they have little reason to worship of deity of death in their everyday life but nonetheless, his temples are common in major settlements. He is depicted as a pilgrim clad in crimson.
Dibella, Goddess of Beauty, Muse of Arts and Music, and Lady of Passion. Hers is of the circle of artist, musicians, and lovers. Dibella hates stagnation and banality, and her followers are tasked with breathing music, and colour to those around them giving life more meaning that mere survival. Worship of Dibella cannot be spoken of without the mention of the ‘Dibellan Arts’: a collection of treatises on the nature of passion, pleasure, and proper lovemaking. She is commonly depicted as the maiden bearing a lily in her hands.
Julianos, God of Wisdom and Logic, Master of Magic and Mathematics, and Seeker of Truth and Kowledge. His is the circle of mages, bureaucrats, and scholars. Julianos abhors ignorance and falsehood and so he always encourages never ending truth-seeking and curiosity for his followers. Julianos is also the patron deity for bookkeepers and other members of the unappreciated bureaucracy for knowledge has to be preserved and where better to preserve knowledge than in book. He is depicted as a scholar armed with a scale.
Kynareth, Goddess of the Sky, Mother of Rain, Wind and Earth, and Protector of the Weary. Hers is the circle of travellers, sailors, and farmers. Kynareth demands that her followers respect the vitality of nature for all life is co-dependant on one another with no exceptions. As her circle of worshippers include travellers, the Priesthood of Kynareth is known to provide shelter and healing in her temples although not to the extent of the priesthoods of Mara or Stendarr. She is depicted as a traveller with a white raven perched on her hand.
Mara, Goddess of Love and Compassion, Patron of Harvest, and Mentor of Midwives. Hers is the circle of mothers, healers, and families and of the Nine, the Cult of Mara is by far the largest. After all, as long as there are women to give, would give, and are giving birth, Mara shall find no shortage of worshippers. Common depictions of Mara is of the mother arms open in embrace for her children or of the lady who weeps for the sorrows of the world. As the creed of Mara preaches love and peace, the Priesthood of Mara are famed healers and run many hospitals, shelters and orphanages.
Stendarr, God of Mercy. Father of Justice and Charity, and Defender of the Righteous. His is the circle of judges, lawmen, and the Imperial Legion. Stendarr demands his worshippers of be kind and to always have an open hand in helping the sick and needy. In addition, Stendarr also demands that his worshippers to protect the weak making him a popular deity amongst legionaries. As decreed in his commandment, healers flood the Priesthood of Stendarr often operating hospitals and shelters for the sick and poor not unlike their cousin-rival of the Priesthood of Mara. He is depicted as a father holding a cup overflowing with milk and honey.
Zenithar, God of Work and Commerce, Friend of Merchants and Bankers, and Kinsmen of Labourers. His is the circle of merchants and craftsmen. Zenithar espouses and celebrates hard and honest work. The craftsmen of Zenithar differ from Dibella in the sense that the Zenitharian prides himself on functional creations while the Dibellan pride herself with creations of beauty. While not the most popular, the Cult of Zenithar is nonetheless finds membership amongst miners, wood cutters, coolies and other back-breaking labourer and he is especially popular amongst the middle class giving him the most diverse set of followers. He is depicted as a man in the robes of a magistrate.
Talos, God of War and Mankind, Shezarr Reborn, and Tiber Septim Ascended. His is the circle of warriors and Men. In life and mortality, Talos was Tiber Septim, the founded and progenitor of the Septim Dynasty of the 3^rd Tamrielic Empire and the only empire to span across all of Tamriel and it is said that upon his apotheosis, the traditional Eight Divines rewarded him a seat by their side as the Ninth Divine. Talos is unique amongst his cohorts in the sense that he is much more popular and held in higher esteem by the Nords of Skyrim than in his home province of Cyrodiil. He is depicted as a soldier wielding the short sword of the Legion.
Editor’s Note: In light of the White-Gold Concordat, we at Imperial Public Publishing have received letters from concerned readers and fellow academics on the future of this series of books or books of similar subjects. We at Imperial Public Publishing would like to remind concerned readers and fellow academics that the White-Gold Concordat only forbids the worship but not the discussion of Talos. We at Imperial Public Publishing would also like to remind the Aldmeri Dominion that we will not be intimidated or bullied and that the discourse of academia and enlightenment will not be silenced by petty threats and that it is our duty at Imperial Public Publishing to be a beacon of knowledge for all of Tamriel.
~ Except from The Imperial Pantheon: An Introduction to the Imperial Cult by Thelonius Finn, Imperial Scholar

