Of Eagles and Dragons, The Children of Kyne, Vol. IV Options

[Kane]

You always seem to pick up on my breadcrumbs with things like her hair! If only the celebrations didn't have to end, though.
Anyhoo, here we go, right back into the cold!

{================}

Chapter XXVI – Darkfall’s Embrace

The mountain winds cascaded over a broad river delta and drove an icy draft directly into the campsite of Linneá Windborne and Gwyndala Louvain. Snow fell lightly in the darkness outside of their tent, but inside the air stayed warm and dry courtesy of a magickal flame floating just above the linen floor, directly between their sleeping bags.

Perimeter alarms were set. Noise dampening spells were cast. And the two dogged adventurers snored obnoxiously for most of the night.

When the sun arrived once more in a vain attempt to pierce the veil of winter snow, Linneá roused herself and set out a plate of dried venison and two apples for a light breakfast. Despite her rustling around for the last few minutes, the tousled hair of Gwyn poking out the top of her sleeping bag remained inert. That is until a gentle prod to the shoulder brought an end to a captivating dream.

“Leave me alone, Linn. I was just getting to the good part.”

“We need to get moving, sis. Mum says a wicked storm is blowing in from Morrowind later today. I want to get beyond this valley before visibility is gone, and we have to hunker down to wait out the snow.”

“Can’t you just Shout it away?”

“She doesn’t like when we mess with the natural order of things like that.”

“’Course she doesn’t.”

Gwyn finally rolled onto her back and sat up with a loud yawn and a craning stretch. She grabbed a hairbrush from her bag and attempted to tame the mess on her head while Linneá began rolling up her own sleeping bag and doing light stretches of her own to limber up for a double-time march and then started on breakfast.

Deciding a hood would be less of a struggle, Gwyn tossed the brush aside and took a swig of water.

“How much further until the cave?”

“I was hoping only another four days, but the weather could double that if we get several more inches of fresh snow.”

“[censored]. We should have rode the damn horses.”

“The mares common in Solitude don’t like it up here in the Reach. The ground is so rocky that they have trouble retaining balance. And if you don’t know exactly there the paths go, you can easily ride right over a cliff.” Linneá picked up her strip of salted meat and chewed thoughtfully on it. A notion occurred to her that could help speed things along, though she wasn’t sure if Gwyn would go for it. “What if were to summon a mount that might be indifferent to the landscape?”

Linneá had received a lot of intense glares in her time, but nobody she’d ever met levied them as practically and effectively as Gwyn managed to. The Breton perfected it into an art form that could render anyone she faced to reconsider whatever ill-timed idea or too late thought was about to come her way. Most annoyingly to Gwyn, however, her soon-to-be sister-in-law found it to be quite humorous and took great pride in riling her up.

“You better have an iron-clad reason for not having [censored] summoned it already, Linn.”

“Does the prospect of clinging to my waist while jostling about on the bony spine of a skeletal horse from the Soul Cairn sound like an acceptable alternative to walking?”

Gwyn actually winced at the idea of it. She didn’t exactly have a lot of meat on her bones and wondered how bruised and battered her groin would be by the time they reached their destination. She certainly wouldn’t be having any fun with her fiancé for a few days.

“Sounds awful, if I’m being honest,” said Gwyn. “Maybe I can sit on a spare cloak. I’d rather not be bow-legged for a week.”

“Well, give it some thought while we pack up and start walking.”

Outside the tent it was cold. So cold, in fact, that Gwyn wanted to crawl right back inside and hibernate for the winter. Instead, she sighed dramatically and cast her warmth spell while donning a cloak and hood over her already several layers deep wardrobe. They packed up the camp and headed due west along the riverbank until a marker stone bearing a clumsily inscribed signpost pointed towards the faintest traces of a dirt path veering slightly north. By mid-morning, the impending storm promised by Kyne nipped at their heels, the sky grey skies filling with turbulent clouds.

“It’s now or never, Gwynnie,” said Linneá, coming to a halt. “I can summon Arvak or we pitch the tent again and hunker down until tomorrow.”
More delays were not enticing to Gwyn. Neither was the prospect of riding a saddle-less undead horse at breakneck speed to outrun the storm for the next three days. But it would be at least a week on foot, plus the lost time today, if they stayed the current course.

“Ugh. I hate this. I just want to go home.”

The pain and fatigue would be easy enough to deal with after a long day of riding, and they had plenty of alchemy ingredients on hand if a healing spell didn’t quite cut it. She couldn’t think of a downside to being uncomfortable if it meant reaching their destination sooner. However, there also happened to be another matter she’d been putting off in fear of further disappointment.

Gwyn admired the emerald ring on her finger, and then, with a deep sigh, placed the hand on her belly and focused inward.

Anything? Cain whispered silently to her from across the province.

No. She drew the hand away and brushed off tears of frustration. Least I don’t have to worry about jostling a baby around.

It’ll happen, promised Cain. It’s not supposed to be easy.

That doesn’t help.

“Call up your mount, Linn. Let’s get the hell away from that storm.”

Linneá gritted her teeth in concentration, brought a hand high above her head, and then cast it down towards the frozen earth. A blinding flash of purple so dark it neared black called forth a magickal vortex and the silent invocation conjured Arvak, the skeletal horse of the Soul Cairn that she had once ridden across that terrifying and desolate realm with Serana at her back.

“Oh!” exclaimed Gwyn. “Linn, he’s not at all what I expected!”

