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An Evening in Anvil
12 Midyear





It was quiet. Too quiet.

As if the people of Anvil had hurried to bed. Barred their doors and bunkered down to hide from the bright moon that bore down like a giant eye watching every winding path, glaring at each shelter, each slope of a roof that cast a safe shadow to escape it.

The streets were all but empty save for one gentleman, Gionato, who staggered away from a broken window. His wallet heavier, and his pocket-knife slick with blood, he pulled his hood over his head, pulling the drawstring tight around his collarbone as he kept to the darkness and away from the pale.

He should have worried less about the light.

Behind him, a shape that he did not detect - moved near silently, slowly, stalking - a predator. A claw like hand twitched at blood that dripped from the blade of his knife as he scurried faster still through the night.

He thought he was safe.

Gionato knew about the killings. The first had been Maebh, a Nord woman who worked at the docks. The second an older man named Alastare, who, according to many, was just an old pervert. A seamstress and a barkeep. Finally, the third had been a guardsman - his body washed up on the shore all bloated and grey.

Those three weren't him though, besides, he could handle himself. By tomorrow morning, the death and robbery of Lucius Vedori would also be attributed to this other killer.

Gionato, as well as being a petty criminal turned murdering thug, was simply criminally stupid.

He turned the key to his front door, hearing it open with a click. It wasn't until he arrived home that the thrill of his kill hit him, and his hands began to shake - a fear set in that mixed with pride and excitement - his belly hungry for more of it as he finally felt the stickiness of blood across his shirt, under his fingernails, on his chin, his cheek.

As he made his way in, his mouth formed a rictus grin in the shadows. He kneeled down at his hearth, the silent light of the moon trickling through the window, a gap in a makeshift curtain, enough for him to find a flint and some kindling. After a moment or two, his hearth was filling with a small and crackling flame, and he began to calm from the adreneline. He placed the bloody knife beside him, and began to peel off his shirt - a thought that it would burn up quickly on the flames.

“Hello,” came a smooth, clear voice from behind him.

He turned around, faster than a startled doe at the sound of a twig snapping. There. In the corner. A figure, on his chair.

The light wasn’t enough to show a face -- but she was distinctively feminine, at least the voice was. “Wh-who goes there?” he stammered out, taking hold of the poker with his clammy grip.

He sensed the stranger stand up, and as the fire grew greater he began to make out a shape. Tall, a slender waist, and long hair the colour of the moonlight. He swallowed down and realised he had nowhere to go. He was too frightened to stand. “I-I-I have children… You know that… I have children…” he pleaded, brow sweating profusely. In the flickering light of the fire he finally made out her face. Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn’t been this.

She closed the distance between herself and Gionato.

He swore that he heard the glint of her blade as the moonlight struck it. That was the last thing he heard, before she smiled peacefully at him, after that, only true darkness.
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Hidden 1 yr ago Post by spicykvnt
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The Dancing Donkey Inn, Anvil
13 Midyear, 5:46




"Yeah I heard about Lucius. Found the poor fuck with more'n twenny stab wounds, his house a right rotten mess too."

"Another one..."


"Something like that, seems to be gettin' out of hand now. Guards are meant to protect us and now the killings are happnin in our homes!"

"An outrage..."


"You're wrong."


"And who asked you?"

"I'm just saying-"


"No-one fuckin' asked!"

"Yeah, no one..."


"When you talk as loud as you fetchers do, you invite the entire inn to your conversation."


"Alright then, tell me why I'm so wrong?"

"Lucius was stabbed. Many times, as you recount."


"Yeah. Stabbed dead as a doornail."

"Yeah, twenty times."


"Actually it was six, exactly."


"You calling me a liar?"

"No. Perhaps your ears are dirty, anyway -"


"Fuck this, and fuck off Greyskin."

"...Sorry about him."


"Don't be."








Uriel was sat in earshot of the tense conversation, but just far enough away that he didn't draw attention - not even from the Dunmer who had proven himself to be astute; or at least a good listener. He was right, Lucius had suffered exactly six stab wounds. Upper arm, chest, twice in the shoulder, once in the belly, and a final in the neck. He wondered too if the Dunmer was aware of the second body they'd found that day - of Gionato, another dockhand who had been found with a Vedori heirloom in his jacket.

He surmised that the Dunmer could recall that the other bodies had all been found to have been killed by a blunt-force trauma.

Uriel knew that the Dunmer wouldn't know that each body had been exsanguinated. That was known by only the guards and a local healer they employed to examine the bodies. It was clear as crystal that Gionato had murdered Lucius, but then had found himself in trouble.

As Uriel drank from his glass, he looked around the place. He wasn't on duty tonight, and so he slouched over the bar, his golden eyes tracking the movements of the barkeep, finding that he liked the sight of the flash of skin of his chest where his shirt was unbuttoned just so.

He kept that lonely feeling of longing to himself.

The vision in front of him became the bottom of his glass again - empty, and the barkeep approached.

"Need a top up, Uriel?" he asked with a friendly smile.

Uriel just pushed the glass closer to him, a slight nod, "sure."

He waited until the barkeep was tending to someone else before he looked back up and let out the breath he had been holding.




Outside of the Inn, the sun was setting - early, for a summer night, and unusual.

Across the darkening Gold Coast, the umber burning sunset made way for an ill wind to begin to howl.

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Hidden 1 yr ago Post by Penny
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There were days when the mask of Granuaile Greenbow weighed heavily. Night's like tonight, when fear and unease lay heavily across the people of Anvil, the instincts of a destructionist tingled in her fingertips. Magicka hung ready to be shaped to her will. Idly she imagined the way she would ignite one of the thatched huts in a pillar of flame, planned exactly how she would fan the flames with mystic wind to send a holocaust of fire sweeping down the alley to incinerate her enemies. With trivial effort she could sweep from here to the ocean in a storm of fire that would...

"Mademoiselle Greenbow?" the young woman asked nervously. Granuaile blinked the vision of flames from her eyes. By Dibella, what had her face looked like just then? Judging by the shocked look on the teenagers face it wasn't in keeping with the persona of a simple healer. She smoothed the stiff planes of her face into something that approximated a smile.

"Sorry, I was thinking of home," she apologized. The thought of two Nord bravos, charred and smoking on the floor where they fell, wasn't that much better but the girl, eager to be reassured, nodded with knowing sympathy that was wholly false in most people as young as she was.

"How much for this one?" the young woman asked, sliding a small copper bracelet set with beads of polished glass across the counter. It had a minor enchantment laid upon it that would make the girl seem more desirable to her intended partner. That was all people wanted, charms to please their beaus and potions to restore their waning vigor. It upsets an artist's soul to peddle such trash.

"Thirty septims," Granuaile told her and the girl hastily pushed a handful of coins across the battered wooden countertop. Granuaile swept the coins into her belt pouch and forced her face into an approximation of a matronly smile. The girl snatched up her trinket and hurried out of the store. Granuaile gave her a moment and then crossed and closed the door. Her small shop was not much to look at. A single counter, a few shelves, some basic equipment in the backroom for enchanting and alchemy. Even the poorest thief would find little worth the effort. In the six months she had been in Anvil posing, or hiding to give a thing its proper name, as a seller of potions and simple magics, she had seen little point in investing in herself. Sighing, she collected her cloak and stepped outside, locking the door with a large brass key as she went. She needed a drink and who knows? Maybe this killer would try his luck and she could get a whiff of that delicious burned pork smell after all? Chuckling to herself, she headed for the Dancing Donkey.

It was with a faint sense of disappointment that she made it to the inn without being molested, for all an overt show of force would have exposed her as more than a simple healer. Still if she had burned down half the town, they probably wouldn’t have been able to fix her that stew she liked.
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Hidden 1 yr ago Post by BornOnBoard
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Dereno sat, legs folded in, his hands between his legs, forming a triangle with his calloused, wizened fingers. He eyes were closed, and his breathing so slight as to be almost unnoticeable. It was an unnervingly corpse-like position, the wizened dunmer looking like the mummified corpses of his homeland’s burial mounds, but in truth he was meditating, his mind far off inside itself.

It was a favorite focus of his; alone was he, with a great chunk of vantablack ebony. Rasp in hand, he would file on the material, whatever shape it took, grinding away the unneeded excess. Dust covered the floor of this solemn workshop, in the interior of his mind, black, glossy, and irritating to the skin.

The goal was to shape the lump of material into a blade, but it was also to force the mind to carry out every laborious step, every process, to feel every ache in the hand and hear every scrape of the rasp’s steel. You also had to remember the shape the lump of ebony was in after you were finished, and start from that shape the next session. Over a lifetime of sessions, the mental exercise was said to be honed to perfection when a polished, sharp blade had been ground from the ebony.