II. Vigilant Stendarrism: An Introduction

Vigilant Stendarrism is a denomination of the Cult of Stendarr founded in Cyrodiil during the Oblivion Crisis of 3E 433. According to folklore, the faith began when Areldur, Warrior Priest of Stendarr (??? – 4E 26) received a holy vision while on death’s door from wounds he suffered fighting the Daedric Hordes. In his vision, Stendarr himself spoke to Areldur, warning him that the Oblivion Crisis was but a taste of what has yet to truly come. He then instructed Areldur to be his watchmen, his herald, and his keeper of this warning. When Areldur recovered, the Warrior Priest poured many hours into the surviving libraries and archives eventually compiling not only the canonical scriptures such as Stendarr's Light, the Testaments of Stendarr, and the Compassion of All Mortals, but also apocryphal texts like the Meditations of Corbyn and the Song of the Faithful, into the Codex Vigilas, the never finished tome of the faith.
Orthodoxically, Vigilant Stendarrism differs very little from its parent religion, the Cult of Stendarr. Like the Cult of Stendarr, Vigilant Stendarrism accepts the Three Laws, the Four Precepts, the Nine Sacraments, the Universal Brotherhood of All, and the Divine Liturgies, the details of which can be referred to in their respective entries in The Cult of Stendarr. Vigilant Stendarrism however condemn paintings and statues of the Divines, viewing the practice as vain idolatry, reject the veneration of saints, dispute the Omnes Fidea, and hold to the coming of the Second Oblivion Crisis. Thus, it is with the final two disagreements that shape Vigilant Stendarrism’s militant orthopraxy doctrines.
Omnes Fidea as ascribed by the Cult of Stendarr affirms that the right of worship as a universal right no matter the faith or deity worshipped, within reason, for all of mortal kind are worthy of the grace of Stendarr. Hence, the Cult of Stendarr promotes Anti-Impetum or nonviolence and thusly condemns religious violence. Vigilant Stendarrism on principle agree with Omnes Fidea as a commandment of Stendarr but also believes in the principle of Praeveni-Impetum or the prevention of violence. Therefore, Vigilant Stendarrites cannot ignore violence or the potentiality of violence being performed against an innocent, and must as demanded by the first of Stendarr’s Four Precepts proactively end the danger before it even begins.
As a result of the Oblivion Crisis, Vigilant Stendarrism holds Daedra worshippers as the ones most responsible for the existential threat. While admitting to the contradiction of Omnes Fidea, Vigilant Stendarrites guided by the principle of Praeveni-Impetum see it as moral duty to pre-emptively stamp out Daedric cults before they trigger the Second Oblivion Crisis.
~ Excerpt from Cults and Religions of Tamriel by Thelonius Finn, Imperial Scholar