“I know what you mean,” said Linneá, resting a hand on Arvak’s bony haunch. “He has a sort of ethereal charm that is hard to quantify.” She gripped his side and swung a leg over his back with a leap and then offered a hand to Gwyn, who promptly batted it away.

“Hell no. I’m not making some undignified attempt that ends up with me flat on my ass.” Gwyn flicked her wrist and cast a short levitation spell that floated her neatly up onto the horse’s back, right behind Linneá. “Just don’t tell anyone I did that.”

“I didn’t you know could do that, sis,” said an impressed Linneá. “What other tricks do you have hidden up those petite sleeves?”

“Plenty. I taught myself a lot of alternatives to destruction magick. Now can we get a move on?”

Linneá patted Arvak encouragingly on the head and he took off at a blistering gallop.

-----

The entrance to Darkfall Cave loomed into view as a shadowy smudge pressed into the side of a sheer cliff face. Three days had lapsed since summoning Arvak and riding off into the cold. Three days of painful nights in a tent brewing restorative potions in Linneá’s alembic. Three days of Gwyn massaging her tender legs and aching groin. But they’d made great time and finally arrived a full five days sooner than anticipated.

“What’s inside?” inquired Gwyn while casting a healing spell to keep herself from falling to her knees in pain.

“Dunno. Ana and I tussled with some spiders and the odd troll last time. Hopefully Gelebor will still be waiting at the first Wayshrine.”

“The Snow Elf you spoke of?”

“Mhm.” Linneá cast another conjuration spell and their tent solidified on a flat spot ten feet away from the cave mouth. “In you go, Gwynnie.”
“What? Why? It’s only noon. Let’s just do what we came here to do.”

“Because you can barely walk, sis. We’ll rest up for a few hours, maybe have a nap. In you go. No discussions.”

Gwyn thought about responding in a hostile manner over being ordered around by someone younger than her, but she didn’t have it in her. Instead, she limped over to the tent, opened the flap, and threw herself on the ground inside of it.

Rough day? thought Cain.

[censored] off.

Nothing more could be said, for Gwyn passed out for the next two hours while Linneá brewed another strong potion for her struggling companion.

-----

By late afternoon, Gwyn felt much better. They’d broken into their high-quality rations to fix up a hot meal for the occasion and even brewed some lavender infused tea to sip at before Gwyn quaffed down her final healing potion and took a few gingerly steps outside in the snow.

“I should be alright, Linn. Thanks, by the way. You make one hell of draught.”

“Learned from the best,” she shrugged.

“Serana?”

“That goes without saying.”

The tent dispelled with another wave of Linneá’s hand, and together they stepped into Darkfall Cave with candlelight spells illuminating the way forward.

Tangled roots encrusted with ice descended from the ceiling. A few inches of half-melted snow had blown in on strung gusts from increasingly prevalent winter storms causing their initial incursion to be a treacherous ordeal. But soon enough the influences of precipitation began to cease until only a partially frozen scree of rock and dirt remained underfoot. Down rocky slopes and around damp, cold bends they crept for the next several hours. Eventually they reached an open pit and Linneá led them down a twisting ledge that spun further into the depths of the mountain.

Soon they came to a natural bridge carved from stone that spanned an underground river Gwyn could hear rushing by far below in a torrent. She tried not to imagine how far a fall that would be, and kept her eyes fixed firmly forward while crossing to the other side.

“Ana and I fell into that river last time,” said Linneá. “We had to go a different way and foolishly trusted a decrepit rope bridge.”

“It broke while you were on it? I’d have pissed myself.”

“I almost did when we finally washed up at the bottom of a waterfall. I saw her prone form on the shoreline and started panicking, but she was okay. Just had the wind knocked out of her.”

“That was a while ago, right? How old were you two?”

“Um, let me think… it would have been late two twenty-four, so we were only twenty-two at the time.”

Gwyn reached the other side and turned to face her. “[censored], Linn. You were practically still kids.”

“Yeah, well, we both had to grow up fast to survive in this world.” Linneá pointed towards another passageway leading deeper into the mountain. “We’re almost there. C’mon.”

“Hey, wait a sec,” said Gwyn. She grabbed Linneá’s hand and held her in place. “Look, if everything goes as planned, and Cain succeeds your father… you, Serana, and Salihn don’t have to stick around the palace for our benefit. The three of you need each other and if that means moving back to Elysium or buying some other home out in the country then don’t ever hesitate to tell us so. From what I’ve come to know about you, you two’ve earned it ten times over.”

Linneá didn’t know what to say, so she settled for hugging Gwyn tightly. The notion of being out of the public eye wasn’t something she ever thought possible, despite how much they longed for it after the initial novelty of Kirin ascending to the throne wore off. The prospect of being given and out enticed her greatly.

We’ll discuss it when you return home, love, Serana thought to her. I admit it is tempting.

It’s going to be on my mind all the time now.

She released Gwyn from her embrace and rested a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll have our eternal thanks if you can pull that one off, my queen.”

“Oh, knock it off with that queen [censored],” laughed Gwyn, playfully smacking Linneá’s shoulder. She gestured ahead: “lead on!”

Through the passage they went and moments later Linneá and Gwyn were trekking across an open cavern with low ceilings held aloft by pillars of stone interspersed with stale pools of runoff water. A fire crackled merrily within a small ring some distance ahead, and the figure of a tall humanoid could just be made out standing beside the flickering flames. Beyond the humble living area stood an ancient Wayshrine carved from white marble, the symbols of Auri-El borne into the apex.