The mind, see, did not operate the way the physical, the Mundis space did - it could skip ahead, visualize ideals, gloss over certain things and hyperfixate on others. Forcing it to aadhere to the laborious physical was the ultimate test of willpower. Dereno was proud that he could, after 250 years of practice, keep the exercise up long enough to have ground the lump of ebony into a shape resembling a blade - vaguely. If you squinted. It was not honed, nor carved, nor adorned, but you could pick it up in two hands, even swing it. He traced a few clumsy cuts into the air, the filed bar of ebony whooshing instead of swishing like a sword truly would, but pride in his progress surged through him. He would yet make a killing edge - he was sure of it.

Keys jingled somewhere far in the distance. Dereno, in his mindscape, placed the ebony bar onto his work table, and opened the door -

- snapping awake to the Mundis.

He was in a holding cell in the Anvil guard barracks. He stood up from his full lotus pose, stretching his arms over his head. A chorus of satisfying pops accompanied this action. A guard, wearing the Anvil red brigandine, fumbled with a keyring at the cell door, the act that had awoken him from his meditation.

“Apologies sir, for the incarceration.” The guard said, his voice resonant and deep, “There’s been an investigation to your case, and it appears everything was as you said.”

Dereno shrugged. “I had no reason to lie, but I understand. My compliance was, I hope you understand, purely voluntary.”

The guardsman looked at the Dunmer, preparing to give an admonishing speech about the importance of rule of law, but he’d seen the state Mastdar Dereno had left his attempted muggers in. The old mer had been set upon by three thugs, out of an independent trader called the Tiber, two armed with daggers, one with a short stabbing sword. With only a staff, Dereno had clobbered the three of them, two cracked skulls, a broken hand, and a crushed windpipe. All three had been dumped in the barrack’s apothecarium, where they were now groaning in pain and awaiting sentencing.

There was no bravado in the ancient dunmer, no desire to inflate his ego. On sober reflection, the guard did believe that Dereno would have no trouble walking out of the Anvil guard barracks on his own terms, and decided to be candid with the old mer.

“It’s just… six killings sir. With blunt force to the head. Y’didn’t kill ‘em, y’muggers I mean, but you came damned close, and…” The guardsman opened the cell door, and stood aside. “In any case, the blows your staff laid on ‘em didn’t match the wounds on the victims we’ve been havin’, so that’s what sprung you.

Dereno nodded. Had he been an ordinator in the guardsman’s position, he’d do the exact same, inconvenient as it was.

“I’m free to go, then?” Dereno asked.

The guardsman shook his head. “No, no, y’ve t’sign for yer possessions, sir, unless you want to put ‘em up for auction.”

Dereno shook his head. “No no, I’m quite fond of my staff. Lead the way.”

A brief stop at the office, and Dereno was a free mer, standing on the cobblestones of an Anvil gearing up for the night. Tradesmen and shopkeepers were locking doors and sailors were filing into the taverns. Dereno tapped his staff, a stout piece of hardwood, around four feet in length and capped with steel, against the street and looked up at the stars, his face screwed up in thought. Where was the nearest tavern? Someplace not too rowdy, but not too classy either - the dunmer wished to listen to lively conversation.

The Dancing Donkey was fairly close, he remembered. A nice place. Cheap ale, and nobody minded if you smoked a little Heckle-Lo leaf in a corner. He nodded, stepping towards an alleyway and stopped. His wizened face broke into a sardonic grin. No, no, alleyways wouldn’t do, unless another trio of thugs were to grace the guardsman’s sick bay. He would take the main streets for his time’s sake, and for the wellbeing of Anvil’s criminal element.

He walked, leaning on his staff, his free arm folded inside his mud-brown robes. He nodded at the blacksmith as he passed, a dour Nord he couldn’t quite remember the name of, and soon reached the tavern. He pushed the doors open and sat down at the closest table he could find, the inviting warmth of the Dancing Donkey washing over him. The doors swung shut behind, swinging ever so slightly behind him as the killing moon began to rise over the seaside town.
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Hidden 1 yr ago 1 yr ago Post by POOHEAD189
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Life was full of ironies.

Even after these past years, he still marveled at how his youth had been spent fretting over Imperialist occupation of his homeland, and here he was, a Nord in the very heart of Imperial land as one of those 'foreigners.' What's more, he earnestly cared about the people of this town. The men and women who just lived their lives and tried to make a living, and it filled him with contempt and anger that someone was killing them. Something he would have done himself once, with very little thought to it to boot.

Yes, ironies and dark thoughts. He was no stranger to such musings, but they plagued him particularly poorly this day. It was a sure sign he had been working too much. It was a sign he needed a bloody drink.

Hakon stepped into the tavern, his face lined from working the bellows. He hadn't even noticed the early setting of the sun. He felt tired enough for it to be night, and it set much like when it might back in Rorikstead. The warmth of the torches felt nice, and a familiar face he saw brought a laugh to him. Down the first three steps into the common room to the left of the main body sat an Orc, Thurgred. The green, brawny Orc had scavenged a small meal at a table for four, but as usual he saw Hakon before the Nord had even announced his presence, turning around to give him a smile that showed his tusks.

"You started without me," Hakon said, patting his friend and pulling out a seat just next to him, the chairs grating along the floor.

"Do you see a drink in my hand? I wouldn't grab any grog before the prince of the north arrived." Thurgred remarked with his grating voice. The ribs he had on his plate were cleaned almost as thoroughly as if a dog had taken to them. Hakon politely called for the passing waitress to bring them two mugs of mead, and more ribs. She was a familiar face and Hakon gave her a smile in thanks as she sauntered off.

Thurgred and Hakon began to speak of their day, making the occasional joke or jibe. It wasn't obvious, but Orcs and Nords tended to get on quite well when given the chance. Both had strong work ethics, abrasive senses of humor, and both cultures prized warriors and combat very highly. Hakon was a somewhat atypical Nord, but he found he acted more like his father when around Thurgred. After their drinks arrived, they both took a hearty swig and began to speak of more serious matters.

"You've taken time off your busy day to hear about the last killing?" Thurgred inquired.

"I have." Hakon said grimly, remaining silent for a moment. "They seem random to me, but they've all been men as I am. Still, I would keep your axe close." The Nord took the moment to turn his head to survey the crowd, and he spotted a few familiar faces. He spotted the healer step through the door. Granuile? He had only seen her in passing. The old Dereno had walked past him on the road, and now he sat down alone at a table. He had always liked him. And perhaps that was Uriel at the bar with his head down...

"Strange things abroad. Something about this night bodes ill." Thurgred said as Hakon turned back to him and finished his first drink. "I don't like it, Hakon."

"Well, it's early yet." Hakon told him. He meant nothing by it, but it felt like the tightening of a noose.
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Hidden 1 yr ago Post by Peik
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Andel had seen better days.

It had been two days since his arrival in Anvil, and yet his flesh and joints ached with the reminders of the journey, the experience of sitting hunched in a poorly fitted wagon moving across a long unpaved road having almost shaken the meat off his bones during the creaky ride. The poorly lit room was tiny and bare of any furnishings and smelled of the sour sweat of its previous occupants despite the open windows, the summer warmth and the windless skies having joined forces to make the circumstances even more unpalatable. Stripped of his clothes save his shirt and breeches, he lay on the bed, at this point only able to hope to cool down for he had already attempted everything else. As he lay still, he scoured in himself the energy to at the very least get up and perhaps jot down his latest impressions in his long-neglected journal, yet there seemed none to be found.

In what felt like mere seconds he found himself dozing off and was suddenly jolted awake by a primordial sort of fear, his body mistaking sleep for death perhaps, and in the following few moments he inferred from the shadows of the buildings outside the window that he’d been asleep for a few hours. He was parched. He would have yearned for a glass of iced Aalto of Third Era vintage had he thought that he could find -or afford- one, but he knew it not to be the case, and thus he yearned for simpler things, a glass of cold well-water, a cutlet, maybe some tobacco. He wiped the dewy sweat off his brow and reached for his purse, emptying its contents onto the nightstand beside his bed. He set apart three Septims -why they were still called Septims he did not know, there hadn’t been a Septim Emperor on them for the last hundred years- of gold and twenty of silver. No, not twenty. Nineteen. He picked up the stray coin with his two fingers and held it up so it could be better seen by candlelight.

Runic inscriptions. Aldmeri, perhaps? A Dominion coin? No. Too geometric, too clean. Dwemer. Sweet Zenithar. Vvardenfell mintage, maybe? No. Not as sophisticated. Reach, most likely. Maybe Hammerfell. Ten gold Septims, at least.

