[center][h3]Imare[/h3]
[i]Inside of the The Dancing Donkey Inn, Anvil[/i]
[/center]
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."