And Knight-Paladin Gelebor watched their approach carefully.

[Acadian]

Gwyn is not really cut out for this Nordic adventuring – especially in the winter! Linneá does a good job of trying to ease the way for the heavily bundled up little Breton. Gwyn knows a levitation spell! Too bad she doesn’t seem to know a ‘summon saddle’ or even a ‘summon pillow’ spell to help preclude sore netherbits. Arvak certain did speed up the duo’s trek though.

Quite the crawl down into Darkfall Cave. No sign of falmer yet, but hopefully Knight-Paladin Gelebor will be able to shed some helpful light on the mystery. And share the warmth of his fire.

[Grits]

That was an excellent engagement party.

As a fellow curly-haired person I can relate to Gwyn trading her brush for a hood!

Gwyn’s journey went from freezing to freezing on a bone horse. Knight-Paladin Gelebor’s fire must be a welcome sight. I’m curious what he will have to say.

[Kane]

Gwyn is not really cut out for this Nordic adventuring - especially in the winter! Linneá does a good job of trying to ease the way for the heavily bundled up little Breton. Gwyn knows a levitation spell! Too bad she doesn’t seem to know a ‘summon saddle’ or even a ‘summon pillow’ spell to help preclude sore netherbits. Arvak certain did speed up the duo’s trek though.

Quite the crawl down into Darkfall Cave. No sign of falmer yet, but hopefully Knight-Paladin Gelebor will be able to shed some helpful light on the mystery. And share the warmth of his fire.

Skyrim will make a Nord out of Gwyn yet! Well, that or she'll just reassert her Breton notions on the populace. Yes, that is probably more likely.

That was an excellent engagement party.
As a fellow curly-haired person I can relate to Gwyn trading her brush for a hood!

Gwyn’s journey went from freezing to freezing on a bone horse. Knight-Paladin Gelebor’s fire must be a welcome sight. I’m curious what he will have to say.

Little point in brushing for an adventure anyway! Gwyn probably looks forward to a bath more than anything right now. Well, almost anything.

0++[=======>

Act III

Interlude

“I am not interested in your excuses, nor do I wish to hear any more sniveling drivel. If you cannot conceive of a way to facilitate transportation of the Heart, then I will have you put to death. Is that what you would prefer? Is there another beneath your station who can do as your queen has ordered? Consider that before you return tomorrow. Get out of my sight!”

The attendant scuttled shamefully out of the room and Queen Penolore slammed shut the door to her chambers. She stalked moodily over to her window and gazed down at the now empty dig site surrounding what remained of Crystal-Like-Law. Victory lay so tantalizing close and yet every day brought further delays. It was maddening.

And now those frustratingly intuitive pretenders in the northlands were sniffing around the edges of their Skyrim operation, with the Dragonborn King already transitioning to the Ruby Throne. A throne that must be cast down if the Dominion were ever to achieve their ultimate victory.

“Perhaps Lisotel can achieve us a victory where these incompetent fools cannot,” she said to no one in particular.

With a sudden turn that billowed the hem of her royal robes, the queen swept away from the window to locate more of her attendants.

Lisotel must be encouraged to begin. We shall take this one step at a time. She froze in thought, a golden hand resting on the stained-glass door leading to the common room. I cannot believe I’ve come to rely so heavily on that oaf after everything else he bungled.

Queen Penolore continued on through the impressively delicate door and immediately became swarmed by the attendants she sought, with an aide bearing the robes of the Ministry of Transportation at the forefront, politely clamoring for her attention.

“Milady! We’ve done it! We know how to move the Heart into position!”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at the man’s eager claim. She’d never seen this mer before in her life, yet he would presume to address her directly? Were it not for an overwhelming desire to cast down her enemies, this minister would be hauled off to the deepest dungeons.

“Speak quickly or you shall not speak again,” she ordered.

The aide untied a bit of silver filigree from a scroll and presented it to her. Queen Penolore digested the scrawled message with increasing pleasure, her lips curling into a triumphant smirk and she dismissed all but the lone aide.

“See to this at once and you shall be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams.”

-----

Snow fell lightly outside the window of High Chancellor Anilay Cato’s study atop the White-Gold Tower. Winter encroached steadily, each day bringing colder winds, and cloudy grey skies. Yet for the first time since Titus Mede II had been deposed, he breathed a sigh of relief. The Elder Council had chosen a date. Now, all that remained were preparations for an event not witnessed in nearly three hundred years, since the magickal day that Uriel Septim VII assumed the Ruby Throne.

The Fifteenth Day of Last Seed, in the Four-Hundred Thirtieth Year of the Fourth Era.

Coronation Day.

-----

“Throw her in there with the others.”

Rough hands forcefully gripped the old woman’s arms and tossed her bodily inside a ramshackle iron cage tucked away in the shadowy gloom of a decrepit Dwemer structure. She hit the ground and grunted painfully, years of training keeping her from crying out for the benefit of her captors. The guards moved away, leaving only a single tall being in dark robes and a hood to leer through the bars.

“I cannot hardly believe that after so many long years, it is I who will finally eliminate such a thorn in the Thalmor’s side,” Magistrate Lisotel grinned wickedly. “Penolore will be delighted to hear of your demise when I feed you to the Heart along with these other mindless beasts.”