A sense of elation took over him, a sudden jolt of energy, electricity running in his veins. He slid his legs off the bed, reaching to grab his stockings and putting them on with practiced alacrity and then came his boots, crude and heavy, but at the very least, somewhat comfortable. He stood up and began reaching across the room to gather the items of his clothing, and in a manner of moments he was all clothed again, save his overcoat, for the heat was already nigh unbearable. All that was left was his sword belt, and he was good to go. He looked at it, draped across the sole chair in the room upon which his two swords sat. It too was worn after a delay, tightly buckled, for otherwise it could not bear its burden. He reached for the door, then remembered that he’d forgotten his purse, and after filling it back with the coins spilled upon the nightstand, save the Dwemer one which went in his breast pocket, he put it in his satchel and left his room.

One cramped hallway, one creaky staircase and one door later, he was finally outside to bask in the middling glory of the city of Anvil. The last two hundred years had not been kind to the city and for one who knew where to look it showed, with most its houses ramshackle and shoddily built and lacking architectural cohesion, its roads all bent and labyrinthine and paved unevenly, and the city walls patchwork, bearing the damage of the Great War still. In a hundred years the chaos would become part of the city’s aesthetic and add to it rather than subtract, Andel thought; for now it was all too recent to be anything other than an eyesore. He began walking to the town square, not knowing where exactly the market district or the local Synod lay, and as he walked a feeling of foreboding walked with him, growing more and more palpable as he passed through shadowy alleyway after another. At some moments, in narrow streets where the roofs were so close together that the sun barely shone through, this feeling grew so intense that his hand instinctively reached for his sword, but before it found reason to be grounded in reality, he reached the bustling openness of the town square and the feeling was gone.

A few greetings and a few questions later, he knew where to go. An enchanter, by the name of Cassia, was in the hobby of buying such trinkets, enchanting them, and selling them at a higher price. Had he known the subtleties of magic, Andel could have called it unfair, but as he stood he had no right to complain. He walked towards the Old Town, where the wider streets and wholesome even if unmaintained houses made of white stone and crowned with red tiles made for a more pleasant experience. He thought of Cheydinhal and its lush greenery, its black spires and the quiet flow of the Corbolo, and a yearning stung his soul for thinking of it and he turned right as per the directions given to him and upon finding the house with a tiny Akaviri statue on its lawn, walked up to the door and knocked. To his surprise, the hefty wooden door opened itself. “Come on in,” someone shouted from inside, their voice muffled as if it were being heard through a wall. “Upstairs! In the study!”

Andel walked in and lightly shut the door behind him, puzzled by the state of affairs and the amount of Dwemer oil lamps that lit the house for all the curtains were kept shut. Curiosity kept his head on a swivel, his gaze scanning over whatever of interest that he could see, but courtesy kept him from changing his course. He walked upstairs and crossed the hallway, passing by a few paintings, the fossilized remains of what seemed to be an aquatic lifeform and the skeleton of a bipedal creature, not unlike a troll but not quite a troll’s size, and finally reached the study. Inside was a waifish woman, her gaze fixated on a circular object about the size of an orange, shaped not unlike a mirror save the fact that it was pure black as if made of ebony. Andel reckoned it to be rude to interrupt and gazed around the room, which reminded him more of a cabinet of curiosities than a study. Amongst the oddities he saw were fossils, molluscs, bezoars real and imagined, an egg the size of his head coated in gold, and gems, a whole lot of gems, and a mandrake root dressed in doll’s clothing, and a prismatic piece of amber in which a faint silhouette could be seen, and crystal balls, and tomes, and a small terrarium in which a centipede the size of a python kept writhing and writhing. The ebony mirror that the woman was looking into suddenly grew red hot and began melting, setting the table on which it stood afire, leading the woman to grabbing a wall rug and wildly smacking the budding fires before coming to a halt. She turned, her hair a mess, and smiled with a glint in her eyes. “I wasn’t expecting that. I’m Cassia. Cassia Carantha.”

Suddenly, Andel wasn’t sure if this was worth the ten pieces of gold.

“Sir Andel Indarys, at your service, madam.”

Her eyes grew wider with excitement.

“A nobleman! Oh, how wonderful. Prithee, what has brought you to my humble abode?” She asked, her sudden shift for the archaic no doubt inspired by his title.

“I, ahem, I was told that you have an interest in oddities of historical value, and being in possession of such an item, figured that you would have more use for it than I.”

She smiled. “Why, yes, it’s true. I suppose you can tell from the room. And the house. What is it that you have for me, Sir Aristocratus?”

He reached inside his breast pocket and picked out the coin and reached his arm out to show it to the woman. “A coin. A Dwemer coin, I reckon. The inscriptions aren’t that far off from what I’ve seen.”

She walked closer, her brows momentarily rising upon the utterance of the name of the long-lost tribe. Hunching forward and squinting to see the coin better, she shifted the angle of her head to take a look at differing angles, and eventually stood back up. “Dwemer indeed. How’d you come upon this, may I ask?”

“Found it in my coinpurse. I figure that someone passed it onto me as change without realizing its provenance.”

Cassia smiled. “Not the first time I’ve heard a story like that. Such is often the case with antiques and curiosities. See this, for instance,” she said, tapping the glass prison of the giant centipede, “You’d think it to be no more than an overgrown insect, but it’s actually a Daedra.”

Andel didn’t respond.

“Well, Daedric fauna, rather. They say they used to be quite common in the years following the Oblivion Crisis, but these days… Not so much. Bought it off a bunch of kids who kept in a jar. Can you believe it? It can breathe fire, you know! Could’ve burnt them to a crisp! Would you like to see it?”

“No. I mean, I’m not sure if I have the time. Got a very tight schedule today, you see.”

“Oh, oh, I’m terribly sorry.” She seemed genuinely upset by her lack of manners. “But, yes. A coin. What exactly it is that you want of it? An appraisal? A determination of its precise origins? Its previous owner? An enchantment? A disenchantment?”

“I simply wanted to sell it, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, certainly,” she said, even though Andel was sure he could sense some second-hand disappointment in her voice, “Let me take a closer look and I can give you a price estimate.” She took the coin off his hand, the care she took against her hand touching his dealing a slight blow to his confidence, and placed it on the table on which the black mirror had melted and then procured a device from underneath the table, a rather unwieldy microscope, under whose lens the coin was placed and then thoroughly examined. “Hm. Hmm. Mhm,” she murmured to herself as she rotated the plate on which the coin lay. “Skyrim mintage. Had it been from Vvardenfell, I’d have said it to be your lucky day; but still, not bad. What were you expecting for this, hm?”

“I’m aware that it’s no Vvardenfell sample, but it’s Dwemer silver nonetheless. And, as a plus, it’s in good condition. I was hoping for something around twenty pieces of gold, maybe?”

Cassia turned her head back at Andel, her gaze different, almost predatory, eyeing something to be auctioned. His gaze met hers.

“Fifteen. This isn’t the Imperial City. Maybe if it were Kagrenac on the obverse.”

“…It would appear that we have an agreement.”



Andel could not help but notice how quickly time must have passed in the short amount of time that he’d spent in the enchantress’ house. The setting motion of the sun was not unappreciated by the Dunmer, who’d found his molestation by the heat quite intolerable, and now, stronger gusts brought a welcome chill to his flesh. He took the scenic route, not wishing to treat himself once more to the horrors of the choked alleyways, taking in the sight of the sun bleeding purple into the sky and the sea. It had dimmed, closer to the color of an effervescent egg yolk. He stood awhile, his hands around his waist, feeling triumphant for having managed to find a way to extend his journey for yet another month without want of money. It was not without humiliation to find a victory in an event so trifle, but days in which it was an unfamiliar feeling were long gone.

As the sun drowned on the horizon, he made his way back to the Dancing Donkey, hoping to treat himself to a grilled rabbit.
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Hidden 1 yr ago 1 yr ago Post by Abstract Proxy
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"Name?"

"Imare Larethian," she demurely answered.

"Undoubtedly an Altmer," the guard standing in front of her practically hissed and Imare meekly lowered her gaze. The fortified walls of Anvil loomed behind the two other guards. Grey stone full of dark shadows that danced menacingly in the light cast by the torches pitifully shuddering from the wind More members of the city guard peered down at her from the parapet. Hands rested on sword and spear handles, bows were held with arrows ready. Imare felt afraid. The city guards were tense. They looked angry. There was no kindness in their eyes. Only the promise of violence.

"We saw no one on the road. Where did you come from?"

"I came from Kvatch. I did not follow the road, I heard rumors of bandits, it seemed best to find my own way."

"Bah! Idle gossip, the roads are safe! We make sure of it!"

"Certainly," Imare agreed, nodding civilly.

"What brings you to Anvil? What is your purpose here?"

"P- Purpose?"

"WHY are you here?"

"Yes, of course, forgive me, commerce, my purpose here is trade," Imare said, her voice laced with soft tones. "I am an Apothecary, I am here to offer my services at the Chapel of Dibella. The Primate will be expecting me. I have a letter. Perhaps, if you could summon the Watch Captain, we could clear up this matter-"

"The Watch Captain is a busy woman! She has more important things to attend to than traveling merchants. Let me see that letter!"

