The Northern Demise wasn’t the largest of the ships moored in Solitude’s northern harbour, but it was certainly one of the most eye catching. Unlike its counterparts, dark from waterproofing, the Demise was painted in icy shades of white and blue. When inquired about the choice of colour, the captain of the vessel, a tall hairy Nord named Hortnjolf, never gave any concrete answer, opting instead to mutter cryptically about Sea Ghosts and Yngol’s Bane to needless lengths, chilling the already cold weather further by warnings of icy doom to those who showed no proper respect. Still, it was by far the most affordable vessel that travelled that way - and it wasn’t hard to see why - so they picked it without much thought.

Gareth wasn’t much bothered by their captain’s superstitions: he had travelled the Sea of Ghosts enough times in the past to know that the only things to fear here were the treacherous ice cliffs, insidious and jagged enough to easily tear at the hull of a careless ship. Past that, there was of course the threat of falling overboard into the icy waters infested with slaughterfish. But that was about it. When it came to Sea Ghosts, he didn’t worry too much: last recorded sighting of them was back during the time of Antioch Septim. And even if they decided to show up now, he wasn’t afraid: he had his skills and his sword, the latter of which never failed him. And he had Helena.

A stark contrast to her dark and gloomy outfit, Helena was like a never-ending well of joy and merriment. From the moment she woke up to the moment she would sink into her hammock from sheer exhaustion, she would be in perpetual motion: chatting and joking with crew members, helping in the ship’s kitchen or even manning the crow’s nest to give the man usually stationed there at least some respite. When night fell, she would sit among the sailors, loudly singing obscene songs known to every seaman from Solstheim to Northpoint, sometimes adding her own verses to the great joy of the crew. It was no wonder they took a liking of her, in a more familiar way than most sailors would to a beautiful woman under their care. The captain was the only one who didn’t seem too fond of her, but then again, he didn’t seem fond of anyone. Gareth allowed himself a smile: she’d been in the castle for too long, locked away from the world. Recovery had to be made after her last mission, but she hadn’t liked a moment of it. And now, she was taking back that lost time.

The other two women in the expedition didn’t share her enthusiasm. Livia spent much of her time inside their cabin, tending to her gear to a degree that Gareth considered gratuitous; and when she did walk out, she’d keep her eyes firmly planted to the deck, stumbling and slipping, muttering under her breath about the ‘stupid sea’. She’d firmly dedicate herself to the area around the main mast, as far away from the sides of the ship as possible.

Aeriel, on the contrary, stayed near the sides. As they all soon learned, it wasn’t to take in the sights of countless glaciers, but to make sure she wouldn’t make another mess like the one she’d made on their first day of voyage. The captain disregarded her profuse apologies and ordered her to clean it up, only to have his words backfire when her stomach decided to relieve her of her of the second half of her last meal. Disgusted, he ordered her to keep off the deck, only to realize seconds later that that would be impossible. He then ordered a more sea-worthy crew member to clean up the mess and sternly warned the woman not to do it again. She took his words to heart, currently bent over the railing, loudly retching into the water below them. Her usually pale skin took on an unhealthy shade of pickled cabbage, and her knees wobbled as she guided herself along the edge of the ship, arms similarly shaking.

On the third day of voyage, Livia decided to do the unthinkable: lock herself in her cabin and try to learn the classification of Skyrim’s beasts from a cumbersome tome that Aeriel insisted she bring. Not her choice of pastime, but she gave up trying to find any kinks on her gear: Taldryn was damnably skilled at what he did, and she couldn’t add or fix anything. And even reading was better than spending a moment more on that damned deck. She snarled to herself after reading the same line about the bone structure differences of various types of trolls for a half dozen times in a row. She shut the book and put it away. She hated shutting herself in, but it was better than being out there, so close to so much-

A knock on the door snapped her from her thoughts. A moment before she cried a ‘come in’, she remembered that her doors were locked. Muttering curses, she leapt down from her hammock, stumbled to the door and unlocked them.

Aeriel leaned on the doorframe, slightly less green than yesterday. Despite her tortured-looking face, she mustered up a smile.

“May I?” she asked weakly. Livia immediately moved aside, letting the woman in, who stumbled in in a step much worse than Livia’s. She dropped in a chair and took a deep breath, wiping off sweat that had built up on her forehead despite the chilling cold.

“Thank you,” she said weakly. “And don’t worry: no more arrows in this quiver.” She patted her belly for emphasis. “At least not until supper.”

“Not too fond of the sea?” Livia asked carefully.

“Not too fond of ships,” responded Aeri. “I love swimming, and that dinghy that Edgtho ferries us on is not a problem: calm waters in the bay. But out here...” She made a grimace.

“I understand you completely,” responded Livia.

“You get seasick too?” asked Aeri incredulously. Livia shook her head. “What else could it be th-” She cut herself off half word in. Her eyes widened. “You mean to tell me you c-”

Livia’s palm slapped across her mouth before she could finish. Aeriel looked down on it with an almost comic horror in her eyes. But Livia didn’t seem amused one little bit. On the contrary, she seemed panicked.

“Don’t say it out loud!” she hissed, looking around with genuine concern. “They can’t know about this. Promise you won’t tell anyone.” Aeriel hurriedly nodded, to which Livia released her mouth. She fell back into her hammock.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Aeriel, recovering from the shock. “You wouldn’t believe how long it took me to learn.”

“But you did learn it by the time you were my age, didn’t you?” asked Livia.

Aeriel clenched her lips. “No, actually not.” Livia lifted her head, eyeing her master with a renewed curiosity. She always assumed Aeriel was about twenty years old, twenty two at most. But thinking of it, she didn’t really know. She mouthed to ask, when she remembered the words that her late mother relentlessly drilled into Julius’s head when he was younger: never ask a woman her age. And so she didn’t.

“But you still can,” she said instead. “And I can’t.”

“Didn’t you have the chance to learn it?” asked Aeriel.

“And where?” retorted Livia. “I was born in Northern Bruma, and I lived most of my life in the north part of the Rift. Nothing but shallow streams in both.”

“You’ve never been down to Honrich?”

“Rarely: father used to go fish there, and he’d sometimes take Julius and me. He wouldn’t let us into the water, though. Said we were scaring the fish. Julius would sometimes go further down the shore, but I always stayed with dad.”

“I see,” said Aeriel after a few moments of silence. “Well, I can teach you if you want when we get back to castle.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.” Livia shuddered at the thought of the icy waters around the castle isle. She wondered how Aeriel could handle it.

Aeriel’s eyes fell on the naked blade of the sword propped against a cupboard. “Have you tried it yet?” she asked.

“Haven’t really had the opportunity,” responded Livia, happy that the subject moved to something non-aquatic.

“You’ll have one. Soon,” said Aeriel forlornly. Livia suddenly felt less enthusiasm about the mission ahead. Seeing her disheartened, Aeriel quickly tried to fix her blunder.

“But I wouldn’t worry too much about it. You’re going in with some of the best hunters in the Order. No harm will come to you if you stay close. And even if you don’t, that armour Taldryn made for you will protect you like no other.”

Silence dominated the room for a few moments, disturbed only by the silent splashing of waves as the ship cut its way through water.

“Tell me about Taldryn,” said Livia suddenly.

Aeriel blinked. “Why the sudden interest?” she asked, slightly taken aback by her pupil’s request.

“I’ve never met anyone quite like him.” Livia shifted in her hammock. “He’s just so… strange.”

“I reckon he is. But don’t let him catch you saying that. He’s fond of children but he’d still break you in half.”

“Sounds sensitive.”

“With what happened to him, I can’t blame him.” Aeriel suddenly sounded a lot older.

Livia stood up in her hammock. “What happened?”

Aeriel crossed her legs and turned towards the window. The last rays of the setting sun painted the icebergs the inappropriate shade of orange.

“Do you know of the Dunmer ability to resist fire?” she asked.

“No first hand experience,” admitted Livia. “Heard some, read some, but I never witnessed it.”