The old woman said nothing as she sat up and leaned against the side of the cage. A gloating elf had not gotten the best of her in over fifty years, and this one would not be any different. She simply stared hostilely at him while her mind digested her new predicament and began to seek a way out of it.

“Nothing to say, you Breton whore? That’s just as well. I’ve enough headaches without listening to the self-righteous droning of a Blades agent. I’ll have the men bring you some water later. Or maybe I won’t. Your fate is sealed either way.”

Lisotel left to oversee more important aspects of his operation leaving the prisoner to her own devices. The near-total darkness of her cell offered little for the eye to see, so she cast a faint light spell and recoiled slightly at the sight of a prone form in the corner. Layers of thick grime made it hard to guess an age, but she reasoned the Nord had to be at least fifty due solely to the streaks of grey in his long blonde beard.

His chest rose and fell slowly. And then he awoke.

“Who ‘re you?” he rasped. “When did they throw you in ‘ere?”

“Just now,” said the woman. “My name is Delphine.”

“Retnarr.”

“Any idea what’s in store for us, Retnarr?”

“Aye. And ya aren’t gonn’ like it. May’s well pray to the Nine now, oldun. Pretty soon youse and I will be up and vanished like the rest ‘o the beasts they drag through ‘ere.”

Delphine was about to ask him what he meant by that when clink of rattling chains and the dull thud of innumerable footsteps slowly resonated more and more loudly off the walls surrounding their cage. She extinguished her light lest the approaching guards take exception to it, and she peered anxiously through the bars.

Thalmor soldiers in their ornate golden armor emblazoned with the regalia of eagles led a line of stunted figures through the gloom. Delphine couldn’t make out what they were yet, but she did pick out the pointed ears against the light of torches held by the guards. Closer and closer they came until the long line of captives passed by the cell, and she raised a hand to cover her mouth in shock.

Goblins, Reiklings, and, most prominently, Falmer were all chained together in a line stretching off into the black. Shackles bound their feet and hands, and those creatures that were not already blind had their eyes covered with crude burlap hoods that were scarcely breathable.

“By the Eight!” breathed Delphine.

Her mind reeled at the implications of what she witnessed. She had to get word out somehow. But out of where? She’d been rendered unconscious from a blow to the back of her neck while exploring Duskglow Crevice with her detachment of guards and had little idea where here was. And where had they gone?

All dead, likely, she thought to herself. Maybe the Nord knows where we are…

“Alright, listen up, Retnarr. We need to do something about this. Tell me everything you know about where we are and how we got here.”

The disgruntled man snorted at first, but then he saw the commanding light in her eye and felt a sliver of hope for the first time in many long months.

He told her what he knew. And Delphine felt the icy grip of despair clinging to her heart.

[Acadian]

Scene One. Another peek into Penolore’s plans. Though well-familiar with the Second Era unsuccessful attack on the Crystal Tower, I had to look up the details of its Third Era demise. How odd to look down upon it now as an archeologic dig site. More tantalizing tidbits about a plan to somehow use the Heart of Transparent Law to bring down the Empire.

Scene Two. Here we pop in on Anilay and learn that Kirin’s coronation date has been set!

Scene Three. Obviously, Delphine’s visit to Duskglow Crevice did not go well for her. That said, we learned that the Thalmor definitely have a presence in/under Skyrim and why falmer have become so scarce. Clearly, ‘feeding’ them to the Heart of Transparent law seems central to whatever the Aldmeri Dominion’s dastardly plans for Skyrim and the Empire are.

[Grits]

Uh oh, good news for Queen Penolore seems like bad news is coming.

Coronation Day is on the calendar, whoop!

I like Delphine’s composure despite her dire situation. It suits her. The mystery of what they’re doing with the missing Falmer must be awful indeed to make her despair. Yikes!

[Kane]

We're getting into the thick of it now for sure! Definitely going to be seeing more of Penolore and her plans in act 3.


-----------------------


Chapter XXVII – Missing in Action

The City of Kings was much too cold for the future king. Cain drew his heavy cloak in tightly to ward off the cold winds of the drafty stone city as he climbed the steps to the Palace of the Kings. Guardsmen and guardswomen bowed their heads respectfully while he passed through in the company of the Blue Palace guards that had escorted him to Eastmarch all the way from Whiterun. It had been a bumpy carriage ride, but the driver knew the land and safely brought them to the snowy city in only a few days’ time.

Cain noted the weatherworn plaques on the high stone walls and marveled at some of the names they bore. The legacy of this city could not be argued, even if it was slightly tarnished in more recent years. At the end of a long entry courtyard stood two impressively tall doors of timber inlaid with intricate wrought iron designs. A guard knocked twice upon the left-hand leaf, and it swung open effortlessly, a testament to the value of excellent craftsmanship and continued maintenance. The Jarl’s hall stretched out before Cain and his escorts, with a long dining table spanning the center that ended right near a raised plinth.

On the plinth sat a throne. And on the throne sat a rare sight: someone other than a Nord in charge of a capital city. Duren Gililo hailed from the Gray Quarter of Windhelm, and in the years since the Stormcloak rebellion failed, he’d risen from a bartender at the cornerclub to the Jarl of Windhelm.

“Greetings, Cain Windborne,” Duren called across the hall. “Come join us for supper. I’m sure it has been a long and cold journey to our humble city.”

Duren’s steward, whose name Cain did not yet catch, gestured towards an empty seat near the top of the table. He thanked the man and sat down directly across from the Jarl while the cadre of escort guards took up posts alongside the palace guards and kept keen eyes trained on the hall’s ingress points.