"As you wish," Imare began. Holding out the letter she flinched as the guard ripped it from her hands, crumpling the edges of the carefully folded letter as he shook it open.

"Helvo!" A new voice shouted, echoing with command against the walls.

"Watch Captain," the guard interrogating Imare said with an obvious wariness. Imare could see his anger fading, giving way to cautious fear. She would have smiled had she thought it worth risking, but it was not polite, so she did not. She didn't want any more trouble.

"What are you doing?" the Watch Captain said, her voice full of unmistakable fury and irritation in equal measure.

"Questioning this merchant, Watch Captain. There were some irregularities in her paperwork."

"Irregularities? Shor's Bones, man, that's Imare the Potion Maker. We've got bigger things to worry about than one wandering apothecary...especially one we know about."

"My mistake, Watch Captain."

"Yes, your mistake, Helvo. Now get out of my sight, before I lose what little remains of my patience. On second thought, belay that order, stand at your post."

"By your command," the guard replied, pulling his shoulders back tensely.

"No doubt, you have heard of the recent murders, Imare? Dangerous times for all of us. I am afraid we are all a bit on edge."

"Forgive my ignorance, but I have not, I have been deep in the woods for some days," Imare answered.

"Grave matters," the Watch Captain continued, her face grim. "But those are not your concern. Allow me to provide an escort, where do you wish to go?"

Imare sensed an opportunity, she could see the Watch Captain studying her with a peculiar look, seizing her up. There was a chance to learn more, if she wanted to. People trusted her, acquaintances, and strangers even. However, she didn't want to know more. She had no stomach for violence. No taste for the macabre. And no interest in unfortunate deaths. She only wanted a warm fire to sit next to, a steaming bowl of soup, and a goblet of wine.

"The Chapel of Dibella, I must speak with the Primate. She is expecting me," Imare restated, smiling softly.

"As you wish. Helvo! See that our guest makes it to the Chapel of Dibella. And Helvo..."

"Yes, Watch Captain?"

"Mind your manners this time or I'll see to it that you regret the very day you were born."




Kneeling in front of the altar, Imare struggled against the feelings that thundered through her chest. Murder. Murders. She knew. For a panicked moment, Imare felt that everyone knew. They could see it in her. In her eyes. She was unclean. Unworthy of prayer. The words came out jumbled. Fumbling and hollow.

Her suffering was mercifully interrupted, by a swish of elegant fabric, nimble hands, and a voice that swept her to her feet with unhesitating and unrestrained warmth,"Imare! My dear child. How lovely it is to see you again, it has been some time since you last visited. How have you been? I trust your journey was pleasant? The wilderness is so beautiful this time of year."

"I am well, thank you, Primate. My journey was peaceful, indeed."

"Oh, please, Imare, I have known you for too long for you to call me that, Vesta will do just fine."

"Of course, Vesta," Imare managed, the name heavy on her lips.

"Will you be staying for the evening services? We will serve food afterwards, of course."

"Your offer is most kind, most kind, but I must see to my room at the Dancing Donkey, besides there are others with needs far greater than mine. Do not waste your coin on me."

"Imare! It is not waste, you are a child of Dibella like any other!"

"All the same, I do not wish to burden you," Imare said. The Primate touched her shoulder gently, a tender expression of warmth displayed over her features. Imare felt a growing panic. An unreasonable response to the kindness she was faced with. She was on the verge of tears, for no reason at all.

Stammering a half-hearted excuse, the young Altmer forced a pleasant smile onto her face, nodding politely to the priestess as she made her escape, backing way from the kindness that suddenly hurt her, and wandering into the cold night as if chased by more than just the visions of her guilty conscience.




Bearing the marks of the wilderness, Imare moved through the deserted streets of Anvil cautiously. The people were colder than she remembered. The faces stern and full of unspoken fear.

The day had been long. Night had come faster than she had expected. The rhythms of the forest were strange, there was no harmony to the noises that Imare heard, and no wordlessly measured pace to the movements that she saw. A cold wind, uncharacteristic for the season, had chased her from Kvatch, and through the woods to Anvil. The growing gust had arrived unaccompanied by any earlier warning signs. Her own disconcertment had grown with each passing moment. She felt frayed and tattered, burdened by each conversation. Sleep. She needed to sleep.

Pale moonlight lit up the alleyways, offering small visions of imagined horrors looming in the darkness. Imare imagined glowing eyes, sharp teeth and claws dripping with blood. She pulled her hooded cloak tighter around her, burying a shiver in the warmth of the thick fabric. Massar rose above her head, a blood red moon she thought. Secunda seemed to look down on her, crumbling in shades of white, brittle bone left to decay. Unwelcome omens that brought uninvited thoughts. Imare could feel her heart beating loudly in her chest. Guilt slowly seeping through her veins.

Had she been her mother, she would have made a warding sign. She would have cast bones, read for signs, tried to interpret the messages she suspected swirled beneath the surface of her awareness, and pondered the will of the Divines. But she was not. She had no particular gift for divination. No talent for prophecy, less or greater, no tongue for prayer, and no special connection to the Divines. She was alone. She was always alone.

With each step she took, the vial of poison felt like a lead weight in the hidden pocket of her satchel. Milk Thistle Seeds paralyze the muscles. Vampire Dust, acquired in ways she knew she didn't want to know, to fill the blood with ice. Bergamot Seeds to deaden the magicka and to silence any screams. It would only take a sip. Mere moments, two heartbeats, perhaps three, and it would all be over. But she had a made a promise. She had made a promise to herself. And she couldn't break it. It was no longer about forgiveness. It was no longer about regret. It was all that remained to her.

Curiosity. Punishment Self-Hatred. She did not know what possessed her to brew poisons. After all that had happened. A maker of potions, an apothecary had to know the shadowy handiwork of the poisoner she told herself. To develop antidotes and cures, to counterattack vile poisons and foul diseases, she had to know how to create substances that caused harm, the cruel mixtures laced with death. It was an easy explanation to offer and an easy story to tell. Cruel neccesity, she thought, and sometimes she almost believed it herself.

Her encounter with the city guard troubled her. They had viewed her with suspicion. They wanted someone to blame She hadn't known about the killings. The mere thought filled her with dread. Murder. Murders. The words brought the lump back to her throat and the sting of tears once more burned at the edges of her eyes. She quickened her pace unthinkingly, half stumbling on a loose cobblestone. The torches offered too little light. The moonlight no longer felt pleasant. And the silence that hung over the city felt suddenly wrong.

Imare pushed the door to the Dancing Donkey Inn open with an audible sigh of relief. She avoided the eyes that greeted her and offered no general greeting as she slipped in from the cold night. She was a seasonal visitor to Anvil. A familiar face to some, but hardly a citizen of the city, and certainly no guest expected to join in any merriment, stifled as it was by growing dread. Approaching the bar, Imare wordlessly placed a handful of septims on the counter, taking a seat a respectable distance from an Imperial who by her measure appeared long lost to tankard he slowly nursed.

"Potion Maker! Welcome back!" came the greeting from the publican as he approached, offering her a winning smile. Another kindness she noted colored by proper decorum, but one she accepted without further concern.

"Hello, Savio, you are cheerful as always," Imare said. She made no effort to hide her weariness as she leaned lightly across the bar.

"A frown is bad for business, don't you know? What can I do for you, Imare?"

"A quiet room, as always. But first, please, some warm food and something to drink."

"Perhaps, a well-seasoned stew? I've got an excellent potato mutton stew, a traditional recipe all the way from Windhlem, cooking the back. And some mulled wine?" the barkeeper sagely offered, he knew her tastes.

"Yes, that would be wonderful," Imare managed, letting herself sink further into the chair she had claimed with a weary smile. "The cold wind was most unwelcome and I feel chilled down to my very bones."
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Song on the Water




The Gold Coast, Anvil
13 Midyear, 7:00, apprx




Linus walked the stretching coast by the docks of Anvil, watching out to sea, only half-alert to his partner, Stanis, who walked just beside him. Ever since the killings had started, guards had been vigilant about sticking to pairs on the routes that they had normally taken alone.

It was a strange evening, Stanis thought - he looked at Linus who dragged himself along almost absent mindedly - still watching the water. “Eyes forward, Linus,” he said - his voice gruff as ever. Linus didn’t answer.

“Linus, we’re on duty,” he said with a sigh. It had been a long shift today, two bodies found. But they were almost ready to head back for the swap. Stanis reached out to touch Linus’ shoulder, but found that his reach was not long enough, and that Linus was veering towards the water slowly. “Linus,” he repeated again. This time, Linus stopped still in his tracks. Stanis held up his torch, and noticed his partner's eyes had all but glazed over, and that he looked directly out to the water now.