“You’d be disappointed if you did; it’s really not all that impressive. I’ve seen journeymen mages achieve more with a few rudimentary spells. But Taldryn is an exceptional case.”

“How so; he doesn’t have it?” asked Livia curiously.

“On the contrary, he has it. Matter of fact, only his is complete.”

Livia’s eyes widened. “Come again?”

“Exactly what you heard,” confirmed Aeri. “No fire, however hot it burns, can bring any harm to Taldryn Arobar.”

Livia was lost for words for a moment. “That… that sounds amazing,” she finally said.

“That’s what the people thought too,” continued Aeriel. “Taldryn was born just east of the Velothi Mountains, on the outskirts of Blacklight, the capital of Morrowind. He was a son of a minor noble, a branch of Arobar family of House Redoran. He was nearing his twenty fifth year when he discovered his gift, and even he doesn’t remember how. At first, everyone around him was thrilled. They called him the Child of Reclamations, Tribunal-blessed, and such. Even the Nords to the west heard of him and named him 'the Unburning’. He was… happy back then.” Livia noticed how hard it was for the older woman to say it; as if she herself had trouble believing it.

“But his happiness didn’t last long. Great fortune draws envy. Nobody knows who started it, but the rumour soon spread: it spoke of Taldryn as a child that was cursed, rather than blessed. Said that his gift was bestowed by non-other than Mehrunes Dagon, who presided over the burning realm of Deadlands. That Taldryn would bring doom upon them. It didn’t take long for people to revolt. To avoid bloodshed, his desperate father banished him. He was still young back then, and it fell heavy on him. But even then he understood it was for the best, and left willingly.”

Aeriel paused for breath. Livia saw tears gather in her eyes.

“The people wouldn’t just let him leave, though. He was barely an arrow’s reach from his home when the mob ambushed him. From what I’ve heard, he barely made it out alive. They came at him with all they had. Even some guards, who would have protected him from the mob just a few moons ago, turned against him now. He only survived because a fire somehow broke out. While his assailants burned, he ran. Past the Velothi Mountains and into Skyrim. He didn’t fare much better there: the rumour spread too far, and the Nord now feared and hated him too. Him being Dunmer also did him no favour: he wasn’t even allowed into a shop to buy clothes to replace those that burned off of him on that day. He was forced to wander about, hunt or steal to survive, and at nights, he would shiver in the biting cold until come the morning. He made it a bit easier for himself when he realized he could sleep in the firepit, but life was still difficult. Months went by like that, until he met her one day.”

“Who?” asked Livia.

“He said her name was Frieda. A little girl, half your age maybe. She happened upon him while picking mushrooms. He told me he can’t remember who was more scared of whom. She mustered courage first and came to him. By then, Taldryn was so mistreated by men and mer alike, that even this frail child frightened him. His fear eased up a little when she offered him some fruit she brought with herself. She then sat and talked to him. He can’t remember what it was, but he remembers being happy for the first time in a long time. The girl left, but promised to come back tomorrow. And she did. She even brought him her father’s old pants. Poor sod was overjoyed. Again, she talked to him, again she left, and again she promised to return. This went on for maybe a fortnight, until one day Frieda came accompanied by an older man. Though still suspicious of anyone but his little friend, Taldryn didn’t flee. He trusted her, and it paid off: the man was Frieda’s father. He heard about him from his daughter and took pity on him. He invited him to live with them.

“Taldryn accepted the offer before the man even finished saying it. He was ecstatic: it’s been long since someone treated him as an equal. As a man, and not as a monster. Frieda’s mother took a liking to him immediately: he apparently reminded her of her long-lost brother or something. Frieda’s father, a blacksmith, offered to teach the lad his craft, and Taldryn soon discovered he had quite a bit of talent for it. His gift helped him immensely. Frieda’s father, a man already well in his years, was joyous that he had such a capable apprentice. It didn’t take Taldryn long to surpass his master, allowing the old man to retire. Their wealth grew substantially, as Taldryn’s crafts were works of art. For the first time in a long time, he found joy and purpose in his life.

“Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t meant to last. One night, a pack of desperately starved wolves attacked the house. Taldryn doesn’t like talking about it, but from what he told me, he could only remember the growling and the screaming, and carrying Frieda out through the broken door, wolves hot on his trail. Her parents perished, and Frieda soon followed: mauled to near beyond recognition, she couldn’t even scream her pain out as she died in Taldryn’s arms, barely a stone’s toss away from her own home.”

Aeriel paused once again. Tears that gathered in her eyes now flowed freely. But her voice was still unrelenting.

“What happened that night shook him. Broke him, really. He couldn’t even force himself to carry Frieda’s body to safety: he just dropped her and ran into the night. What he had, what he found, he had lost. He was once again a man with nothing and no-one. A bawling lunatic alone in the world. But it grew worse now. Skyrim’s winters are brutal and unforgiving, and Taldryn found himself in the thick of them. Worse still, the pack found him again. He fended them off, but he didn’t survive unscathed.”

Livia sat silent, not daring to interrupt the story: the reason for the smith’s ploughed skin grew more obvious as the story went on.

“Almost a full year passed before she found him. Gareth’s mother,” Aeriel added, reading the frown on Livia’s face perfectly. “She hired herself out to the people of a nearby village, after hearing stories of a hulking man-beast who screamed like a daedra and stole food and livestock. You can imagine her surprise when she found not a daedra, but a young Dunmer. Unfortunately for her, Taldryn’s sanity was largely chipped away by then, and he attacked her. She was determined not to kill him, however, and after a duel that lasted nearly half an hour, she managed to subdue him without spilling a drop of his blood. Some years later, after I joined the Order, she told me that when she finally managed to sedate him, he started laughing like a child, calling her ‘Frieda’, and asking where she was.

“She was a smart woman, and had heard of the grisly demise of the family that lived to the south. She put two and two together and realized who her captive was and what happened to him. His unfortunate fate touched her, and she decided to help him. A blood of a slaughtered doe smeared on the blade of her sword was enough to convince villagers that their ‘daedra’ was taken care of. She collected the bounty and took Taldryn with her. She had to sedate him every now and then, but he soon learned to trust her and came with her willingly. She brought him to the castle, and after many months of painstaking rehabilitation, she managed to repair most of him. She told me she knew that she succeeded when he greeted her by her real name one morning.

“Taldryn soon turned out to be an investment returned with interest: he recalled his smithing skills soon enough and, well, basically restocked the whole Order. Until then, they had to make due with cheap weapons, often iron ones, and armour that last saw use during Oblivion Crisis. Taldryn fixed that in no time at all. Truth be told, much of the Order’s fortune in those years can be assigned to his skill.”

“When she died, Taldryn was devastated almost as much as Gareth. In a way, she was a mother to him too, despite being younger than him.”

“When did she find him?” asked Livia.

“Some sixteen or seventeen years ago. He’s been with the Order since. Truth be told, I don’t think he even left the castle in all that time.”

Livia said nothing, her eyes fixed to the burning oil lamp in the corner of the cabin. She understood now: she understood Taldryn’s distaste for pretty much everyone, yet the strange glint in his eyes when he saw her. His skills, his shattered face, his love of solitude. And she understood why he chose to surround himself with fire, likely the only thing he encountered that never hurt him.

“Oh dear me, look at the time.” Aeriel stood up from the chair and stretched. “The lovebirds will probably be looking for me: gotta make the plan of action for tomorrow. And supper should be ready in no time. Be sure to come below deck soon. I hope it’s squid tonight.”

She spoke all of this in a single breath. Livia was, mildly put, surprised of the sudden shift in her master’s mood. She’d grown used to such a behaviour from her, but she never expected it to happen after such a story.

The slam of the shutting doors made it clear that that wasn’t really the case. Her master was probably about to sob her eyes out and just wanted to make an exit on a positive note. Livia sighed and got up from the hammock. As she struggled with putting on her left boot, her thoughts wandered to her master’s mother. She chuckled to herself: to be able to take down a giant such as Taldryn, in his prime and fuelled by madness, and without drawing any blood; she really must’ve been something special.