III. Stendarrite Virtue: Charity

‘So I said to him, “Never refuse aid you when you are able to for is not Our grace within your hearts?”’ ~ Stendarr’s Light I:XVI
Caritas or charity is the prime virtue in the domain of the God of Compassion and Charity in which, serving all whether they be Man, Mer, living, dead, or even Daedra, is considered to the prime component in the devotion of Stendarr’s teachings. As a theological virtue, Caritas is held up so, because it is said that Caritas is the ultimate expression of Stendarr and by extension, the Nine’s love and grace for all of creations. Caritas in more practical terms is the performance of work without any expectation of personal benefit or reward, and it is a common theme in the many parables compiled in Stendarrite scriptures. Caritas in Stendarrite doctrine can be divided into two aspects, the Temporal and the Spiritual.
Temporal Caritas involves aid given in the physical and material sense for according to Stendarrite doctrine, all that is given is given by the will of the Divines whether they be a gift of wealth or a healthy, physical body. As such to withhold such gifts is to unjustly hoard them, which to Stendarrites, is an offence to Stendarr himself for worldly gifts are but a tool to teach mortals the grace of the Divines. Temporal Caritas manifest themselves through acts of good works such as labour in community kitchens and rearings, through the donations of money and supplies to the needy, or if possible, military or medica services. Temporal Caritas also manifests itself through smaller acts like helping a friend or family member and opening a door for another.
In the writings of Stendarr’s Light and the Testaments of Stendarr, it is the endeavour of every adherent of the faith to attract the unfaithful into the light of Stendarr. However, proselytism is forbidden in Stendarrite Doctrine as it violates Omnes Fidea, Stendarr’s tenet that holds that all are already within the grace and protection of Stendarr. Thus, to combat this contradiction, Stendarrites practice Spiritual Caritas, the demonstration of the spiritual grace of the Divines through the actions of the devotees. As such, Stendarrites are commanded to love the loveless, the forgotten, and the shunned. From beggar to king, from warrior to leper, from saint to sinner, Stendarrites must provide aid when asked with no mark of discrimination if such aid provided will bring no harm to another. Consequently, this means that during the communal meals of a Stendarrite Church, it is not uncommon to count not only Stendarrites but also worshippers of Daedra and of the Wild Gods in their ranks for if they hunger, the faithful must provide.
…Vigilant Stendarrism, like its orthodox counterpart holds Caritas to its highest regard as commanded by the first of Stendarr’s Precepts. Vigilant Stendarrites however go further than acts of charity or healing. As previously mentioned, Vigilant Stendarrites espouse Praeveni-Impetum, which demands that adherents to the faith must actively prevent harm against an innocent and should this action be an act of violence which would condemn their eternal souls, then so be it. This in-grained culture of martyrdom, enforced by the adoption of the Song of the Faithful as a canonised scripture have given Vigilant Stendarrites a reputation of suicidal tendencies. To simplify, Vigilant Stendarrites will willingly commit acts of sin that will either tarnish their souls or lead to their deaths do so not for a divine reward, but because they believe it is the right thing to do to help their fellow man, so to speak.
~ Excerpt from Cults and Religions of Tamriel by Thelonius Finn, Imperial Scholar