“What do you see?” he asked, stopping too - to look out at the water. It was too hard to see anything, just a mist on the water that was rolling in. The hair on the back of Stanis’ neck raised and he stepped forward further. Sure enough, there was a momentary break in the clouds and the moon peeked through, a split second of light flashed the outline of a ship on the horizon.

“What the?-” Stanis said, before it disappeared again.

Linus began to walk towards the water, his hands languid at his sides.

Then Stanis too, became aware of a melody, a pleasant humming out on the water - as soon as he noticed it, it seemed to grow louder, and harmonies began to overlap. He started to follow it, trailing behind Linus who was waist deep now.

The two torches disappeared into the mist.




From the dock itself, Amalia had her back turned to the scene. If she had been sooner to notice the torches go out, she might have had more time to prepare. Instead, she and her partner were playing cards, and sat behind a couple of barrels.

“Linus and Stanis should be about here by now,” she said as she began picking up her cards from in front of her. “Then how about we pick this back up at the Donkey?”

Her partner nodded in response, picking up his cards too. “We can meet them by the stairs, come on.” As he stood up, his knees cracked. “Need oiling these things do,” he groaned. “Too old for this shit now,” he added and began walking forward - suddenly stopping. “You hear that?” he asked Amalia, he turned his head out towards the water - hearing a whisper of a melody on the waves, a hauntingly beautiful sound that he turned towards entirely. “A bard…” he sighed.

“What are you talking about?” Amalia scoffed, watching him, and then looking out towards the stairs to see no sign of Stanis and Linus. As she turned back to her partner, he was already walking in the opposite direction to her down the wooden boardwalk toward the water.

“Could be a woman in trouble,” he said.

“I don’t hear anything, come on - lets just go,” she said, the distance between them growing until her partner took a step too far and dropped below and into the sea. “Gods!” Amalia exclaimed - she felt frozen. Something wasn’t right. She had just heard the splash of the guard as he dropped in, he didn’t come back up. All of her instinct told her to run in the opposite direction. Find someone else.

“Move,” she said, willing her feet to move - but something held her in place and her heart raced in her chest. “Move,” she said again, finally finding that she could - now her entire body felt flushed and hot with the fear, and she began running back towards the city. Get to Uriel, she thought. He’ll know what to do.

She might have made it, if only she had kept her eyes forward. If only she hadn’t looked back. It was then that she saw it, the imposing and unmistakable shape of a ship moving into the dock. It had no lights, no torches lit, and black sails. Amalia stopped.

They leapt out from both sides of the dock. Pirates, she thought, as she drew her own sword - ready to fight them. “Get back,” she shouted out, “you never should have come here,” she said.

The mist from the water had made it’s way to land now, and had engulfed her to the waist. Only one of the pirates moved - floated towards her, his soaked cloak clinging to a thin frame, as he drew nearer, she could make out a gaunt face and pointed ears. He smiled wide. She saw his teeth.

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Hidden 1 yr ago 1 yr ago Post by POOHEAD189
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Thurgred stirred in his seat, drawing Hakon's attention. The nord gave a cursory glance to the door, watching as two mer walked in to the warmth of the taven. Not together, but one after the other. He couldn't tell if they held a secret anxiety behind their eyes, but he still felt on edge. The crowd was growing thick in the place, and the two friends, Hakon and Thurgred, had eaten their fill in relative silence until the door had opened. Hakon realized he needed another refill of his drink.

"Grab one for me, as well." The orc remarked, sliding his mug over to the Nord.

"I'll see about getting you a drink you can handle. Maybe some Summerset wine." Hakon quipped, taking the drink and sliding his chair back. Thurgred went back to chewing on the bones of the chicken wings he had mostly devoured, the tusks and crackling of teeth on bone reminding Hakon of a dog he once had. The nord tried his best to gently shoulder through the throng of tavern-goers, making it to the counter and asking for another round of mead for the two of them. Idly he glanced at the Dunmer and the Altmer that had entered. Despite his misgivings on the Thalmor, as any sensible man would have, he did not hate elves. Ancient enemies of his people, yes, but every man, or elf, was an individual.

This also was not Skyrim during Ulfric's rebellion, where one could never be too careful about who was a spy for the dominion, telling on who worshiped what god and who to report to the imperial authorities. The Thalmor might not be allies of the Empire forever, but imperial state secrets were a bit more conspicuous for spies to be looking in on a blacksmith, and far less to do with common people's rights of culture and religion. As far as he was concerned, everyone here was welcome here as long as they didn't cause trouble.

Walking back with the mead, Hakon passed by the window. The glass had looked impossibly dark from the bar counter, but close up he could make out the outline of the city street and the wide expanse of the...

Where was the water? Odd, the right angles and curves of the houses and shops were unobstructed, but the sea was obscured by a fallen cloud. Looking longer, it seemed as if it was moving closer to the tavern. He glanced about, and then backtracked to the door. That phenomena only really happened during snowstorms in his experience, but maybe this could happen in the southern weather? He shoved the door open with a brawny shoulder, gazing out with his blue eyes. He could see the rolling fog creeping closer, shrouding the horizon. There was some movement left that almost had him jump, but on second look, it was the figure of a woman.

He felt he recognized her, though he couldn't think of a name. She strode down the steet, idly looking at the fog as if it were a stalking menace. Hakon held the door open for her with his back. "Best get in," He said to Granuaile Greenbow.
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There was a fell taste to the air, the way it sometimes did when the wind came off Illiac Bay. It made Graunille an odd combination of twitchy and nostalgic. It swirled around Graunille's feet as she tread the flagstones towards the Dancing Donkey, reminding her again of the dark gray seas of her youth. She thought of the murders in the city and was momentarily excited by the thought of a killer stalking through the mists, knife in hand. Her fingers flexed invoulntarily, tingling with magicka held in check by the narrowest margin. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a grin that would not have been out of place Lamia, partaking of nothing so begnin as humor or good cheer. Wild light flickered in her eyes as her breath swirled the rising mist. Just for a moment she felt like Merceda again, wild, reckless and intoxicated by the night.

The moment crumbled as the door of the Dancing Donkey banged open. A nord stood there, muscle bound and square jawed like most of his race. Graunille's nostrils flared involuntarily with memories of the old smell of burned pork. She shivered slightly and forced the magicka down. Suddenly chilled, she pulled her cloak around her shoulders. Judging by the old burn scars and the overdeveloped musculature, this one was a smith. She had seen him before she thought, Haskin?

"Something is wrong out here," she agreed, turning to watch the fog rather than moving through the door.

"Something unnatural about the fog... like Baliera," she elaborated. Thinking of the wind blowing the scent of the island onto the rocky shores of Wayrest.
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Dereno had begun to nod off in the warm, cozy atmosphere of the Dancing Donkey, the conversations, the bard, the clink of glasses, thud of mugs, and the sound of the fire all had done their part to make the elderly Dunmer's head begin to dip. It had been a long time since he had been in such a cozy place. His mind drifted into the ethereal, wandering through his vast experiences, sampling memories at random until, like a spider weaving a web, the pastiche of a dream had been formed.

He was at home, suddenly. Not Tel Dereno, his tower on the outskirts of Tel Branora, but Vvardenfell itself. He stood in a large tower, surveying a scarred, ashen landscape. At the edge of his vision, he could just make out giant, shimmering energy walls. He furrowed his brows at the curious sight, attempting to place them. Was that the Ghostfence?

This wasn't the Vvardenfell he grew up in, then. The legendary fence had finally disappeared as Vivec's stolen power faded when the Heart had been struck to fell the mighty Dagoth Ur, the Sharmat. Not immediately, mind, but by the time he was strong enough to visit Red Mountain the fence had long gone.

Dereno felt a presence next to him, and looked to see who it was. An old nord, his hair balding into a tonsure, stared out over the scarred mountain and it's ashy foothills, and sniffed. He looked familiar to Dereno, in some distant way, some face he had seen everywhere but hardly remembered the specifics of due to familiarity.

"I find myself dreaming quite often these days." The old nord said, "I'm not young like I used to be. Sleep calls to me now more than it ever has."

The old nord regarded the old Dunmer, and smiled, his face crinkling into a mess of crags and scars, but the expression was warm.

"I think that the old sleep often to prepare themselves for the grave." He said, seriously, "What do you think?"

Dereno blinked, and found he had trouble speaking. His mouth flapped open and closed a few times, but no words came.

"It's alright. You have a while to think on it, I believe." The old nord looked out to Red Mountain again, the smile fading from his face. "You have more pressing concerns, Mastdar Dereno. You will be needed very soon."

The old nord raised his hand, slapped Dereno's back-

- and he woke up.