---

He never thought he would find a place he disliked more than Windhelm. He didn’t particularly hate the place itself: the ancient stones did him no harm. He hated that he could never be a part of it, being an aberration that he was. Not to mention the bad memories he had of it: sweat, blood, tears, and bruises beyond reckoning. With all the pain that he suffered, be it the neglect of the adults, or the more personal abuse of children, Windhelm indeed ranked high on his list of disliked places.

On that day however, Riften proudly trotted into the first place.

It was unnaturally warm for this time of year, which only made the city’s canals stink all the worse. He never imagined that water could smell that bad. And yet there it was: a combination of faeces both animal and human, the biting smell of rotting fish, the almost sweet scent of spoiled fruit, and the endless supply of other refuse of any kind imaginable. The relatively dry part of the city didn’t look much better. The smell was slightly more tolerable, but it was worse to look at. Buildings were decrepit and collapsing, looking like they went for centuries without even the most basic repairs. The only animals to be seen were either fish hung to dry, or cats and dogs sneaking about in the shadows, as reeking and diseased as the water.

But the worst of all were the people. He had never seen people in such a large city look so miserable. He didn’t know why, but he expected them to be happy. Instead, people walked with their heads bowed low, looking impoverished, starving, sick, and just generally unhappy.

With much bigger concerns in mind, nobody paid heed to two hooded figures, one short, the other shorter still, who made their way through the streets towards something what could generously be called market. They stopped in front of the stall that looked like the pawnbroker, but considering where they were, a Bosmer that held it, tiny even by the standards of his race, could as well be a fence.

“And how may I help you today?” he asked, eyeing the taller figure.

“I need to get into the Flagon.”

“So go. I’m not stopping you.”

“What’s stopping me is that I don’t know where it is.”

The stallkeeper crossed his arms on his chest. “And this concerns me... how?”

“Because you know where it is.”

The Bosmer chuckled. “And why, my little lady, should I know it?”

The taller of the figures frowned beneath the hood; the midget in front of her seemed like the last person to call anyone ‘little’. Instead of an answer, she lifted her foot and gently kicked the stall with the tip of her boot. “Because the filth that crawls there protects you: I recognize a shadowmark when I see one.”

The Bosmer clapped sarcastically. “Oh, bravo: you possess common knowledge. But you don’t possess all: and what you don’t have, you must procure… at a price.”

She again denied him a direct answer, and instead shut her eyes and tilted her head to the side, as if stretching her neck. The smirk disappeared from the Bosmer’s face when her motion exposed a long sword handle. He started sweating.

“You… you wouldn’t dare,” he stuttered.

“And why,” she responded in falsetto, “my little lord, would I not dare?”

“You’re surrounded by guards is why!” he sputtered, incredulously trying to again sound confident.

Now it was her turn to chuckle. “A stallkeeper, an associate of thieves, and a comedian; you’ve your work cut out for you.”

She narrowed her eyes and slammed both her hands on the surface of the stall. The lesser figure allowed himself a grin: he couldn’t blame the diminutive mer from backing off a step.

“Don’t mistake me for someone you can intimidate,” she squeezed through clenched teeth. “I know where we are: I could pull your guts out through your mouth right here and now and the guards wouldn’t bat an eye.”

The Bosmer swallowed and moved his hand to below his stall, hoping she wouldn’t notice. She did.

“Don’t,” she warned. He had enough wits to obey.

“The Guild would take revenge if any harm came to me,” he muttered in a last pitch attempt.

“The Guild stops caring for you the moment you stop making them money. And even if they didn’t, why should that scare me? What can they do to me? Break into the house I don’t own and steal the money and valuables I don’t possess? Or come at me with their knives and poisoned darts?” She leaned closer in, causing the Bosmer to back away further and collide with the guard rail. “Even if they succeeded, it wouldn’t make you any less maimed or dead.”

The stallkeeper squealed as if he were a mouse that someone stepped on.

“So I warmly recommend,” she continued, “that you stop wasting our time and tell me what I want to know.”

The Bosmer nervously turned his head around, hoping for some support. None was to be had.

“The entrance is on the canal level, north of here.” He could barely control his tone. “There’s a shadowmark on the entrance, you can’t miss it. Once you’re in, just follow the torches.”

She straightened up and turned around. “Come,” she said to the shorter figure, who immediately scurried to her side. She started walking in the indicated direction.

“I won’t forget this!” screamed the Bosmer. “You hear me? I won’t forget this!”

“Make sure you hold up to that promise,” she responded, loud enough for him to hear.

Ten minutes of trudging through the moist, narrow corridors lead them to a chamber of surprising proportions for something built underground. Just across a wide, shallow basin, stood something resembling an open air tavern. Ironically, it smelled completely the opposite of how it appeared. About a dozen people were seated there, drinking, chatting, or in most cases, counting money.

They crossed about half the room with nobody paying attention to them. Then, a giant walked out, cutting off their path. Not an actual giant, but it hardly mattered: being three spans taller than the woman and over twice the height of the little one, he may as well have been one.

“What’s your business down here?” His voice was hoarse and humourless.

“I’m here to see the face sculptor.”

“Won’t do you much good,” he responded sardonically. “Ain’t no fixing that mug of yours.”

Even from beneath the hood, he could see her biting her lip: it was apparently a sensitive subject to her.

“Besides, I don’t know you. And I don’t let strangers in.”

“That’s too bad, because you’re about to let one in.”

“No, I won’t. Now get out of here before-”

The words stopped in his throat; as if the tip sword blade that appeared out of nowhere and was now pressed just below his Reman’s apple denied them passage. Probably wasn’t that far from truth, really.

In an instant, she became the centre of attention of the entire room. Several people, predominately younger ones, leapt out of their chairs and drew daggers. One drew a bow. Most didn’t even move past looking her way.

“Put that thing away,” the giant commanded. She pushed it a millimetre deeper. “You think you can take on all of us?” he asked, seemingly more irritated than anything.

The sword retracted and then lowered. “I’m not here to take on any of you. I’m here to do business. I don’t want to fight you, but if I must, I will.”

Her words didn’t do much to improve the situation in the room.

A commanding voice rang through the room. “Stand down, the lot of you! And you, Dirge; let her pass.”

The giant man named Dirge moved to let her pass, but immediately got back to block his path.

“The little one too, you idiot!” Dirge moved again. The remaining patrons returned to their matters.

They stopped before the one who let them in: a middle aged man with long brown hair tied into ponytail by a purple ribbon trimmed with gold, dressed in clothes that looked like they were taken off a nobleman.

“So, what’s this business you’re here for, lass?” he asked.

“Nothing concerning you or your kind, thief,” she snapped dryly. “I wouldn’t even bother coming here if who I was after wasn’t hanging around with you.”

The man backed away theatrically, false insult plastered all over his face.

“Easy there, lass. No need to get unfriendly. After all, all business is our business.”

She frowned. The little one turned his head slightly, just in time to see a hand reach for her coinpurse. Without much thinking, he harshly slapped it away, prompting a short yelp from the owner of said hand. All present turned in their direction. He lifted his eyes to the face of a golden-haired woman who observed him with a mix of surprise and anger, stroking the back of her hand. The skin already started taking on a slight blue shade.

The man laughed. “Looks like you found your equal, Vex.” His eyes turned to him. “Mighty perceptive, this lad. He’d make a fine-”

“Don’t you even think about it.”

The man’s relaxed face suddenly turned sour. “Now now, lass; if you so insist on being unfriendly, I’m afraid I wil-”

“Oh leave her be, Brynjolf. Come here, you two.”

A young woman with long black hair led them away from the surprised Brynjolf and to platform built over the near side of the basin. A single person sat on a single bench there: a Bosmer woman currently busy with cleaning several silver-lines scalpels.

“Galathil, you have a customer,” the raven woman announced. Not missing a beat, she turned on her heel and walked away.