IV. Letter from Korir Kovirsson to the Guild-Master of the Imperial Guild of Bankers

Guild-Master Garibaldi,
I have done as requested and with the gracious assistance of Jarl Hrafnar and his court, have finished my full assessment of the economic status and capabilities of Morthal. A full, detailed report can be found attached to this letter but in any case, I shall speak of the key points of the report.
Morthal is a city with a population of an approximate 10,000 inhabitants. The population subsists on a staple of cabbage, catfish, carrots, cucumbers, clams, cranberries, crabs, flounders, mullets, mussels, oysters, roots, rice, and rye, most of these they do not export. Meat and cheeses are rare and considered a luxury in Morthal with supplies of the commodity being imported from the neighbouring Holds, in particular Solitude and Whiterun Hold.
Morthal is kept in existence through its exports of raw goods such as clay, herbs, furs, lichens, lumber, mushrooms, salt, peat, pitch, reeds, and resins. Historically, Morthal and Hjaalmarch boasted many iron mines but most of these mines have dried up by the onset of 4E, leaving only a handful of mines, a large number of which are owned by the various mining clans and guilds of Solitude. Though Morthal and the surrounding land are highly undeveloped as a result of the settlement’s geographical conditions, Morthal does have a significant, though small industrial base. In terms of processed goods, Morthal exports dyes, fibres, leathers, medicines, and potteries.
Other than resources, Morthal also features a seasonal adventurer economy. Every now and then when another hidden passage in the Labyrinthian is discovered, or the Drajkmyr Marsh spitting out a long-forgotten ruin, hordes of adventurers from all over Tamriel would flock to the city, greatly stimulating commerce. During these short periods, usually months at a time, archaeological goods, both of magical and non-magical nature would flood the market but because of the diligent work of our brothers of the Imperial Mint, the Nine bless them, we need not worry of the inflation of the Septim.
However, barring the importation of provisions and common building resources, Morthal buys very little from beyond its borders. This trade deficit for importers have traditionally made Morthal a largely unpopular target for foreign investors, and as a consequence, stagnated the economy. While this may make Morthal seem like a fruitless venture on our part, I must note that I was not alone in the delegation to Jarl Hrafnar. Whilst here, I was accosted by representatives of Clan Goldbane, the Ricavicci Bank, and the Free Gildsmen of the Bankers of Skyrim.
Guild-Master, act as you see fit with the information, I’ve given you here. But as Chief Auditor, I must ask you to strongly consider opening a branch in Morthal. Through my courting with Jarl Hrafnar, the Jarl hinted an interest in revitalising the economy of his Hold and to the banker who would finance such a project, the returns, both materially and politically, would be highly desirable for our cause.
May Zenithar smile upon our endeavours,
Korir Kovirsson
~ From a letter by Korir Kovirsson, Chief Auditor to Saffirio Garibaldi, Guild-Master of the Imperial Guild of Bankers

V. The State of Banking in Skyrim

The Oblivion Crisis did more than putting an end to a dynasty that has ruled Tamriel for almost half a millennium. In addition, the Crisis has also liquidated valuable economic infrastructure and assets such as roads, production and processing facilities, trade routes, and banks, the consequences which, are still felt to this day. While most of Tamriel have recovered under the reign of House Mede, the assets of the northern province of Skyrim, with special regards to its banks, have not. To fully understand the peculiarities of the vulnerabilities and opportunities of the northern province, one has to understand the economic and financial history of Skyrim, and the implications brought about by Economic Decree DCLXXIII.
Firstly, it must be understood that unlike the centralised governance of Morrowind and Cyrodiil, Skyrim’s provincial governance is largely decentralised and the chief governor, so called, High King or Queen, are internally elected as opposed to directly chosen by the Imperial Throne. Implicatively, centralised or collective state apparatus like a Provincial Bank have found great difficulty in finding support from the independent minded Nord population of Skyrim, who instead of tying themselves with the central authority of the province, the High King, see themselves more subordinate with the local Comites or as they call them, the ‘Jarls’. Thus, where in other instances of fiscal institutions are born onto the interest of the provincial or imperial state, the Nord institutions, both economic and non-economic are borne in the interest of defending the decentralised political entity.
This disparity can be observed and contrasted between he banking Families of Cyrodiil and the banking Clans of Skyrim. In Cyrodiil, the Banking Families are governed under the legislative decree of the Guild Act of 2E 321 which stipulates that in exchange for levies, guilds, which includes the banking guilds, shall not only be given Imperial protection but also ‘official encouragement’ or to be more specific, financial incentives like favourable loans from the Imperial Mint and tax rebates. This policy, still enforced by House Mede today, has blossomed a symbiotic relationship between the Imperial Throne and the Banking Families, see that upholding the Imperial Prosperity is to their best interest. This is not so with the Banking Clans of Skyrim.
Economic Decree DCLXXIII of 3E 81 – 3E 112, enacted by Emperor Pelagius Septim II saw the relaxation of the taxation and levy requirements of the Guild Act of 2E 321. This in turn led to the creation of many smaller guilds, most relevantly the Banking Clans of Skyrim who saw the decree as an economic gateway to the economically developed province of Cyrodiil. While the decree has helped bring upon great wealth to Emperor Pelagius Septim II by virtue of sheer volume of payees, these Clans, by way of the ancestor clause when Economic Decree DCLXXIII was repealed in 3E 112, have developed a strong sense of independence and centralisation-avoidant policies, which was enforced by attempts of asset confiscation by High King Rolof the Poor, rendering any further attempts to centralise the Banking Clans to be met with hostility.
~ Excerpt from The State of Banking in Skyrim by Korir Kovirsson, collected in the Imperial Archives