Dereno looked around. The tavern's welcoming atmosphere had suddenly cooled. The talk hadn't stopped, the bards hadn't stopped singing, but something was off. Hakon had moved from his table, and was halfway out the door. Dereno could only see one arm, his legs, and his back, but he could hear the blacksmith's deep voice. He stood up suddenly, without using his arms to balance himself, and, in a bit of Telvanni flair, summoned his staff. The staff, which he had laid on the floor next to him, stood up like it had been alive and shot into his hand with a satisfying thwack!

"Excuse me, dear boy." Dereno said, sliding past Hakon - and Graunille, who he had been apparently talking to. The local enchanter and the blacksmith, eh? "Oh, and excuse me as well, Lady. I simply wish to take in the sea air."

He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the moonlit night. He looked down, seeing the mist that was waist height, and the moon in the sky. It was large, and it was bright - too bright. A killing moon. A blood moon. It made his guts twist just to look at it sitting there in the sky.

He looked to the others, his face grave.

"I think something's about to happen." Dereno said to them both. "I'm sorry to be so forward; we don't know each other very well, but please be patient with this old Mer - this night is about to put us in peril."
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The Dancing Donkey Inn, Anvil
13 Midyear, 7:30, apprx

Meanwhile, outside…




As the fog moved inward through Anvil, coating the streets and clinging to each darkened corner ominously, a silence fell in the moment - a chill ran through the air, the small crowd outside of the Inn would begin to see a silhouette moving toward them.

His footsteps were so light, despite his towering size - both in height and figure. He was imposing and moving faster through the fog to - suddenly his eyes would flash red to Harkon, and he would smile a crooked smile - a set of fangs glinting in the moonlight as his shape came into detail. He would look then too, unafraid, at Granuaille, holding his stare malevolently.

The vampire began to lift his hand, slow, methodical, the red in his eyes glowing bright toward Harkon, Granuaille, and Dereno.

Before he had a chance to snap a finger, or to turn his wrist, a whistle came from directly above. The sound of a cloak as it soared down and landed gracefully - light as a feather, and yet purposeful between the vampire and the patrons.

From a haunched position, another spectral figure rose up, the fog that had settled on her shoulders fell cascaded down - illuminating the slender figure, her hair, bright and silver, pulled taught atop her head, and fell down to the middle of her back like a stripe down her darkened clothes.

“Your journey ends,” she spoke - a husky whisper, and as the vampire diverted his attention and rushed at her, a clawed hand began to glow. It was almost gold, and yet, it flickered with bronze and black - distorted, changed. She held it toward the vampire and he stopped in his tracks - diving into it, as if he had been drawn toward her, or that he just hadn’t expected it. It was too fast, and as quickly as he had appeared in the mist, he crumpled back into it with a disturbing gasp.

“Retreat to the Inn, or remain and fight,” she said, turning her attention behind her - finally casting a cold gaze at Harkon, Granuaille, and Dereno. Like the creature she had just slain, her face too was pale - and there was also a glimmer of red in her eyes.

“There will be more than him. You answered my call, now comes the time to act.”

And then it happened. Screaming in the streets below them.

They were here.
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"Prophecy..." Dereno said, and sighed, nodding to the woman. "Prophecy has ever cursed my people. But, the last time it was not properly heeded... you need not worry. I will heed your words, lady."

Dereno closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Despite the danger, the mist-heavy air smelled good. Refreshing. It was ever such when your life was on the line - was it not? Air itself became sweet, and every moment was hyper-accentuated.

Dereno held his staff out, turning it sideways. He gripped it with his other hand, then drew it through his fingers, as if the thing were a sheathe and he was removing a blade. Sweat began to form on his brow as he did so, his arms shaking with exertion. Then, he opened his eyes, and let out a focusing shout, drawing the staff through his hand all the way with a huge flourish.

The mist around Dereno blew away, his robes fluttering behind him as if blown by gale force winds. His staff was gone. Instead, in the hand that hand mimicked the draw of a sword, he held a weapon of terrible power. A bound daedric blade, almost as tall as he was, with a blade as black as midnight and as reflective as a mirror. Throughout the blade, ugly red veins pulsed with abhorrent life, and an eye inset into the hilt. A mouth near the end of the sword chittered with hungry anticipation.

The blade's name was Ekresh-Nar, and it hungered. It was the blade Dereno had always summoned, and it hungered for battle. Dereno whispered to the blade in Dunmerish, soothing it, preparing it for bloodletting. He nodded to the newly arrived woman with moon-white hair, sure in his own purpose and his resolve.

"Mastdar Dereno, Wizard of House Telvanni." He said, by way of introduction to the new woman, and his erstwhile companions. He smiled, his face crinkling into a quagmire of wrinkles. "Tonight, it seems, I will spend my time swatting bloodsuckers."
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The Dancing Donkey Inn, Anvil
13 Midyear, 7:30, apprx

Meanwhile, inside…

A chilling bite entered the Inn from an open window, snuffing out the candles that sat on some of the tables nearest to it. Soon after, a mist rolled in too - falling to the floor with it’s blue grey haze to swirl around the feet of some of the patrons. Uriel raised a brow and placed his glass calmly down on the bar. His hand went to his sword and he instinctively stood up, he felt himself sway ever so.

As he rubbed his eyes - hoping they were playing tricks, he walked closer to the window to look out. Noting the time, and the fact that his peers had not arrived for the end of their shift.

“Godsdamnit,” he muttered under his breath - taking not of those in the Inn. An Altmer woman with dark hair took his eye; as did an especially wiry looking Dunmer fellow with a rat-tailed hairstyle. He raised a brow as he looked back to the window.

He could make out a few figures in the distance - shadowy individuals rushing from corner to corner. Uriel wished he hadn’t been drinking, if he had been more aware, he might have been more on his toes when one of the creatures approached the window.

Uriel drew his sword as his eyes took in the green skin, a heavy brow, and red eyes as the creature then pushed her way in through the open window - shattering the glass and the frame. She grinned - flashing a set of fangs adjacent to her tusks.

“Your swords are no good here boy,” she snarled - lurching towards Uriel - pushing past the tables. “Surrender and you may be spared,” she added - her eyes flashing a hot red.

Uriel furrowed his brows, stepping back - and back again, until he found himself between the Orsimer, and behind him the Dunmer and Altmer strangers. It was his duty to protect them, he thought as he raised his sword swiftly and slashed at the Vampire. “Maybe so,” he said, with a turn of his heel and a motion of his hand he picked up a glass - hoping it was a strong substance. Then, carefully he reached for a candle that still burned. He held it at arms reach as the Vampire moved closer. He spat out the liquid forcefully and just as he’d hoped a stream of flame burst towards her face, stunning her. She screamed out in pain, a scream that felt haunting, and not from this world.

Quickly, Uriel turned to face the two - “we have to move!” he commanded, before turning his head. “Now, or never!”
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He was sad.

Despite a plate of lapin grillé and a bottle of mulled wine waiting solely for his pleasure on the table that stood before him, Andel’s mood seemed to be in dire straits. Eating alone had never been his specialty, especially not in public settings. Raised as he was, meals were not solely for physical nourishment; they were rituals, with many participants, meant to reinforce one’s place in the social order, and in doing so, provide sustenance for the very soul. Sitting alone at this crooked table, he felt like a mockery, the butt of a joke prepared for him by his nemesis, his current lot in life. Where was Theriault, that foxy, silver-tongued bastard? Where was gallant Galar, ever stalwart, ever loyal? Sure, it was he who had dismissed them, but had they not accepted? How dare they?

He composed himself. Fair men at arms they may have been, but in the end, they were burghers, not privy to the privileges and obligations of nobility. He grasped his fork, a crude, two-pronged affair, and stabbed with it a piece of rabbit, tearing it from the plate and he threw it into his mouth and began chewing, hoping to busy himself from more thought in motion and sensation. He filled a goblet and drank and as he did so in his seat of solitude, around him the inn grew busier and busier, the clanking of plates and cutlery louder now; men coming, men going, men laughing together and patting each other’s backs and spilling their drinks, others growing frisky with scantily clad serving ladies of common birth, bad breath and hygiene forgotten in the wake of unabated lust for flesh and coin, even the lonelies greeted with recognizing smiles by the tenders. Bastards, the whole lot of them, he thought. Enjoying yourselves, hm? Damn you all to hell, then.

Then bolted up an old Dunmer and called his staff to his hand in mere moments, a sight straight from the tales that he’d listened as a wee boy, and rushed outwards with an anxious look on his face, suddenly pouring into the inn a miasma of foreboding. Andel in the moment was far too spiteful to appreciate the gravity of the situation as he normally would have, and figured whatever perdition that the fates had in store for them could very well come now. Then blew in an actual gust, snuffing out candle and laughter alike. Far too caught by surprise to appreciate the irony, Andel suddenly shifted in his seat to look at the windows, perhaps hoping to find some soul that he could persuade to shut them, yet there was naught but mist pouring in through the windows within his line of sight. Almost all sound had ceased, the customers were rightfully anxious, and soon a lumbering figure could be seen outside the window. With a feeling that he wouldn’t be able to finish his meal in ease, he skewered the largest piece of meat he could with his fork and stuffed it into his mouth, and after some chewing, grasped onto his overcoat and got up from his spot.