The woman named Galathil lifted her eyes. And then immediately lowered them back.

“I can’t fix scars. And don’t worry: you aren’t that hideous.”

“I’m not here for me.” Galathil lifted her eyes again. “I’m here for him.”

He felt a hand tug at his hood, exposing his face. Immediately, his gaze dropped to the planks below his feet: as if looking away will somehow make him less visible.

Galathil wouldn’t have it, however. Her hand roughly lifted his chin up, and the green eyes met the moss ones. For what seemed like hours, she studied him with rapt attention.

“Like I said, I cannot fix scars,” she finally announced. “It’s a different kind of tissue altogether. If I tried, I’d only make it worse.”

“So you said.”

“I cannot fix his eye, either. If he’s blind in it, you’d have better luck at the College.”

“I’m also aware. And he’s not blind.”

Galathil frowned. “Then what do you want me to do about him? The boy looks fine as is.”

The woman cast a glance around, making sure nobody was watching or listening. She leaned towards the Bosmer and whispered something in her ear. Galathil’s face softened as she spoke. When she was finished, Galathil reached out and gently tugged on his chin, signalling him to turn to side. This time, she studied him for only a few moments.

“Anything you’d want in particular?”

“Just smoothen it. If you have any bleaching solutions, use them. Make him look more… regular.” The last word sounded pained in her mouth. “Just one specific request I have.”

“And what would that be?” inquired Galathil.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

A burst of cold, salty water splashed him in the face. His eyes shot open as he gasped for breath, arms and leg’s flailing around. His head struck something hard, and the world became cloudy for a few moments.

The sound of barely restrained laughter brought him back. Livia stood a spear’s reach away from him dressed in her armour, hugging her belly, a grin etched in her face. An empty pail, still moist, laid at her feet.

“Up you go, old man!” she called out merrily. “We’re all ready. Just waiting for you.”

Gareth barely registered his words as he sat up, rubbing his painful forehead. “Ready for what?” he asked groggily.

“Disembarking. We’ll be in Dawnstar in half an hour.”

---

Livia’s prediction turned out correct: half an hour later they disembarked at a frosted pier. Livia herself never visited Dawnstar, but heard stories about it. Most of them described it as a little more than a village, with a small harbour being the only true source of income for the people. The cold, frozen soil, yielded little in crops, and the citizens had to rely on hunting and fishing, importing that which they couldn’t produce.

It’d seem, however, that the stories were somewhat outdated. While not as large as Solitude, Dawnstar was a large place. Certainly far larger than Ilinstead. And it seemed to only grow: several buildings were in construction on the west side, where no rocks or mountains impaired their growth. The harbour was, well, not small at all: no less than seven ships stood moored, either in the bay that city grew around, or on the farther sides, just outside the short stone walls. Most of them were classic Nordic vessels, ascetic and dour, but she also noticed a ship overly decorated with designs that she recognized as Hammerfellian and a strange ship that looked as if carved from a single piece of still living wood.

“After King Ulfric’s reforms,” Helena started, speaking to nobody in particular, “Dawnstar grew in importance. It is much more accessible than Solitude or Windhelm and, being placed on a route between Northpoint and Raven Rock, anyone who sails the Sea of Ghosts will stop here to restock. And so, the place grew at immense speed.”

Livia merely nodded, her eyes taking in the space around her. The harbour was as full of people as it could be. Most of them were sailors and fishermen, busy with weaving nets, carrying crates and barrels, arguing about prices, or doing other menial labours. One of the people there, who certainly wasn’t a sailor, caught her eye in particular.

One glance was enough to tell that he has lived through many winters, and had hated each and every one of them. His greying honey hair was slightly curly and greasy, falling just past his shoulders. His face was an unpleasant visage, equally wrinkled by age and an endless frown. His eyes, maybe once warm brown, were now a colour of rich clay. He was wrapped in mismatched furs, and flanked with two guardsmen armed with long spears, dressed in matching uniforms: light blue gambesons with an intricate four pointed stars etched on them: the coat of arms of the Pale.

Livia gently nudged Helena on the shoulder and gestured towards the man with a nod. Helena returned the nod and took the lead. The rest followed. They stopped in front of the trio, and Helena gently bowed her head: Livia never thought that someone was able to execute such a simple gesture with so much elegance.

“Greetings, my Thane,” she started. “We are-”

“I know who you are, woman,” he cut her off. His voice was deep and wheezing, as if he were sick. His eyes darted across them. He contemptuously snorted at Livia’s tiny stature, frowned at Aeriel’s smiling face, frowned even deeper at what he obviously considered an unneeded abundance of makeup around Helena’s eyes, and nodded ever so slightly at Gareth, whose frown now matched the harsh distaste of his own. “And yes, I am Loknar, Thane of Heljarchen and the lord of- ah, who even the fuck cares-” before he could finish, he was briefly interrupted by a violent fit of coughs. When it was done, he wiped his lips and swiftly moved his hand back under the cover of his cloak. Not swiftly enough for Livia not to notice a spray of red on his palm.

“And before you say it, I know why you’re here. I hired you, for Stuhn’s sake. Hrokir!” he croaked to one of his guards, “give them the map.”

The left of the guards stepped out and handed Helena a scroll, before returning to his exact place. The sorceress unfolded it: it was a crude, but informative enough map of the Heljarchen thanedom. A small, seemingly unremarkable area in the northeast corner of the map was rounded in charcoal.

“This is where she was abducted?” asked Helena, lifting her eyes from the parchment.

“Yes,” answered Loknar dryly. “We’ve been having problems with those animals for quite some time now, but they mostly settled for stealing a sheep here and there. But this time, my daughter went out for some bloody reason, and she never came back. We searched the area and found signs of struggle, but very little blood. I know they took her, but I can’t spare any guards to organize a full-scale search. If they decide to attack, we must be prepared. That’s where you come in. Erika!” he called out to the other guard. Like her comrade, she stepped out and returned in cheap, mechanical movements. She handed Gareth a small bag, filled with what was apparently coins. “For the expenses. Full payment will be rendered when you return Kirsten to me. Alive.”

“How will we know it’s her?” asked Gareth.

“Same hair as me,” said Loknar. “Blue dress. Has a silver pendant shaped like a snowflake.” Gareth nodded.

“One last question, my Thane,” started Helena carefully. “What if we… don’t make it in time?”

Loknar’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You can start praying to all the gods that the falmer do you in right there and then: what they’ll do to you is nothing compared to what I will if you return without my daughter. Now get moving!”

Loknar turned around and sped away, moving remarkably fast despite the noticeable limp. The guards followed him closely.

Livia broke the silence after a few moments. “Well… can’t be said that the man likes wasting time.”

“Can’t be said he’s polite either.” Helena sounded unamused. “I’m half my mind to just toss this bag into the harbour and hike back to castle.”

“Bad idea, Hela.” Gareth stepped out. “You need this job. So does Livia.” He looked at his apprentice with a glare that practically pleaded for her to not do anything stupid. She nodded. “So, let us follow our employer’s example and make haste. We’ll be travelling on foot, so we better start right now.”

An hour later, they reconvened in front of Highmoon Hall. Helena’s pouches, previously depressingly empty were now stacked with packets of herbs and several carefully picked vials of potions. Aeriel carried a quiver of arrows strapped over her shoulder. Livia hugged a small sack filled with some basic foodstuffs.

“Where’s the bow?” asked Gareth. He was carrying a bag with several evidently fragile objects.

“They didn’t have any,” said Aeriel.

“Not a single one?”

“Only some that date back to Ulfric’s time. Not reliable enough for our game.”

Gareth muttered a particularly juicy curse. “Ah, no matter: we’ll pick some up from the falmer. Ugly things, but they’ll do.”

“Falmer use bows?” Livia sounded genuinely surprised. “I thought they were blind.”

“Oh they are,” said Helena. “Which makes it all the more amazing how they’re capable of hitting anything.”

“How do they do it, then?”