“Thank you, Jarl Duren. It has indeed been a cold journey, but nothing that warm clothes and a touch of magick can’t handle.”

“Ah, you have a penchant for the ‘clever craft’ as so many Nords tend to call it,” said Duren. “It’ll be a welcome change were the High King more open to the arcane arts...”

“I practice a touch of Restoration and Alteration,” acknowledged Cain. “From my time in the Fighter’s Guild of Anvil. Many warriors rely too strongly on potions. However, they did eventually come to see the wisdom of having a field medic, which meant I usually got to pick and choose which jobs I took.”

“But then you do not fear magick, like so many of the citizens of Skyrim?”

“Not at all. In fact, my fiancé is an accomplished mage, as are my sisters.”

They broke bread and filled their mead glasses from copper ewers while Duren digested this unforeseen kernel of information. With the College of Winterhold regaining prominence, and new Jarl’s such as himself finally making contributions to Skyrim at large, perhaps the old prejudices could start to wither. And the High Queen herself possibly being magickally inclined? It was almost too good to be true.

“I had not heard you were expected to marry once again,” said Duren. “We all of course heard about the loss of Anska of Stonehills last year. It is pleasing to know that her demise did not temper your existence. Losing those we love is never easy.”

“It’s a recent development, Duren. The news is only a few days old, in fact. But rest assured that my Gwyndala will make sure the entire province knows her name. She already has some strong notions about the educational systems in this land. Or lack thereof.”

“How interesting. I’d love to speak further about such subjects, but we unfortunately must discuss the minutia of bureaucracy while I have you in these halls, Mr. Windborne. I’ll ask my steward to bring out some more mead for these discussions. Or perhaps some sujamma, if you are so inclined?”

Cain agreed to the Jarl’s initial terms, and they were soon poring over various documents on Eastmarch’s financial holdings and operational guidelines.

-----

Candlehearth Hall offered little in the ways of entertainment, which suited Cain just fine. He was more than happy to order supper and catch up on his reading while his escort milled about keeping close tabs on the few patrons who felt up to leaving the comfort of their warm homes for camaraderie at the local tavern.

Besides, he was never truly alone.

My ass hurts so much. Gwyn’s voice trickled into his mind just as Cain turned a page. He replaced his bookmark and set the book down. This was a stupid idea.

Are you almost there?

Yeah. And let me guess… you’re sitting comfortably by a warm fire?

I can go stand out in the snow if it would make you feel better.

Don’t be an ass.

Love you, too.

The door to the inn swung open on the floor below and despite being up a flight of stairs in the open loft, Cain still felt the influx of cold air from beyond. He had just picked up his book again when hurried footsteps clambered up the stairs, and a courier bearing the Windborne family crest on his tunic darted over to Cain’s table.

“My lord,” bowed the courier. “I have a message from Solitude for you.” He handed Cain a sealed scroll, saluted hastily, and left to order a drink.
Curious as to that this could be, Cain unfurled the note and read it by candlelight.


Cain,
Riften can wait. Take your escort across the western road out of Windhelm and turn north near the Weynon Stones. Delphine and her guards have not reported back, and my scouts are unable to locate their whereabouts. Search for them in Duskglow Crevice and return to the palace with any information you can glean. And be careful.
Kirin


Frowning over the implications, he barely registered the tavern maid stopping by the table to refill his tankard. Nor did he notice her very unsubtle attempts at flirting.

Did that bitch just touch your arm? Do I need to come over there and explain who the [censored] I am?

Shaking free of his reverie, Cain smiled to himself. Not necessary, Gwyn. I wasn’t paying attention to her anyway. Just got a note from dad: something may have happened to Delphine. I’m off to follow her tracks in the morning.

There was a pause; and then: I don’t like that. Please be careful.

Always.

-----

The carriage driver refused to take them along the necessary road due to what he claimed were ‘unsafe moorings’ for the bridge across the River Yorgrim, so Cain exercised some of his authority and had the local garrison outfit he and his men with horses. He rode atop a gorgeous cream-colored Palamino with a well-tempered disposition and chatted with his Captain while they started the journey west.

“What do you make of it, Lorn?”

“My gut isn’t happy, if’n that’s what your askin’ milord,” replied Captain Lorn.

A stout Nord, Lorn had been a part of his escort since the first time Cain reasoned with his dad to have them dismissed, citing that he and Gwyn were more than capable of defending themselves. But he thought it wise to cave on the matter this time when they went their separate ways. Cain found that the captain had a good mind for tactics, and they often debated the merits of strategy and the history of warfare while they traveled. He knew Lorn would be someone he relied upon in the near future.

“I feel the same,” said Cain. “Something stinks, and I don’t think it will be chaurus scat.”

“Have you ever faced a chaurus?”

“Aye, once. There was a stray in the swamps of Hjaalmarch that attacked us. This was back when I first came to Skyrim, mind you, on our way up to High Gate.”

“Good. Then I won’t have ta warn you about the acid they spit!”

The sun rose higher and higher as the group trotted along the cobblestone road at a decent clip. Cain hoped to reach the cave Delphine had marked on his map in Dawnstar within a handful of days. They were making good time so far, but by late afternoon a fierce snow squall impeded their progress, and they had to hunker down for the night at the small hamlet nestled around Anga’s Mill. The lack of an inn meant pitching the tents, which the weather made all the more difficult.