At that very moment, the figure outside broke in, a green mass of muscle and massive mammaries, her eyes a sizzling red. Well, damn, he thought to himself, then a young lad sprung forward with sword in hand to confront the creature. Such a chivalrous display! What was stopping him, then? Rush forward, Andel! But wait, she’s saying something! And, oh… Sweet Zenithar. Why’d he have to set the damn place on fire?

“Now, or never!” Spoke the gallant young lad, and Andel for a moment could do naught but provide the man with an awkward expression. Had he some sense, he would’ve asked just what the hell was going on, but such concern about earthly matters was beneath his station; he was meant to set an example, especially with that… Oh, she’s not half bad looking, next to him. “Yes indeed,” he asked, “but where to?”
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Some instinct made Granuaile turn and look back into the mist. Perhaps it was the recent murders, or perhaps it was merely an old soldier’s sense for standing a watch in the moments before a night attack. There seemed to be something in the fog, a faint shimmer, almost a reddish hue. Granuaile watched it, fascinated in spite of herself, her eyes following the shimmer of color. Instinctively she took a step forward to the light, her mind growing empty and calm. Then the Nord drew his sword. Granuaile’s left hand snapped up and a blue shimmer blossomed from left hand as her mind screamed at her that Hakon was about to attack her. Red light swirled and eddied against her shield and she recognised the enchantment for what it was. Her right hand came up, magicka surging, but before she could unleash her power, a pair of boots crashed through her shield and smashed into her hip, sending her spinning off her feet with a cry. She hit the side of the building with a bone jolting crack as her attacker rolled to his feet. The enemy was tall, a mer of some sort, with skin a pale unhealthy gray and burning red eyes. It’s face was bestial, as though a snarling animal skull were crammed beneath a Mer’s musculature. Hakon let out a Nord warcy and leaped forward, his sword arcing down like a meat cleaver. The Mer clapped his hands together, catching the flat of the blade between them and twisting so hard that Hakon was flung sideways like a rag doll, somehow retaining his grip on the blade. The Mer-thing reached down and seized Granuaile by the neck, lifting her into the air. The smell of saltwater, mold, and grave-dust burned in her nostrils, stinging her sinus. A strong hand grabbed her hair and wrenched her head sideways exposing her neck. With a snarl of hunger the creature drove its fangs down at her exposed jugular. There was a crunching sound, like porcelain hitting mail, and the Mer-thing reeled back in shock. Granuaile staggered to her feet, the shimmer of iron on her neck, and blood running from a gash on her arm. The Mer-thing screamed in rage and lurched towards her. Granuaile lifted her hand and summoned her shield. Rather than face the power of the charge head on she turned with it, smashing the magikal barrier into her attacker, swatting him sideways as her right hand came up. Her eyes gleamed with an excitement she hadn’t felt in months. A beam of flame as hot and white as the heart of a forge roared into existence, she whipped her hand around towards the staggering Mer thing, the beam of heat raking across the field stone of a building. Stone screamed and cracked, running red hot. Mortar exploded from the joints and lit in a low order explosion, the same way hair oil burned when it met the flame. Trash and detritus flashed into fire, adding the stink of burning organic matter to the sharp sting of burning lime. The Mer dropped, a moment before the spell would have cut him in half, and turned the momentum of its fall into a spinning kick that took Granuaile’s legs out from under her. The spell flickered out as she hit the ground, the impact driving the breath from her lungs. The Mer-think rolled atop her and pinned both her hands with its clawed talons, it’s mouth opening wide to show razor sharp fangs that glinted red in the light of the fire’s Granuaile had just kindled. It lunged down to rip out her throat, eyes filled with hatred and terrible hunger.

Hakon’s boot caught it in the side of the head with a crack that sent the thing spinning across the alley and into the wall Granuaile had partially immolated. The rock was so hot that the ancient salt crusted clothing the thing wore began to smolder and peel like burned skin as it pulled itself to its feet and launched itself at the Nord. Hakon barreled towards the pale Mer, unsheathing his steel sword and realigning his footing, putting his right foot forward and left foot back as he led with a thrust that merely kissed the neck of the vampire, who dodged with preternatural speed.The vampire spun, arms out and claws extended in a movement that looked little more than a blur, but Hakon managed to dance back from the assault and defend himself while continuing his offensive, cleaving his sword through the Mer-thing’s center mass. The steel cut cloth and nicked the clammy, cold flesh of the accursed creature, but it moved with the fluidity of a fish in water. The beast pivoted and dodged, and the next thing Hakon knew, a claw had raked through his fur clad shoulder and shed his blood on the flagstones beneath his feet. He did not stop to think of the wound, roaring a warcry and barreling forward. The sound was hoarse and unfamiliar. He hadn’t called to the spirit of Talos in nearly a decade, but it lent strength to his limb and set a fire in his breast. His steel sword chopped at the spawn of Molag Bal from every angle, and even as the beast continued to give him small cuts, the blood did not stall him. The vampire, quick and deadly as it was, had expected the attack to stagger Hakon rather than send the nord in a berserker rage. Soon it felt the bite of steel on its arm and a ferocity that matched its own. It hissed when Hakon’s pommel struck it across the face, sundering its nose in a sickening crunch. The thing riposted impossibly fast, hitting Hakon in the chest so hard it lifted the nord off the ground to land on his hands and knees, his breath expelled from his lungs. As Hakon wheezed, the vampire moved in for the kill.

Granuaile pushed herself to her feet, tasting blood, smelling gravedust, thrilled with the touch of destructive magicka. The nord who had saved her was on his knees as the vampire closed. His cry to Talos, so often whispered in Legion camps and screamed in Stormcloak infested defiles, steeled her resolve. Lifting both hands she called on her magicka and screamed a single word. Burn. The fires she had kindled with her spell, the heat she had blasted into the cracked and smoking stones, the latent heat of burning trash was sucked into a magicka fueled vortex beneath the things feet. The entropic effect was strong enough that it coated the alley for a dozen feet with a rhyme of ice. Wind rushed down the alley from all directions as air sought to supply the flames that nature alone could not have created, sucking a backwash of swirling mist into a flaming shroud that glowed like dawn in the fog of Elsweyr. Fire, pure and white hot spurted upwards in a column around the vampire. Granuaile heard its eyes explode and flash to steam as it screamed in unearthly rage. It staggered back away from Hakon, flame dripping from it’d body as it shed burning fingers and teeth burst from its shock compressed skull. Still, somehow, the thing kept its feet howling with fury and filling the alley with the quick lime scent of subliming calcium.

His rasping inhalation audible, Hakon clutched at his chest as he rose to his feet. His world spun, but he kept the grip on his sword. The nord’s eyes watery from the pain, he felt he had gone to Sovngarde when all he saw was the white hot of Granuille’s flames. Hahon blinked, suddenly realizing she had set the vampire aflame like a funeral pyre. Its unearthly screech filled the street, but it’s piercing wail cleared his senses and he cried out once more in battlelust. The nord hefted his sword and charged headlong toward the stumbling thing, raising his blade and hacking into the putrid creature’s neck. The steel buried itself to the fuller, striking bone with the sensation of striking a gong. The vampire wheezed as pitifully as he had done, the flames licking away its flesh as it weakly turned to regard him. Hakon did not curse it or spit on the thing, he simply drew his sword back and aimed at its neck again. His sword sliced through the flesh and cracked what little bone there was left, lopping the head off to spin onto the ground. The body lazily staggered as if still animated, and Hakon wasn’t sure if it was truly dead. However, a moment later its loathsome form collapsed onto the stones, its flames a dull beacon in the midst of the wretched fog. Granuaile pulled herself to her feet and shook smoke from her fingertips where the nearest hint of keratin had burned away, the odor unable to add anything to the unforgettable aroma of burned corpse. Of the vampire all that remained were a few blackened teeth whose dentin was too tough even for spell fire and savage steel to completely discoperate. The fire gutted and died, all natural fuel combusted so completely that hardly an ember blew on the guttering wind.

Hakon took the hem of his cloak and wiped his blade, looking at the smoldering ruin of the thing with distaste. “Wretched thing. Nearly took my head,” He said, and then finally looked over to Granuille. “You’re skillful with that fire. Thanks for that.”

“Just a little trick I picked up,” Granuaile replied modestly, brushing the ash from her fingernails.

“He’d have had me for sure if you hadn’t been so quick with the sword,” she admitted by way of reciprocity. “I wonder if this was our killer?”