Helena shrugged. “Nobody ever thought to ask them. Some say they just hear really good. Others that they follow the smell. I met a fella who swore that they could feel the vibrations around them. Whichever the case, their blindness isn’t much of an impairment to them.”

“And as much as I enjoy this scholarly discussion,” Gareth pitched in, “we don’t have time for this. We’re on a tight schedule.” Helena’s face grew as red as her hair.

“Did you get a horse?” Aeriel asked.

“I have,” said Gareth. “Seems that everything in this town in from Ulfric’s age, but he’ll do fine. Let’s go to the stables so we can load our stuff and get going.”

Sleipnir was a chestnut horse that, Livia thought, really looked like he was from Ulfric’s days. Nonetheless, he was calm and obedient enough, and didn’t mind carrying a load of saddlebags. Livia was offered to ride, but she refused, citing the desire to keep herself in shape. She didn’t want to admit that she couldn’t stand the idea of riding when everyone else had to walk.

Their progress was slow. Even with all their supplies loaded onto a horse, they had troubles tracking through a knee deep snow on the outskirts. Their progress only slowed down when dense new snow started falling. Livia did her best to further wrap herself in her cloak. Gareth soldiered on, shivering, but without a word, only occasionally slowing down ever so slightly to pick off the chunks of hoar that formed on his beard. Helena sang something in a voice barely louder than a whisper, and it took Livia a few hours to notice that no snow accumulated on her at all: any flake falling on her would instantly evaporate. She could only wonder at how nice being a mage must be. Only Aeriel marched on as if the snow was nothing more than particularly tall wheat.

Fortunately for Livia, Helena elected to walk with her. While Gareth and Aeriel walked in front, with Sleipnir in the middle, the two women followed close after. Helena did her best to entertain the young girl, and soon proved a veritable well of all things interesting, from things such as history and culture of various people and advice on facing various types of monsters, to the more mundane subjects such as makeup and dressing combination. Livia didn’t care much for the latter, but she listened nonetheless: whatever made the trip more bearable.

Night came remarkably soon, even for this time of year, and they decided to make camp in a grove of trees that was relatively untouched by snow. Taught by her last experience, Livia immediately offered to be the one to light the fire. The chuckling of the older members of the company confused her, and though she wouldn’t admit it, stung a little. She relaxed when she saw Helena kneel over a small pile of brambles. As she ran her fingers over them, they started darkening and smoking. Taking a moment to contemplate her own slowness, she went to help Gareth unload Sleipnir.

In stark contrast to their last night of camping, the atmosphere was all around pleasant. The blizzard subsided, giving way to a rare snowfall of tiny flakes. Even the simple meal of ham and hardtack with a side of nearly frozen tomatoes felt more pleasant in the company. Helena kept everyone’s spirits up with stories of local legends, using some simple magic for the more dramatic lighting. Despite her stories consisting mostly of missing people, evil supernatural entities, and bloody deaths, all present laughed heartily: the way she told them made even a brutal disembowelment at the hands of insane wispmother sound funny.

It was nice while it lasted, but the drowsiness soon fell on them. Livia was the first to start yawning, infecting the rest. Gareth hurried them to sleep, reminding them of their early start. Helena took the first watch. Before they all retired, Gareth sent the bag he brought from Dawnstar around. It got to Livia, and she reached in, pulling out a bottle of light brown liquid. Her brown knitted, and she looked up towards her master.

“Drink,” he said, before taking a long swig from his own, ending it with a dissatisfied growl. “You may not like it, but you’ll need it.”

Livia obliged, raising the bottle to her lips. “Don’t rush!” Helena tried to warn her. Too late: the tart, sharp tasting liquid spilled down her throat. She recoiled, dropping the bottle, coughing violently as some of the drink went down the wrong pipe. When she finally looked up, her eyes were teary.

“What in Oblivion...?” she demanded. Her throat stung and her tongue felt numb.

“Warming potion,” responded Gareth. “Or a ‘potion of cold resistance’, as the learned folks call it. Not exactly made from the best of ingredients, but hey: keeps you warm just like an other.” He took another sip from his bottle, grimacing from the taste. “Take the bottle with you. Hold it close. It mustn’t chill. If you wake up in the middle of the night and the cold is getting to you, take a sip. And trust me, you’ll need it for your watch.”

Carefully, Livia picked the bottle up. Stendarr bless, it fell into a patch of snow and didn’t shatter. She brushed the snow off of it and laid down on her prepared bedroll. She was too tired to let the jolt of the draught get to her. Sleep came in a heartbeat.

Gentle nudging woke her. She opened her eyes to see Aeriel’s face, slightly ruddy, smiling down at her.

“Last watch,” she whispered. “Only two hours, then we’re off.”

Livia stood up groggily. The bottle in her arms was slightly less full than she recalled, but she couldn’t for the love of Mara remember drinking from it. The snow fell somewhat stronger now, but not so much as to bury them. After a few moments of stretching, she took her place near the fire, sword drawn, staring relentlessly into the woods. Seeing her so stiff and serious, Aeriel let out a giggle as she wrapped herself in her own bedroll. “Don’t let the fire die,” she added. Seconds later, she was already asleep.

As short as her watch would be, it seemed like an eternity to Livia. The horizon was dark outside of the small circle of light that the fire cast. Despite the snowfall, the air was suspiciously still. No sound came from anywhere, save for the gentle hum of the fire. Every once in a while, a branch would crack, or some creature in the dark would make a noise, and Livia would sit up, scanning the ever so empty darkness around her. She couldn’t decide what was worse: the long empty silences, or the sudden sounds that pierced the dark without context or reason. What Aeriel had told her was indeed true: the winters of Skyrim were terrifying for those stuck outdoors.

Snap! A broken branch. Not from the fire. Different. New.

Whatever drowsiness held Livia cleared in a heartbeat. She snapped up and grabbed her sword, eyes darting over the darkness in front of her. Despite the lack of light, she could vaguely see the shapes moving before her, through the trees, towards the camp.

Just as she jumped off of her rock to engage, they attacked. Something swung towards her and she barely managed to club it to side with the flat of her sword. Whatever it was, it was fast, strong, and certainly no mindless monster. She couldn’t see them, but she could hear them: a deep, throaty croaking, intermixed with clicking, growling and hissing. And amongst it all there was breathing; heavy, ragged, and pained, as if every breath came at the cost of razor blades being scraped along the throat.

“Get up!” she screamed. Her words echoed eerily through the air. Something struck her in the chestplate and snapped. An arrow. “UP! Attack!”

Light to her side: a bolt of fire flew to her left, illuminating the darkness. For a brief moment, she saw a ghastly disfigured face, before the bolt slammed into it. A terrifying scream ripped the silence of the night. An off-task part of Livia’s mind registered a sound of hundreds of wings flapping, and the savage neighing of a frightened horse who did his best to rip free from the tree he was tied to.

In the faint light of the dying fire, she saw not much more than slouched creatures coming their way. They were smaller than grown humans, but not by much. They were pale, hairless, and mostly naked, seemingly unbothered by the cold. One of them swung something at her, and she parried it in the nick of time, throwing the creature off balance. Just as she raised her sword to strike, another creature rammed into her, knocking her down. She crashed onto the frosted ground and her sword flew out of her hand. Before she could even register the pain of the fall, she was already scampering about to find it, deaf to she sounds of battle and death around her. There! A glint of the polished silver in the snow. She almost felt relief as her fingers closed around the light leather of the grip. Almost.

A growl next to her. She rolled over and away just in time to avoid something that looked like a giant misshapen claw cleaving her belly open. Before she could stand up, it struck again. She raised her sword in defence and the other weapon collided with it. The claw came only a span away from her face. She tried to push it away, but the pressure was too great. As she struggled, she could, for the first time, see the face of her attacker.