VI. Introduction to Free Companies

When adventurer or mercenary parties become large enough, typically when they grow to at least ten standing members, these parties by legal definition are classed as free companies. So, what is a free company? Are they a mercenary army? This is a complicated answer which this Chapter shall delve into but to make a long story short, free companies are legally, not an and cannot be an army.
All of this can be traced back to the great Potentate, Versidue-Shaie, our predecessors, the Syffim, and the very founding of the Fighter’s Guild.
In 1E 2920, Potentate Versidue-Shaie, seeking to dissolve volatile elements of the empire such as the private armies of merchant or feudal lords, ratified the Cervant Truce, which detailing that any standing army that is not the Imperial Legion will be declared renegades and as such, subjected to termination. However, the Potentate was a clever steward as he realised that the citizens of Tamriel will always have a need for protective services that the Legion could not provide and that former soldiers, if deprived of work often turned to banditry. Initially, these soldiers would be recruited in the all-Tsaesci unit known as the Syffim, who primarily serve as gendarmeries, providing support for law enforcement, and this was to be for the first three centuries of the 2^nd Era until Potentate Versidue-Shaie decreed the Guild Act of 2E 321.
The Guild Act codified the practice of guilds all over Tamriel, one of which was the Fighter’s Guild. The Fighter’s Guild (Whose full details may be gleamed in the History of the Fighters Guild), who were descendants of the Syffim with the expressed purpose to quote our charter:
‘The Guild of Fighters provides employment to free-swords and mercenaries and contracts to local citizens. Citizens may contract with the Guild for the removal of creatures and pests, the delivery of goods on dangerous routes, the collection of beasts for the arenas, and other duties defined by the Guild Stewards.’
This means that though while our numbers may at its largest be comparable to a single Legion, free companies such as we are not allowed to fight in wars. We are, as per our charter, protectors of the peace. And yes, sometimes to protect that peace, we may be hired to serve as auxiliaries to the Legion but we are fundamentally and legally speaking, not an army and may never serve as an army.
~ Excerpt from On Soldiers of Fortune: A Beginner’s Guide to Mercenaries, Chapter III: Introduction to Free Companies, by Miles Soldator, Loremaster of the Fighter’s Guild

