“And then they made me their chief,” Delphine concluded as they trudged northwards from the city in the bright morning sunlit. They had hitched a ride on a peddler’s wagon at dawn, the old man happy for the company of a pretty Breton, happiness which had soured to world weary contemplation when she had belatedly added that Amal would also be coming along. They had made good time eastward until they reached the fork which lead up into the foothills towards the mind. Delphine had stopped briefly to pray at the wayshine of Dibella, offering a handful of her best rose petals in exchange for taking a small bottle that had served as a vase for flowers which had long since withered. The road was quiet with the trouble at the mine and so they climbed the gently rolling hills, forest periodically bordered the road when the landscape flattened but rarely for more than a mile or so. The air was redolent with the scent of pine and with the many wildflowers that grew beside the road, flanking them with gold and crimson. From time to time, and to Amal’s apparent annoyance, Delphine made frequent trips into the flowery verge, occasionally plucking this flower or that and stuffing them into a pouch which hung from her belt.


“I take it not for your skill with the sword?” Amal asked, more to keep the conversation going than from any real interest if Delphine was any judge. He was a bit of a mystery to her. The previous night had been spent at the hound and badger, drinking wine and planning their excursion to the mine. That had really not been all that much of a help, as their plan essentially boiled down to ‘go to the mine, see what is happening’ which to Delphine’s mind was more of a strategy or a mission statement. She had made some effort to talk with locals and had been rewarded with such dazzling insights as ‘it is overrun by daedra’ and ‘the spriggans attacked to reclaim the timbers, you mark my words’ which, while colorful, provided limited tactical insight. One of the regulars, an old drunk by the name of Gert, had been a miner before he lost a hand in an accident a few years before. For the cost of a flagon of ale he had been willing to describe the basic outline of the workings ‘back in his day’ which Delphine had dutifully transcribed onto a blank piece of parchment at the rear of the book she had stolen. That tome appeared to be on the conjuration of various kinds of Daedra, a fact that she had kept completely to herself. With luck Marlowe wouldn’t miss it, or at the very least wouldn’t connect it’s disappearance with her.


Delphine snorted at Amal’s remark and drew her sword, swishing it experimentally through the air. It was a Breton design, a longsword with the extended hilt of a hand and half, designed for spellswords so that it could be wielded one handed to leave the left hand free for spell work, or gripped with both to raise a better defense. Family legend held that it had been passed down through the generations, though it seemed just as likely Delphine’s mother had picked it up from some random armorer during her time in Wayrest. The blade was marked with a delicate spiderweb of enchantments, something Delphine had added during her studies of that subject. It was difficult in her current circumstances to keep the thing charged, though it held a faint shimmer yet. Some of her hard earned coin had gone to training with the weapon, though she didn’t kid herself that she was anything beyond an apprentice with the blade, magic had always been her skill but skills didn’t always pay bills.


“I do alright, I’m still alive,” she said a little defensively before sliding the weapon back into her baldric. They crested a rise and suddenly found themselves looking down into a gently sloping valley. The pristine quality of the countryside was marred on the far side by a sprawling complex of sheds and shale roofed bungalows. A brisk stream ran down the center of the valley, crossed by a stone bridge beside which a saw mill stood, it’s blade turning in slow rotation against the gurgling current. The place looked abandoned, no smoke rose from the chimneys and the small forge which must have served to smelt raw ore into ingots stood idle, its tailings of crushed rock and slag already penetrated by weeds and greenery. The centerpiece of the tableau was the shaft itself, a gaping wound in the side of the valley supported by three vast oaken beams. 


“Looks deserted,” Delphine observed. She whispered a cantrip and her vision abruptly sharpened as she felt her eyes tingle with magicka. The only thing the closer look revealed was that the symbol of Zenithar had been carved into the cross beam with considerable skill.


“What do you think?”




________________
Marlowe shivered. The crypt was below the water and cold even at midday. The rock was below the waterline of the harbor and a steady trickle of precipitation sweated from the hand carved bas reliefs that covered the walls. Strange photoluminescent fungus  grew from cracks in the ancient stone, seeming to stretch towards the wizard. The familiar smell of old death and bonemeal filled his nostrils along with the sporulated funk of the mushrooms. It had been many years since he had been down here. He had never expected to come here again, not until he had awoken sweating from his dream.


“Marelow…” a sepulchral voice hissed in the darkness. The wizard whirled, the torch in his hand sputtering in the damp air.  The voice came from no human throat; it seemed to come from the carvings on the far wall behind a curtain of draping roots. Marlow pulled them aside, uncomfortably reminded of the entrails it had been his job to remove when he first began his apprenticeship in the dark arts. Those were the days before the Gates opened, when such things were, if not practiced openly, at least politely ignored by the guild. He hadn’t cringed then, but now…

“Hello?” he called, pleased to hear that his voice was steady as he pulled away handfuls of roots to reveal the carvings beneath. They were utterly unlike the other carvings of the crypt, gone were the restful motifs of the Gods and their worship. This carving had worship, but of an all together darker sorts. Men and Mer were depicted in positions of abject humiliation and debauchery. Daedra were also depicted, seeming somehow unfinished and yet the suggestions in the carving were more horrifying than forensic detail could have rendered them. Marelow felt his mouth go dry. He had seen such scenes before, not on stone but on the night thirty years ago when his Master had inducted him fully into the mysteries. His eyes tracked to the center of the panel, and the figure who sat atop of throne of twisted bodies. Marelow sank to his knees as he met the figure's eyes. They were black pits bored into the stone, but it wasn’t the eyes that made the wizard tremble. It was the smile.