Hairless like the rest of the body, the head was swollen near the rear end. Pointed ears, much larger than merish ones, twitched rapidly. The face was flat, with only two slits in a place of a nose, and thin, almost non-existent lips barely hid two rows of sharp, predatory teeth. The eyes were seemingly absent completely, with what appeared to be remnants of the eyelids clenched, as if the creature was eternally squinting. She was sure, however, that if the eyes could see her, they’d watch her with unending hatred.

The mangled visage leaned closer. It was too much for her. She kicked, hoping to hit something, anything. The tip of her boot struck tough, sinewy flesh, and she felt the pressure vanish, as the creature stumbled. But she didn’t strike hard enough to push it over; it growled and threw itself on her.

The fear that she felt vanished, giving way to pure panic. All those swings and stances that she spent weeks practising were forgotten. She swung in blind frenzy, again and again, not even aiming to land a blow. And yet she somehow succeeded; the creature howled like a whipped dog as the blade struck. Where, she couldn’t tell; it was already fleeing, running on all fours, melding with the darkness, leaving behind only the acrid smell of blood and crimson stains in the snow, illuminated sickly by the dying embers.

It was over just as suddenly as it began. Livia tried to prop herself up on her hands, but they were shaking too much. It took her a few moments to realize she was hyperventilating, and that her heart was beating so strongly that it seemed it would rip both through her breast and breastplate.

The snow behind her crunched.

The pang of fear reinvigorated her. For a moment, she was blind and deaf to it all: pain, cold, fatigue; all of it vanished from her mind in a savage rush of survival. She rolled over to her knees, and shot up, readying her sword, taking no more than a heartbeat to aim her slash.

The red haired woman that she was just about to bisect yelped and backed away. Livia froze, too dumbfounded to even realize what she almost did.

“Is she alright?” asked someone. The voice was deep and loud. And concerned.

“She’s fine, quite fine. She’s just still under the impression is all. Let me see if I can mend that.”

Suddenly, she was assailed by a wave of pleasant warmth. It was as if the world around her became pink. That was the only way she could describe it to herself. All worries vanished from her mind. Her eyelids relaxed, and so did her hands. The tip of her sword fell to the snowy ground. Involuntarily, her lips stretched into a smile.

Some remnant of her consciousness that still cared about anything registered Helena standing in front of her. Her right hand was raised as if she was trying to hold something down, and fine beige mist lazily moved around her fingers. Moment later, she lowered her hand.

“There, that should do it,” she exclaimed.

Immediately, Livia felt tension returning to her limbs and mind alike. “What did you do to me?” she demanded.

“A basic calm spell with some minor modifications.” explained Helena, as she knelt to study a carcass with a long gash over the neck. “I created it as a part of my Warlock exam in the College, just for such purposes.”

Though the prospect of being under a spell didn’t thrill her, Livia was glad her mind was clear once again. She turned around to inspect the clearing.

Seven corpses littered the ground of their campsite. They were scattered around unevenly; quite literally in case of one that was hit with a spell. Chunks of bone and brains were strewn about, and Livia felt her stomach rebelling at the sight. Two of the corpses, she noticed, had strange wounds: shrivelled, almost cauterized, as if the blade that cut them was scalding.

A mystery for later, she decided. “Falmer?” she asked carefully. She only ever saw the beings in the books. They were even uglier in real life.

“Falmer,” confirmed Gareth. He paid no attention to her anymore, pacing near the edge of the camp from which they were attacked. He stopped, seemingly having found what he was after. His lips stretched into a disturbing grin. “Well. well: that’s fortunate.”

Livia had half a mind to call him a brainless git. How could a night raid of monsters that almost cost her her life be fortunate? But if her previous experiences taught her anything, it was that he didn’t speak like that without reason. So she opted for a more temperate approach.

“How so?” she inquired, in her best ‘curious student’ voice.

“Come here,” he gestured, “and tell me what you see.”

Tracks. Dozens of them, imprinted clearly into the snow. She looked up to her master’s face.

“Falmer may be remarkably clever for common monsters, but for whatever reason, I don’t think they grasp the concept of tracks. In all my years, I never saw them so much as try and cover them.”

“So we won’t have to look for them,” concluded Livia. “We can just follow them back to their lair.”

“Correct,” said Aeriel. During the brief exchange, she has somehow managed to pack the camp and load most of their things on Sleipnir, who was, Livia noticed, calm as if the attack never happened. “Hey, look at this.” Aeriel was kneeling, raising something in the air for them to see: it was a bow, crafted out of what appeared to be the legs of some giant insect. Livia knew instantly that she’ll never take it in her hands.

“Nice catch,” smiled Helena. “But it will be dawn soon. And if it keeps snowing like this, the tracks will be covered in hours. We must move now.”

And so they did. They advanced through the trees swiftly, the more shallow snow not enough to impede them in any real measure. It was almost comically easy to follow the tracks, and even Livia, with almost no experience in the matter, never lost sight of where they were to go. But there were so many, stretching seemingly forever. None of them could tell where they were now. The fact that the snowfall weakened in the meantime didn’t help much.

“Helena, can you cast the Aetherial Eye?” asked Gareth as they stopped after close to two hours to catch their breath.

“Y-yes,” she responded in shaky breaths. She puckered her lips: months spent lazing about had done her no favours, and the long night marches were more exhausting than she remembered. She would have to resume her exercises as soon as she had the chance. But even out of shape, she still had her most potent weapon: raw magical power that was hers to weave as she pleased. The sinew of glittering energy coiled around her hands as she drew out the shape in the air above her head. The Eye of Magnus, all-seeing and all knowing. And sight and knowledge were what she needed now.

“Livia, no matter what happens, you mustn’t touch me,” she said to the girl. “Understand?”

Livia nodded. Good enough.

She continued with her spell, adding intricate designs to the Eye’s sclera. One small misstep could cause the spell to fail. A larger one… but she didn’t want to think about it. With one final streak that drew a vertical line on the pupil, the Eye was complete. She shut her eyes as she faced the symbol: the sight she would see now didn’t require something so mundane. Just as her face and the Eye lined up, a tendril of energy shot out from the pupil and embedded herself within her forehead. She gasped at the unpleasant sensation, something rather impossible to get used to.

“Stop,” she heard Gareth say. “Remember that you mustn’t touch her. She mustn’t be dist…”

His voice faded away. Everything faded away. She felt nothing: not the cold, not the velvety texture of her robes or the cold touch of her chainmail, no fatigue or hunger. And when her sight returned, the world was hundreds of paces below her, the snowy fields and evergreen forest spread out as far as she could see. Low-hanging clouds swirled all around her as they sown snow onto the ground. No matter how many times she saw it, the view was breathtaking, and she couldn’t help but to laugh out loud. Not like anyone or anything would hear her anyway. But she had little time to enjoy herself: a task was at hand.

There: a glowing spot, no bigger than her pinkie nail. That’s where her body was. She turned northeast, where the tracks led, hoping to catch sight of any caves, or even rock outcroppings. Nothing. She focused harder, straining her eyes to look further beyond. There. Just an endless expanse of white and green to any lesser eye. But to her... Smiling, she relaxed and closed her eyes. The sensations came back abruptly and swiftly, and she sighed at the sudden flood to her mind and body. She lost her balance and fell back, unceremoniously planting her rear onto the forest floor. She heard the sound akin to the burning of fire: a sign that the symbol of the eye evaporated.

Before she could start making sense of the world around her, a blur with hands seized her shoulders and shook her fiercely. She blinked a few times to clear out the haze. The blur turned into Livia’s concerned face.

“Are you alright?” she asked, her voice shaky. “You’ve gone pale as corpse, and you didn’t move, you didn’t even breathe-”

Helena smiled, gently pressing her finger to the rambling girl’s lips. “I assure you I’m quite alright. But I could still use some help getting up.”

Without question, Livia pulled her up. Not as gently as she would like. She resolved to teach her some ladylike habits when they got back to the castle.