VII. Alchemy of Two Natures

To the common man, all ingredients have magical properties. Ergo, all potions, poisons, tinctures, and salves are all magical in nature. This is bullsh*t. Specifically, this is bullsh*t endorsed and propagated by the egocentric charlatans of the Mages Guild. While there is a kernel of fact in this over emphasis on the importance of magic in our daily lives, the truth as it always is, is more complicated.
Every true Alchemist knows works of alchemy like the sun and moon are not of one but of two natures: the magical and the alchemical.
Brews of magical nature are brews imbued with both magic and operate on the magical virtues of the ingredients. These brews can be as complicated as operating an archaic Ayleid alembic within the centre of a runed room while mumbling some ancient Chimer spells or they can be as simple as mixing two bottles together under the light of the twin moons. Due to the incessant misconceptions spread by unqualified heads of the Mages Guild, alchemical brews of the magical are held up as the highest achievements of the Alchemical Sciences but that is strictly not true. Magical potions are just that – a means to an end.
Alchemical brews however are brews made through and work by mundane means. Most alchemical creations are of this nature and any respectable alchemist – from a humble shepherd mixing remedies for his flock with a pestle and mortar in a hovel to a learned scholar preparing an elixir for a king with all manners of advanced stills are no stronger to these methodologies.
To be clear, I am not calling for a condemnation of magical brews and the praise of mundane creations. Quite the contrary. What I am doing is to demystify the misconception that all potions are magical in nature and that in truth, the greatest of potions are not of one but of both natures.
But first, I shall digress and speak of Jarrinus Rarus, or the less learned of you, the Jarrin plant of Stros M’kai. Impossible to grow outside its endemic zone, which if we recall our collaboration with Arch-Horticulturist Ivuloth, the Jarrin, easily recognised for its dark red leaves and clay brown roots, killed the Arch-Horticulturist because unlike we at the Guild of Alchemist, the Guild of Horticulturist has not carved in stone the habit of washing your hands thoroughly with soap before you eat. We are of learned people, and so I need not remind everyone of the dangers of the Jarrin. I will however remind everyone that the Arch-Horticulturist was found curled up in his office with bloody vomit and stool covering his room. Remember that.
But why do I speak of the Jarrin? For all the deadly properties of the plant, especially of its roots, the Jarrin plant is a most necessary ingredient in the brewing of a miracle elixir known by many names such as the Panacea, the Aedric Tonic, and most popularly, Katariah’s Relief.
In 3E 163, assassins of the Dark Brotherhood made their attempts on Empress Katariah I and her son, the future Emperor Cassynder Septim I. The Empress herself was unharmed but future emperor was struck with a dart imbued with Sithis’ Kiss, whose exact components I might add, remain a mystery to this day. Immediately, the young future emperor fell into death’s door, his body became rigid as dark blood poured from every orifice of his body. The young future emperor had less than a few hours to live and no healer in the Empire dared step up lest they incur the wrath of failing the Empress. All of course, except Grand Imperial Alchemist Razashi.
I will make no attempts to deny that Grand Imperial Alchemist Razashi was a lunatic. Before accomplishing this impossible task that earned her title, Razashi had tried and failed to invent exploding ‘miracle powder’, a health tonic that didn’t involve the most necessary component of lead, and some other balderdash involving heating milk to ‘make it safe to drink’ or whatever her moon sugar addled mind meant. As to make my point clear, right before her chance meeting with the Empress, half of Razashi’s face was left a sagging, drooling mess because of her fervent experimentation with the Jarrin!
Lunacy I say but the Empress was desperate and Katariah’s Relief had an additional name, the ‘Razashi’s Superb Miracle All-Cure Magical Tincture’, for a reason.
I shall not go into the entire development of Katariah’s Relief for even if I were to be brief, I would be speaking from now till lunch on Fredas, thus I shall only speak to the point. The key ingredient for the elixir lies in the Jarrin plant. It is a compound so minute that it ought not to exist; Razatin, through the Razash Process, both named so in honour of their founder and creator, Razashi herself. The Razash Process is a distillation process involving a Dwemer Column Still, two stones worth of crushed Jarrin root, four barrels of alcohol solvents, Falmer frost runes, and the light of the twin moons shining through a focal point, and the end result is this.
This phial, held between my fingers is the end result of the process. It contains a drop. One drop of of Razatin, the key component of the Aedric Tonic. All possible with the marriage of Alchemical and Magical sciences, thus earning the prestige and patronage our guild has enjoyed for centuries.
~ Speech titled ‘Alchemy of Two Natures,’ by Head Alchemist Cerritus Liberus of the Alchemist’s Guild during the LXXIX Gathering of the Learned, scribed by Anora Stylus of the Brotherhood of Scribes