Finally nestled inside his own modest tent Cain concluded that there was little to do other than continue reading from his book on Skyrim’s High Kings. He flipped through the rather dry pages on historical figures that his dad gave him, only pausing to read in-depth about the more prominent names that he knew. Eventually, his eyes began to droop, and he gave into the fatigue of a long day riding through the cold.

-----

A rocky path departed the road north into the heart of The Pale and led up a craggy snow-covered hillside. The entrance to Duskglow Crevice sat nestled into the side of a cliff and was barely discernible from its surroundings due to the overgrown brush and trees obscuring the little known Falmer den. Two escort guards armed with longswords led the way, hewing a path through the growth.

When they reached the cave mouth, Cain knelt down in the hard-packed snow but was unable to pick out any footprints or tracks. If something had happened, the evidence had been wiped clean.

“Weapons at the ready men.”

“I’ll lead, sir,” said Lorn. “Please step back.”

“No, I need all of you behind me,” instructed Cain. “Otherwise, our main advantage will be useless. And trust me when I say you do not want to be in front of me if I use the Thu’um.”

Captain Lorn deferred to Cain’s command of the situation and ordered the other men to draw their weapons and stay close behind their charge. Unfortunately, like all of the other Falmer dens that were visited over the last couple months, Duskglow Crevice turned out to be more of the same.

Empty.

“None of this makes any sense,” said Cain. “We know Delphine came here in a company at least matching our strength. How can they all have disappeared without a trace?”

“Doesn’t help that it’s so fetchin’ dark in ‘ere,” said Lorn. Torches and magick only help so much.”

Wishing he’d bothered to learn a Night Eye spell, or even pack a potion, his frustration nearly boiled over until Cain laughed suddenly, and clapped Lorn heartily on the back. “You’re a genius, cap. Go outside and fetch our rearguard. Sakiir can probably see anything and everything in these damn caves!”

Lorn saluted smartly, grabbed a replacement for Sakiir, and double-timed it back to the cave system’s entrance.

You only just thought of that? Gwyn asked, smugly. How long has the cat been with you now? Some leader you’re shaping up to be…

Shut up.

You know I love you.

This post has been edited by Kane: Oct 3 2025, 01:54 PM

[Acadian]

Cain seems to get on well enough with the Jarl of Windhelm with similar views on the utility of magic.

Well, Duskglow Crevice is a good start on trying to track the missing Delphine. I liked the scene where Cain insisted on leading the party. Rather than failing to recognize that Captain Lorn is replaceable but Prince Cain is not, or falling guilty to more guts than brains, he quickly explained the undebatable wisdom of his tactical choice that kept him free to use the Thu’um if necessary.

You continue to do a great job bringing the thoughts of Gwyn and Cain together in a wonderfully believable manner. I don’t believe Cain will ever finish reading his book though.

Good idea to bring up a Khajiit to help enlighten the party in this dark cave.

[Kane]

Writing Cain and Gwyn's inner conversations have become my favorite parts. Or Gwyn with Linneá. I'm sensing a pattern there. Anyhoo... let's get into the heart of the matter:

0==={----------------->

Chapter XXVIII – The Underdark

The level of darkness Delphine found herself in took some time to get used to. The depths of black made it hard to see even her own hand hovering inches from her face, and her cellmate, Retnarr, may as well have been in a different cell altogether. Thankfully, the despondent Nord seemed content to remain on his own side of the roughly eight-by-eight enclosure. After months of imprisonment, he didn’t exactly smell like roses.

Only the occasional torch of a passing guard offered any kind of light to dispel the darkness. They also took exception to her candlelight spell the first time Delphine made the mistake of not snuffing it out for a passing patrol. The thuggish guard butted the hilt of his sword right into her chest as recompense. That left quite the bruise on her sternum.

All in all, it had been quite the day since she was unceremoniously tossed into this dark pit.

“Retnarr, are you sure you don’t know where they’ve stuck us?”

“This again?” he rasped. “I told ya all I know, woman. The goldskins knocked me out cold afore the sun came up. Last I knew, we was near Loreius Farm.”

“Hm. How often do the guards come by? Have you been watching their schedule? So far, it seems pretty regular as far as feeding us goes.”

“Every thirty-three minutes.”

Delphine blinked pointlessly a few times; despite knowing he could not see her surprised reaction at this extremely pertinent piece of information. She did not expect such a detailed pattern recognition by a man who by all rights appeared to have given up any hope of escaping his fate.

“Retnarr, that… wait, were you in the Legion?”

“Aye. Served under Tullius himself when we put down Ulfric’s lot. Got me honorable discharge seven years ago.”

“That explains your attention to detail.”

Knowing how often the guard’s rounds were without having to observe it for herself certainly sped things up in Delphine’s mind, and she began to drum up a reconnaissance plan. The lack of light in their general area meant that she could easily slip out of the cell and explore nearby. To test the merits of this endeavor, she crept over to the heavy cell door and groped her hand around the bars to gauge their composition. A soft rap confirmed her suspicion: they were iron.

“What ‘re ya up to, Delph?”

“I plan on taking a stroll after the guard passes by again.”

“Oh yeah? And jus’ how do ya plan on doin’ that?”

“Like this.” Delphine felt her way down to where the latch was affixed to the bars and placed a hand on the back of the lock mechanism. She cast a powerful Latch Crack spell on it and the soft click made her grin. She quickly relocked it and shimmied back over to her corner. “It’s not a very complicated lock, Retnarr. I can slip out and take a look around with the elves being none the wiser.”