“The spell merely took a lot out of me,” explained Helena, wiping the snow from the back of her robes. It was true, but not completely. Aetherial Eye was a powerful spell that allowed one’s spirit to vacate the body, and see the world from above. Nothing but potent magic could impede the advancement of an incorporeal soul, and the sight, no longer chained by moral limitations and restraints, was much stronger, seeing not only better and further, but more. But such a power came at a terrible risk. Aside from being very taxing on one’s magicka, it was incredibly dangerous: having her body moved, even the tiniest bit, would snap her awake, which could damage her mind. And staying away for too long would kill the empty body that no longer remembered to breathe. If that happened, she’d suffer fate worse than death: an invisible, intangible spirit, that could never find rest nor enter the afterlife on a simple technicality that it never truly died. She involuntarily shivered at the thought.

“It wasn’t for nothing, though,” she added, forcing a smile over her taxed breathing. “I found it.”

Gareth planted a peck on her forehead. “Good girl.” He then turned serious. “How far?”

“Not very. We should be there in a dozen minutes. The entrance is in a small hill. We would’ve missed it if we just walked.”

“What do you mean?” Aeriel inquired.

Helena forced another smile. “The bastards put a lid on it: a plate of something, probably a discarded sheath of Dwemer metal, covers the entrance to their lair.”

“And let me guess: they masked it somehow,” said Livia.

Helena nodded. “Moss, mostly. Enough to cheat anyone who didn’t take a second glance. And it’s covered in a fresh layer of snow right now.”

“I really don’t give them enough credit,” decided Gareth. “Crafty little freaks, they. Well, we know where they are now. We better hurry.

Quarter of an hour later led them to the end of trail. As Helena foreseen, it ended right in front of an unremarkable mound of earth that barely passed for a hill. If they didn’t know it was there, they would have indeed missed it.

“Where is it?” asked Livia.

Instead of answer, Helena stuck out a hand in the direction of the mound. A stream of warm air flowed out from her palm, melting the thin layer of snow, revealing grass underneath. She moved her hand, and the stream followed, revealing more of forest floor. Suddenly, a glint.

“There,” she said, lowering her hand, visibly exhausted. Taking the cue, Livia dashed to source of the glint and started sweeping off the snow. The plate was there, tarnished by weather and half-covered in moss, but otherwise untouched. She gripped it and yanked it; it came off more easily than expected.

Immediately, she was assaulted by a wave of godless stench. Her stomach rebelled and she pressed her nose before it could riot.

“First time?” quizzed Helena. “Don’t worry: it doesn’t get easier.”

How is that supposed to be a good thing, thought Livia to herself as the reeking odour forced the tears on her eyes. It was a combination of rotting meat and faeces that seemed only somewhat animal. “How in Oblivion do they live in this?” she inquired.

“Eh, they’re born in it, live in it, and die in it,” said Gareth as he leaned over to study the opening. It was a narrow corridor dug diagonally down into the earth. They’d have to crawl some distance, but he had no doubts it extended into a cave later on. “I’m sure they never noticed it at all.”

“Let’s go in,” said Aeriel, seemingly not too eager to follow up on her words. Livia couldn’t blame her: the opening looked like a jaw of some massive creature. Roots hanging from above didn’t help to ease that impression.

“Wait, shouldn’t we bring torches?” she asked. “How will we see?”

“Torches won’t do much good in the tunnel,” said Aeriel. “Not considering we have to crawl. But don’t worry: you’ll see we won’t need them.” With a wink, she got on all fours, and crawled in.

“I’ll go in, next,” said Helena. “Livia, you’ll follow me.”

Livia nodded. Having the strongest members on the front and back respectively was a good plan. She had no wish to contest it.

The air in the tunnel was colder than outside, but the floor was trampled and frosted into a firm, nearly smooth mass. Livia found herself strangely grateful for that: despite the stench, the cold, and the slippery ground, at least she wasn’t sinking into the mud. Silver lining, she figured.

As they delved deeper into the earth, Livia started feeling uneasy. She grew up in the sparse, almost open forests of northern Rift, where daylight and clean air were abundant. Crawling through a narrow tunnel, only ever going further underground, made her more than a little claustrophobic. It didn’t help that the descent worsened after few minutes. The smooth ground beneath her grew slippery from the warmth of so many bodies stuffed into the tunnel, and she caught herself imagining what would happen if she slipped even a bit. The image of sliding uncontrollably and striking into soil that was as hard as iron unnerved her, so she shut it out. Her late grandmother used to say that those who look for grim future end up looking at it, and Livia took her saying to heart.

Even so, the descent was unpleasant. What little air was there to breathe was polluted by stench, and the ground wasn’t getting any more sure. Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more of it, her hand caught onto something smooth and leathery. She recognized it as Helena’s boot. She stopped. But why?

Moments later, Helena disappeared from her view, revealing dim light ahead. Without hesitation, Livia followed, doubling her efforts to get out. Soon enough, the air felt less sparse, and brief inspection confirmed that there was no more tunnel around her. She stood up on her feet, gratefully stretching her arms.

They seemed to be in a more open area now. As her eyes adjusted to the illumination, Livia could see the earthy walls of a small cavern, littered with rocks and some strange luminescent mushrooms. Despite that, it was too dark to really see anything.

“Should I conjure us a candlelight?” asked Helena quietly from somewhere behind her.

“Don’t,” responded Aeriel in a hushed voice. “Save your magicka. I’ll take care of it.”

A smooth, almost slick hiss of the blade sliding against its sheath was heard, just for a moment, as Aeriel loosened her blade from its holder. She pointed it away from her, angling the edge slightly upward, and gently ran her finger along the now exposed edge, leaving a slight trail of blood behind. Livia had seen far worse today alone, but couldn't help but wince at the sight; the sound of her own teeth gritting almost drowned out the sound of Aeriel silently humming in some unknown language while she spread the blood along the flat of the blade in smooth, almost artistic moves. As she spoke the last word, the blood on the blade lit up, glowing faint red. The glow soon turned orange, spreading over the entire blade, and growing in luminosity.

Livia barely managed to contain an excited gasp. The blade looked like was freshly brought out of the forge fire, glowing gentle yellow. “There, that should do,” said Aeriel. She stuck the cut finger in her mouth, sucking on it for a few seconds. When she pulled it out, the cut was gone.

“I never knew you practised blood magic,” said Helena.

“This isn’t really blood magic,” responded Aeriel. “Not the kind most people know.”

“And what kind is it?”

“Quiet, now,” ordered Gareth firmly. “You can discuss it all you want later. But we’ve work to do now, and silence is our greatest ally. This way.”

He lead them through a mouth of a corridor, just narrow enough that they couldn’t walk abreast. Livia frowned in silent annoyance, forced to move carefully and slowly to avoid making noise. She forced herself to think of a silver lining to it all: sure, she once again had to move slowly, but this time she was at least able to see where she was going. After a few minutes, the rocky walls gave way to ice. It became damnably cold. Livia shivered, finding herself grateful for the gambeson that offered her at least some degree of protection.

They spotted their first falmer at the end of the tunnel. A guard who looked as bored as a monster could possibly be. Gareth made quick work of him by sneaking up behind him and slashing his throat open while shutting his mouth with his free hand. The creature kicked and flailed for only a few moments before going limp. Gently, so as to not cause noise, he lowered the body to the floor. He turned to them, and smiled, the light of Aeriel’s sword dyeing his teeth in an infernal shade of orange. His smile faded, however, when he turned around to scan the room. Helena frowned, and approached him, gesturing the others to follow. It was only when Livia stood by them that the scope of what they’ve gotten themselves into became clear to her.

They stood on the ledge overlooking a large icy cavern. The ceiling and the walls were littered with luminescent bluish crystals, providing for a breathtaking view. Unfortunately, what stood below them was also breathtaking, although for quite different reasons. Surrounded by the walls stood what was almost a village of falmer. Livia counted at least thirty seven, sitting around fires or wandering about; she assumed at least half of that out of sight. There was no way they could take all of them.

She felt a pat on the shoulder: Gareth was pointing to the opposite end of the cavern. The ledge they stood on encircled the cavern like a crescent, and on the other end, a crevice was cut into the icy wall, standing out like a wound. He waved to Aeriel, gesturing in a motion reminiscent of pulling something.