VIII. Interview with a Woodcutter

Transcribed by a fellow of the Historian-Errants as part of the project to record the voices of the people of Tamriel.
Woooaaahh! Why is that quill moving on its own? Some kind of sorcery? It is? Oh, I see, it only moves when I talk. Hmm, I see. I hope you’re right. So where do I start? My name, yes? Alright.
Let’s see here. They call me Brant, son of Brant. All the firstborn sons of me clan be called Brant. We came from High Rock, see? We have Breton blood, see? But we don’t do no magic, never could but that’s maybe why we ran from High Rock to Skyrim! Ha ha! Ever since coming here to Falkreath, the clan be working on the mill. See this axe here? This axe be the very axe me ancestor be carrying when they came into Skyrim and every father be giving this axe to their son – when me back finally don’t work or if I’m too ill, me boy will be the one to hold this axe and then his boy and his boy. It’s a long and proud tradition, see? Life is hard out here but by the Nine we be honest, hardy folk. See these arms? They be Nord arms – built for honest work.
What do I hope for? A lot things but who doesn’t? Today, I hope Gilda puts extra fish in me soup. Tomorrow, I hope me back doesn’t give out when I find the finest tree me axe has ever tasted. The day after, I hope the wolves don’t come for me. The day after that, I hope me boy can find himself a nice girl and that the Gods give him strong sons. A lot of things, see? But who doesn’t? You townies are a funny people, see? Always asking strange questions.
What do I mean? What do you mean what do I mean? You look clever, do I really have to explain? Oh? Sorry then. Where was I?
What I meant was that we always want something every time. I mean right now you sitting here want me to talk, yes? But what happens after? After I talk, maybe you want to have a drink or food. After that you want to sleep. When you sleep, you want to have nice dreams. That’s what I mean, we always want something but you townies always have to make things difficult. We here are country folk – we be simple folk. We know what is important – what’s happening now, see? We don’t think too hard on what will happen next week or even tomorrow because why should we? Because maybe right now I’m talking to you, lightning strikes and kills me. I’ll knock on wood. Where was I? Oh, yes, if I die right now why should tomorrow matter? Skyrim is dangerous, I lost me brother that way. He went out fishing, didn’t come back that night. I’m not special, see, because we country folk know this. So why worry about tomorrow when we can live for today?
It's not that I don’t like you townies, it’s that you townies don’t like us. Say the other day, there was this clever man, see, and he came here asking for Ruki Grass. Said he wanted it to make some healing potion. But when the townie came here, he kept calling it, what’s the word? Oi, Bori. What that townie call the Ruki Grass? Something Sim-bon Sirus? Something but you understand what I mean. We kept telling him that we have Ruki Grass – that thing grow everywhere and we do use it for medicine. We use it for the sheep when they get the gas and all but the townie won’t listen, even when we wave the stuff in his face. We know that the townie hasn’t even seen Ruki Grass in his life and we try to help but do you know what he went and done? He just packed his things and left without saying his goodbyes.
The point I’m trying to say is you townies always looked down on us country folk. They think us stupid because we can’t read. Yes, we can’t read but that doesn’t mean we’re stupid – just different, you see? Yes, I can’t read but reading don’t get you no bread out here in the wild. You want to eat out here, you don’t go around reading books to people unless you’re a priest or a taxman, and we don’t like no taxman – nobody likes the taxman, yes?
Alright, here’s what I mean. You listening, yes? See this axe? Do you know how to cut a tree? No, I don’t think so. It’s too dark for me to show you and I don’t think you can really explain it in your book if I did anyway, so I’ll keep it easy for you to understand.
There’s more to cutting a tree than just swinging your axe like a maniac, see? You need to stand proper; I’ll stand up and show you. Just like this, see? When you swing, you need to use your legs and your waist, and you have to make sure your axe hits where you want it to hit. Where do I hit? That depends on what tree I’m cutting. Out here in Falkreath, its usually spruce or pine, and I hit about me waist. If I do have to cut birch though, I go near me shin. What? The biggest tree I’ve cut? Oh, that be an oak. It was be in Harvest’s End, about forty winters ago when I was a wee lad. That’s how I got me axe and me wife, see?
Is that everything you want to ask? Oh, okay. If you want to have a talk, me and the lads would be most welcome to help, see? Hah! There you go with that townie nonsense again, keep your coin, friend. Come, let me buy you a drink and food, eh? You just promise to make me look good in that book. Let everyone know that Brant, son of Brant know how to be a good host.
~ Interview from The People of Skyrim, collected by The Historian-Errants