Before they could speak further a scream echoed from the night, the fog making its direction uncertain and pain and despair robbing it even of gender.

“Dibella’s Tits, are there more of these things out there?” she demanded.

“Well if there is, better to take the fight to them.” Hakon said, a fierce gleam in his eyes. He gave a practice swing with his sword, making sure the blade hadn’t been loosened from the pommel. Ironically enough, he hadn’t made this sword himself. Hopefully it would keep. “Tsun figures I’d leave my shield the night we’re invaded by the Legions of Coldharbor.”

He took his father’s pendant and gave it a small kiss, before dropping it back into his furs. “Let’s go. We’ll get our answers if we make it through the night.”
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Hidden 12 mos ago Post by BornOnBoard
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As Granuaile and Hakon began their assault, so too did Dereno fling himself into the fray, Ekresh-Nar sparking behind him as he dragged the daedric blade against the cobblestones. Ebony was self-honing, self-sharpening through use - bound blades always mimicked the wonderous metal. Ekresh-Nar screamed in anticipation as its edge ground itself against the rough street. Dereno knew the first cut he made would kill - it had been a long time since Ekresh had tasted the air of Mundis.

His first taker, a vampire clad in heavy leathers and wielding a wicked, barbed steel sword, flung himself into the fray. Vampires were, as a rule, faster and stronger than those not cursed with Porphyric Hemophilia. This vampire was probably stronger than most of his own kind, an orc rendered pale rather than the strong green of their race by the disease. The steel blade hissed through the air. Dereno swung Ekresh-Nar into a high guard, intent on taking the blade on his own sword. Steel met daedric ebony with a crack like close thunder, and the lesser blade broke.

Ekresh chittered with insane laughter as Dereno reversed his high guard into a downward swing, traditionally called 'The Descent of Vivec' in dunmeric sword-style. The blow caught the orc on the shoulder, cutting into his muscled torso as easily as a butcher's cleaver separates a joint, and three times as messy. Diseased blood flowed into the street as the orc died. Dereno wiped his face on a sleeve, not wanting to catch the disease tthe vampire carried. He looked back, attempting to see through the thick fog to where Granuaile and Hakon had been standing, to see if they were okay.

He had to cover his eyes as the night, briefly, became bright as day. A bright pillar of fire had clearly immolated an unfortunate child of Molag Bal, and Dereno suddenly wasn't worried about the two humans. The fire had probably been the enchanter, Dereno mused. She had ever looked like she wished to burn Anvil down, and tonight, she may just get her wish. Dereno offered a brief prayer to Veloth and his ancestors that Hakon would have the good sense not to stand in front of a mage with that kind of power, and turned his attention back to the bloodsoaked street. The fire had checked the charge of another bloodsucker, who had been blinded by the pillar of flame.

Dereno dispatched the thing with a stab to its guts, spilling the offal into the street for the gulls to peck at. The vampire dropped its handaxe to the cobblestones with a clang, before falling in its own spillings. These ones had been easy, but was it wise to continue on his own? His experience with vampire covens was that they sent the younglings out first to wear out the resistance, and then the elders swooped in to feed. Overconfidence, he decided, was his real enemy.

He walked back to Granuaile and Hakon, coming back to them just as they finished their conversation.

"Whatever is out there, I propose we all face it together." Dereno said to the both of them, then pointed up. "The blood moon cares not where the blood comes from, after all."
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Imare

Inside of the The Dancing Donkey Inn, Anvil

The screams sounded so far away. Imare knew she had to move. She knew she had to act. But she could not. She was trapped in a slowly unfolding nightmare. She felt weary, frozen to her core, and the sinister fog seemed to be everywhere. The cold grave approached, threatening to swallow her whole and pull her beneath the earth. But she was so tired. What could she do? What hope did she have? Around her people were dying. Painfully. Hopelessly. No matter their skill with arms and no matter their strengths. Fangs, sharp fangs that seemed to beckon despite the bloody end they promised and red eyes that glowed in the darkness.

She could try to escape. She could try to run. Unfamiliar despair weighed heavily down on her, filling her blood with ice. Perhaps the creature that stood in front of her was right. The situation was hopeless. Surrender offered more moments. A chance to be spared. Suffering was tolerable if it meant living, if it meant seeing another sunrise. Imare shivered as gloom overtook her. It would be so easy to give up. She almost wanted to. She was tired. Tired of running. Tired of trying to forget.

The flames Uriel had breathed to life with candle and spouted spirits brought Imare out of her daze. Her mind raced with freshly kindled embers of willpower and she reached into her traveling satchel, drawing her sharpened shears. A sad weapon, but far more likely to cut than the small knife she carried on her hip.

Imare did not have to be a Vigilant of Stendarr to know that it was a vampire smoldering in front of her. She had come across mentions of vampires in her studies at the Arcane University, but she was no necromancer. She did her best to avoid the undead. She recalled little. Cryptic mentions in the ancient tomes of learned masters. Scattered papers on vampirism and the alchemical uses of vampire dust. Half-mad ramblings scribbled in diaries. She wished she had a flask of alchemist's fire with her. The sticky, adhesive fluid would ignite when the exposed to air, such as when a bottle shattered. The undead feared fire, mindless loathed it instinctively, and recoiled from it. Silver and fire, the two great weaknesses of the undead, Imare recalled in between panicked breathes.

None of this was supposed to be happening. She wasn't even supposed to be there. She should have been deep in the woods, gathering herbs, enjoying the quiet of the forest. Strange dreams had drawn her to Anvil. Dark dreams had invaded her resting hours, shadowy nightmares that filled her with uncertain dread. Far worse was the binds she had felt tightening around her, pulling her unwaveringly towards Anvil. They were just dreams, she had told herself. She did not believe in prophecy. She did not listen to the whispers of the Daedra or the dead. She was no hero. No great paladin sworn to defend the weak from horrors beyond the grave. She wasn't supposed to be facing monsters leaping out of the dark night to claim her blood...and likely worse.

"Outside, away from the fire!" Imare said, grabbing hold of Andel's hand and pulling him towards the door . There was no time to talk. No time to plan. They had to move. They had to get out of the burning building. Gesturing towards the Imperial that had protected her, Imare felt the panic growing in her voice. "We can't stay here! The fire will only draw more of these creatures, even if it doesn't burn down the inn."
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Uriel burst out from the inn - a mixture of determination and urgency in his stride. All he could think about was what was before them - he and his strange new companions. If that was the emergency inside the inn, what in Nirn could be outside?

The adrenaline from the encounter with the vampire also pushed him forward, but as he stepped out into the cool night air, he felt a searing pain in his hand and arm. As he emerged from the shadows and stood under the bright moonlight, he realised the extent of the damage. Blisters now covered his hand and arm, and the heat emanating from the wounds as the met the icy bite of the outdoors made him wince in pain. “Shit,” he gasped out, grabbing at the part of his arm that was unburned, squeezing down hard. “Shit,” he said again, before looking up and forward, his eyes locking towards the woman before him.

“Another one of you,” he shouted out - despite his pain and situation, ready again to fight if he had to. Then, he simply stopped in his tracks. Her eyes were glowing more red, enticing, soothing - calming. Sure enough, the pain in his arm began to subside and then he realised that in that minor few seconds she had closed the distance between them and held her hand just above his arm. A slight glow emanated from her fingertips and magicka dripped from her palm like golden tears. Just enough to numb the pain for now.

“Silence child, I am not of their ilk.” Her voice was off, like it wasn’t coming from her lips, despite the fact he saw her mouth move. It was as if the voice was around them. Each of them would feel the voice in their head.

She stepped back, looking out into the chaos - at those who chose to fight - at the growing flames in the town. The mage was interesting. She smirked. “My name is Eris. Time is calling for us to leave.”

"This one is right," Eris said, indicating to Imare as she turned on her heel to face the path ahead, clear of destruction. “Gather your things, we must retreat to the Temple. The rest of Anvil is lost now, it’s His domain.
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Dereno spoke next, holding his daedric blade in one hand. It chattered and giggled at the prospect of more violence in this bloodstained night.
Yes, the woman was probably right. It was time to leave - but first, answers. It was no secret the breton woman was a vampire herself; she was pale even for her race and her canines were long and dagger-sharp.

"You may not be of their ilk, lady." Dereno said, gesturing to the charred and dismembered vampires around them, "But you have their curse all the same. The children of Molag Bal are fractious, warlike creatures, prone to squabbling."

He looked at the woman, sizing her up. "And while you have helped us, that doesn't mean your intentions for us are pure. Prophecy called us here, but to follow prophecy blindly is to be damned."

He gestured to Gran, Hakon, Uriel, and the others. "Although we all wish to survive the night, I speak for everyone when I say we have no wish to be caught in a succession squabble between vampiric scions, no?"

"Who are you." He said bluntly, "And why should we trust our lives to you?"

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