Aeriel quickly obliged, removing the bow and the quiver from her shoulder and handing them to Gareth. He nodded to Helena, prompting her to hurriedly search her pouch, producing a small vial filled with yellow liquid. Livia watched confused as he fastened the vial to the head of one of the arrows. When he drew the bow, almost nothing was heard. He loosened the arrow that arced high up, almost hitting the ceiling. It struck the wall to their right, followed by the unmistakable sound of glass shattering.

The sound of the hissing filled the chamber. It echoed deafeningly in the oppressive silence of the room. More than anything, it sounded like an ice wraith. A very large and very angry ice wraith. It was followed immediately by the sounds of croaking and growling, as the falmer abandoned whatever it is they were doing in rush to inspect the source of the sound.

“Now!” urged Helena. They ran across the ledge, quickly, but still minding to make as little noise as possible. Livia cast a fleeing glance to see most falmer gathered around the spot where the vial burst, rasping in frustration as they failed to pinpoint the source of the sound.

“What was that?” she asked when they finally reached the crevice and silently crept into it.

“The Redguards call it Serpent’s Maw,” explained Helena. “Its something the children in Hammerfell use to play practical jokes. Pour a single drop on it on sand or stone, and it start hissing like a venomous snake. I used it a few times when I was a kid. My mum and dad hated it.”

“And it works on ice too?” asked Livia.

“Apparently so, yes.” Helena smirked. “Though I had no idea what would happen when the whole thing got poured out at once. And on ice at that.”

“So you didn’t know if it would work at all?” Livia sounded stupefied.

“Hey, that’s how you learn the trade,” responded Helena seriously. “Let’s go in. If she’s alive she must be freezing.”

The silence they advanced in was broken by Livia sooner than anyone expected. “So why do falmer capture people at all.”

“Workforce, sometimes food,” responded Helena. She cast an eye to Livia over her shoulder. “Wasn’t that covered in Ursa Uthrax’s second book?”

“It was, but she hasn’t read it, didn’t she?” said Gareth. Livia turned away, blushing. “It was boring,” she admitted.

Gareth sighed. “What shall I do with you…”

Livia mouthed to respond with a biting remark, when she bumped into something. It was Helena, who now stood motionless. Livia took a step around her. And gasped.

On the ground before them lay who could only be Kirsten, daughter of thane Loknar. But Livia only managed to recognize her by the ragged remains of what was once likely a majestic blue dress. The girl was almost naked and shivering, her light honey hair greased together and her face filthy. The snowflake pendant was nowhere to be found. Her grey eyes were glassy and vacant, but when she noticed them, she silently sobbed and hugged her knees to her chest. Not fast enough for Livia not to notice the stains on her thighs.

“Sweet Dibella…” Gareth gasped. “Livia, look away.”

But Livia couldn’t look away. She stared in the girl’s pained face, trying not to think of the horrors that the girl endured in her brief captivity. She was half aware of Aeriel hugging her and sinking her face in her neck. She seemed to take it worse. She turned to Helena to ask if they could help her, but stopped.

The look on the red haired woman’s face cleared Livia’s mind of all imagined horrors. After all, how could thoughts persist in a face of much more terrifying reality? What was undoubtedly a look of shock and horror rapidly burned into the look of rage and unrelenting hatred. The sound of the leather creaking revealed that she was clenching her fists. Gareth must’ve heard it too, because he shot around, his face horrified and concerned.

“Helena…” he started, pleadingly, “Helena, please don’t.”

But she didn’t listen any more. She turned around and stormed to the entrance. Her balled up fists bled dense grey smoke.

“Curses!” Gareth hissed. He leaned down and tried to pick up Kirsten. He backed away when she started kicking and pushing him away, openly crying as his fingers touched her. “Fuck. Aeri, grab her,” he commanded. “Livia, come with me, now!”

They raced after Helena through the crevice, arriving just a moment too late. She stood on the ledge overlooking the depression. Her fists were now bathed in living flames.

“HEY!” she bellowed. The echo multiplied her voice into a ghastly choir. She swung her fist in a punching motion, throwing the fireball in a group of falmer that have only just turned around to the source of the noise. It struck one in the chest and exploded into a burning flower. Several of the creatures caught in the blaze screamed in agony, while the rest scattered, either seeking cover or weapons. But Helena wasn’t done: she continued showering them with fireballs that exploded when they struck, adding to the cacophony of death and destruction.

“COME ON!” she roared, following every word with a new fireball. “How do you like that, you fucking freaks? Come get some more!”

“Helena, stop!” cried Livia, grabbing her shoulder and immediately letting go with a scream. The skin of her palms was singed. Helena didn’t even register her.

“Gareth! Livia!” came a voice from behind. Aeriel was running up to them, carrying Kirsten in her arms. The girl seemed unconscious. “We must go, now.”

“But Helena-” Livia protested.

“She can take care of herself!” Aeriel said, almost squealing. “We must go, now!” she repeated. She seemed more terrified than anyone present.

“She’s right,” admitted Gareth, drawing his sword. “And unless we move, we’re in for it.” Livia’s gaze escaped to the entrance, and she suddenly felt an irresistible urge to utter a particularly colourful curse that included Slave Queen Alessia and some domestic animals: several falmer were climbing onto the ledge, cutting off their escape.

Gareth charged towards the entrance.“Aeri, Livia! On me! We must get there before more of them climb!” Drawing her sword, Livia charged after him. Aeriel followed with less enthusiasm, but no less urgency.

The first falmer that reached to top fell back when the tip of Gareth’s sword pierced him through the neck. The one that tried to climb next to him joined him when Livia kicked him square in the face, sending him back to the bottom. She batted away a club strike and retaliated by striking her attacker on the shoulder. He let go of the ledge, howling as his arm bled. Livia pushed him away, and he fell too.

Feeling a sudden hook in her gut, Livia’s eyes turned to Helena. Just in time to see a catastrophe: an errant fireball, misdirected when Helena lost her balance for just a moment when trying to fend off an attacker, struck ceiling instead of its target. It immediately cracked and crumbled, falling in large pieces, burying a number of falmer. And Helena with them.

“NO!” she screamed, forgetting for a moment the danger she was in herself. Gareth turned to her, and his eyes widened in shock.

“Helena!” he bellowed, breaking into run.

Again, a moment of reduced caution proved fatal: a jagged blade of an axe swung and reaped its way into Gareth’s right thigh. He roared in pain, only managing to slash his attacker over the face before falling down.

Before Livia knew, the shivering form of Kirsten was shoved into her arms. “Gareth!” Aeriel cried as she tried to pull him up with one hand while desperately warding off the howling monsters with another. Gareth seemed to be rapidly losing consciousness. Blood was pouring out from the terrible wound on his leg, and he dropped his sword.

“Livia, get her out now!” Aeriel yelled. Not wasting a moment, Livia obliged, rushing into the tunnel, trying her best to move sideways. Aeriel followed soon after, dragging Gareth who couldn’t even stand anymore. “Wait… my sword…Helena...” was all that he could muster before his head fell to his chest.

Dropping him, Aeriel swung her sword at the floor of the corridor. The icy ground ignited as if doused in oil, forming a metre tall wall of flames. She grabbed unconscious Gareth, dragging him away from the howling mob of Falmer that seemed none too eager to follow them.

Livia never for a moment stopped to ask about Helena or Gareth. The sense of urgency pushed her forward as she pulled herself up the first tunnel, half carrying half dragging Kirsten with her. It was only when she emerged out and into the open air that she collapsed, breathing heavily. Behind her, she could hear Aeriel sobbing as she cradled Gareth’s unconscious body. And moments later, Livia joined her. They were defeated on all fronts: Gareth was grievously injured. Kirsten seemed more dead than alive. Aeriel stared into the distance, wide-eyed and unmoving, save for the silent cries that shook her entire body.

And Helena wasn’t even here anymore.