IX. Old and New Markarth

One can only imagine my surprise upon learning that Markarth, the ancient City of Stone that lorded over the province of the Reach is not of one city but of two: Old and New. But of course, for reasons of bureaucratic indolence, the two Markarths are conflated into one, just walking through the streets of either would make their distinctions very clear.
Appropriated from the surface districts of Nchuand-Zel, a city of the Dwarves, Old Markarth is what almost every think of when they hear the name ‘Markarth’. Need I elaborate more on the subject that has not been said by the thousands upon thousands of scholars, chroniclers, bards, and travellers? Old Markarth is nonetheless a truly impressive specimen – a testament on the durability of civilisation that despite the millennia of bloodshed staining the stones, and their residents boring holes and all but vandalising the work of the Dwarves, Old Markarth with its grey walls and flagstone paths is not one to be missed. That is not to say New Markarth is not without its own charms.
Built outside the high Dwarven Walls that defend the Old Markath’s eastern flanks, New Markarth, also known by less-than-flattering aliases such the ‘Grunge’ or the ‘Barnacle’, is the logical conclusion of an ever-growing city. Most other settlements like Solitude, or Wayrest, or the very heart of the Empire, the Imperial City are no strangers to just tear down or extending the walls when the city expands but this is not so for Markarth for the architects of the City of Stone are long dead and the builders of today, while brilliant, have yet to match the genius of our forebearers.
While Old Markarth is of standard Dwarven make, whatever renovations made by their current tenants resembling a combination of ants and vandals, New Markarth very much resembles the quintessential Nord settlement. Brick, lumber, wattle, and stone are popular as so are the high pine-shingled or thatched roofs. The roads of New Markarth are a mix of dirt and gravel, and of set cobblestones.
I will, before anyone falls to the implied misconception, deny that Old Markarth, the admittedly renowned of two, is exclusively home to the aristocratic and wealthy elites of Markarth, and that New Markarth are the slum residencies for the poor. This is nothing further from the truth. I will not shy away from the fortunes afforded to my birth to admit that during my stay in Markarth, I found lodging in the Left-Hand District – a perfectly respectable quarter if I do say so myself. At the same time, I avoided with the fear of a reasonable man the dark and cramped streets of Riverside of Old Markarth, never mind the worrisome rumours of a supposedly secret subterranean district known as the Warrens.
~ Excerpt from Walking the Paths: My Travels in Tamriel, Vol. 2 by Urbano de Kvatchi

Song of the Faithful: Just a Formality - TV_Delta (2024)

Chapter 1: Just a Formality I

Notes:

Chapter Text

Notes:

Chapter 2: The Vigilants of Stendarr I

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: The Vigilants of Stendarr II

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: The Vigilants of Stendarr III

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: The Vigilants of Stendarr IV

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: The Vigilants of Stendarr V

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: The Vigilants of Stendarr VI

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: The Vigilants of Stendarr VII

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Just a Formality II

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Blood and Silver I

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Blood and Silver II

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Blood and Silver III

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Blood and Silver IV

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Blood and Silver V

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Blood and Silver VI

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Blood and Silver VII

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: Blood and Silver VIII

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: Blood and Silver IX

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Blood and Silver X

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: Blood and Silver XI

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: Blood and Silver XII

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: Blood and Silver XIII

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: Blood and Silver XIV

Chapter Text

Chapter 24: Blood and Silver XV

Chapter Text

Chapter 25: -Appendix-

Summary:

Chapter Text

Chapter 26: Appendix I: Codex Vigilas: Bestiary

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 27: Appendix II: Codex Vigilas: Locations

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 28: Appendix III: Codex Vigilas: Treatise de Percussionis

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 29: Appendix IV: Codex Vigilas: Recipes

Chapter Text

Chapter 30: Appendix V: Miscellaneous

Notes:

Chapter Text

References