“Magick?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“Doesn’t have ta be if’in you keep it to yerself.”

Delphine rolled her eyes. “Why are so many of you Nords obtuse about the use of magick? I’ve just shown you that we could possibly escape from this place and all you can say is ‘keep it away from me’? I’m not going to light your trousers on fire, Retnarr.”

“Why are you Bretons so full of yerselves?”

There didn’t seem to be a point in arguing with the man, so Delphine settled in to wait for the guard to pass their cell again. An anxious feeling of getting underway began to take root but years of experience in subterfuge tamped that down in a hurry and she decided to count at least three cycles of the patrol route for her own devices.

True to Retnarr’s word, the Thalmor guard strutted past their cell regularly between thirty-two and thirty-three minutes. Eager to discover where exactly they were being held, Delphine waited an additional five minutes before unlocking the cell door, casting a chameleon spell, and slinking off into the dark hallway in the same direction the guard went. She felt her way forward with one hand on the wall until that same hand felt the rough stone of a rock wall abruptly transition to a splintered wooden door. Pressing an ear to the door, she held her breath and listened intently for voices or the shuffle of boots in the dirt.

All remained quiet. Delphine slowly pushed the door open, knowing it would not squeak else she would have heard it from her cell. An empty larder waited for her on the other side, but it wasn’t the upturned sacks or bare shelves devoid of supplies that caught her eye: it was the drastic change in architecture. The natural walls of the corridor containing their cell turned out to be the unfinished backside of the carefully carved and finished walls of a Dwemer ruin.

Another door stood across from her and the difference from the ramshackle wooden door could not be understated. The eternal sheen of dwarven metal twinkled under the soft glow of a Dwemer chandelier dangling over the room’s center. Delphine tried the handle and found it unlocked. She took a deep breath and cracked it open just far enough to peer into what lay beyond.

“Gods above,” she muttered.

Deciding that was enough for a single trip, she gently closed the door and scampered back to her cell where Retnarr snored away in the corner. She locked the cell door and popped back into the visible spectrum, pacing back and forth.

A low grumble emanated from the shadows, followed by a rustling of linen on stone. “Can ya stop wit yer stompin’ ‘round?” said Retnarr.

“Sorry. It helps me think.”

“Aye. Me captain used ta do the same thing. Didja find out anything of use?”

“I suppose so,” said Delphine. “At least I know where we are being held now, though I don’t think anyone will find us anytime soon.”

“It’s somethin’, I guess,” replied Retnarr. “Don’ be bashful-like, go’on and spit it out.”

“We’re in Blackreach.”

-----

The field office of Magister Lisotel stood near the elevator that descended from the heart of the Dwemer ruins of Alftand in southern Winterhold. It was a modest building of dwarven make that featured a fireplace, bed, a few storage shelves, and an excellent alchemy lab. All it took to make it livable during his stint in Skyrim was to have a few grunts clean up the cobwebs and toss a dusty pile of bones around the back.

His desk overflowed with maps of Skyrim, troop reports, and letters from Alinor. Lisotel pored over a new map delivered that very morning with a growing ire at the lack of relevant information pertaining to his needs.

“Imiril!” he shouted towards the door. “Get in here!”

An armored guard bearing the Thalmor crest double-timed it through the door and stood at the ready. “Sire?”

"Is this really the best your men can do? This offers nothing of use!” Lisotel crumpled up the parchment map and threw it angrily into the roaring fire.

“The scout reports have been unchanged for the last several weeks, sire. If there are still Falmer out there we do not know where they have gone. It’s possible they have a retreat that not even the Nords are aware of – even our contacts in the cities.”

“What about the king’s brats who were spotted in Dragon Bridge? Do we know where they went?”

“We do not.”

“Then you are dismissed.”

Lieutenant Imiril wasted no time in retreating to the safer if albeit dark and hostile expanse of Blackreach, the massive underground cavern spanning much of central Skyrim.

Lisotel moodily kicked at a mouse that had the misfortune of seeking warmth in his domicile and the poor creature struck the wall under his desk and fell to the floor inert. Deciding a spot inspection on the proceedings would help to clear his mind, he put on his emblazoned cloak and headed outside, bound for the Silent City. Everlasting torches lit the road leading towards the center of Blackreach that sat beneath the massive artificial sun: an unparalleled achievement of Dwemer technology that went otherwise ignored by the Thalmor occupiers in the city.

And just underneath that immense glowing orb beat the heart of their operations in Skyrim. The heart of all their plans to defeat a foe and his family they were unable to contend with by mortal means. Scores of Thalmor troops donned in an array of golden armors or dark black robes slowly ushered forth the creatures they considered lesser to elves to a grim fate. A dwindling supply of Falmer, goblins, and Rieklings were fed one-by-one into the ever-growing and increasingly erratic Dark Heart of Namira, an artifact of untold power. Long forgotten to the annals of time, the Heart floated menacingly in the city center. Utterly black, the spherical shard of the primal Void pulsed a blue-green aura and crackled with magicka that threatened to swallow the land whole the more unstable it grew.

This post has been edited by Kane: Oct 6 2025, 06:23 PM

[Acadian]

Nice work by Delphine as she carefully works out the details of where they are. I should imagine opening that Dwemer door into Blackreach was a sight indeed! With rescue unlikely, it seems like ‘escape’ into Blackreach may be worth considering.

The scene with Lisotel confirmed much of what we suspected – feeding the small races with pointed ears (well, no Bosmer yet, it seems) to the Dark Heart to power it up for . . . something no doubt bad.

[Kane]

Acadian: no good will certainly come of their meddling. Such an object is too dangerous to predict its effects.

---------------------

Chapter XXIX – The Forgotten Vale

Two figures with magickal light floating above their heads approached in the darkness: one tall and the other slight. They both carried themselves with a feminine grace that Gelebor easily picked out by the way they walked beside one another. It wasn’t until their spells snuffed out and they entered the flickering light of his roaring fire that the Snow Elf recognized the familiar face of the Nord woman.

“Ah, now this is a surprise,” said Gelebor. “Ms. Linneá, yes? I did not expect to see you return after all this time.” He looked down at Gwyn and smiled genially. “And who would this be? As I recall, you last visited the Chantry with another vampire, though you seem to have cured yourself of that affliction, too. I must say, your natural eyes suit you much more so than the gleaming red of the night dwellers.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Gelebor,” said Linneá with a curtsey. “This is Gwyndala, my soon-to-be sister-in-law. And it’s ‘Mrs.’ now, if you please,” she added with a smile. “Serana and I were wed a few months after we departed here with Auriel’s Bow.”

“Very nice to meet you, Gwyndala.”

“Gwyn is fine, Gelebor. Nice to meet you, too.”

Gelebor offered them to sit with him by the warm flames and Gwyn did not hesitate to do so. She rubbed her hands together dangerously close to the fire until the cold had been chased away. Linneá, Nord that she was, removed most of her outerwear before sitting so as to not sweat to death, which still somewhat annoyed the Breton.

Once they were comfortable, Gelebor offered them a basket of snowberries to ward off the chilly air, which Gwyn gratefully accepted.

“So, what brings you all this way?” he asked the two of them. “Not more vampire business I hope?”

“Not this time, Gelebor,” said Linneá. “Actually, we were hoping you could shed some light on recent Falmer activity in Skyrim.”

Linneá told him of their plight, with the occasional clarification of a detail from Gwyn. The Snow Elf listened with rapt attention, though his features did not betray anything while the tale of the missing Falmer and the Windborne family’s attention to the matter met his ears. He did not speak for a few moments following the summation, but they could practically hear his thoughts churning over.

“I am pleased to hear that you have kept this place a secret for so long, Mrs. Linneá,” he began. “However, if we are to continue having this conversation, I would ask that the two of you partake in a binding oath under the seal of Auri-El to not share any of what I am able to divulge, unless I give you permission to do so.”

Gwyn’s eyebrows raised questioningly, but Linneá quickly grabbed her hand and held it in her own, presenting them both to the Knight-Paladin.
“Absolutely. We will swear to your terms under Auri-El’s authority, and under Kyne’s, of who I am her chosen Champion.”

“The Sister-Hawk? And yet you were once a vampire?”

“Kyne has always been a large part of my life. My father, the Dragonborn, served as her champion in his younger years before ascending to the throne. Now that duty lies with me.”

“How fascinating. I’d love to hear more about that – another time, that is.” Gelebor pulled off an amulet from his neck that featured the ancient symbols of his patron Divine, Auri-El, and laid it upon his outstretched palm. “Place your hands over this and I shall intone the oath.”

Linneá and Gwyn placed their hands as instructed and closed their eyes in wait. Gelebor never spoke aloud, but soon enough a beam of pure golden light encircled their hands in an intricate and binding web. It glowed powerfully and then faded out after several seconds.

“The oath is completed.” Gelebor stood up and gestured towards the stone monolith Linneá and Serana traveled through on their original visit to Darkfall Cave and beyond. The portals to the various Wayshrines throughout the Vale still shimmered in their archways offering a distorted vision of the destinations beyond. “Please follow me to the balcony of the Inner Sanctum.”

The Knight-Paladin led the way with due haste. Linneá and Gwyn followed just behind him, stepping through the portal and into the once proud Inner Sanctum of the Chantry to Auri-El, now reduced to rubble. A clear and star laden night sky filled with the light of Masser and Secunda shone down upon the trio as they stood among the ruins.

“What the hell happened here?” asked Gwyn, looking around at the mess.

“Ms. Linneá and her spouse wrestled Arch-Curate Vyrthur for control of Auriel’s Bow in this very place,” said Gelebor. “It was Vyrthur who destroyed the chapel.”

“And then Serana picked him up by the throat and chucked him over the parapet up there,” said Linneá. “Sexiest damn thing I ever saw.”

Gwyn rolled her eyes. “Good to know your infatuation with each other hasn’t dulled over the years.”

“Never.”

Gelebor politely cleared his throat and began climbing the steps to the balcony overlooking the frozen lake far below. Following up him up with a measure of apprehension, the two women soon came to a stop on either side of where he stood in wait and surveyed the Forgotten Vale with a look of wonder.

Nearly every inch of the valley, and all that they could see beyond, was filled with Falmer tents and burning campfires. Countless numbers of the diminutive fallen elves moved about like ants through a colony. The odd pens where they raised their chaurus pets were scattered about sporadically, and there were dimly lit mushroom and toadstool farms tended to on the shorelines and cliff faces that bordered the lake.

“By the Nine. Gelebor… how many are there?”

“Thousands, Ms. Linneá. They began turning up here months ago.”

“At least they aren’t all dead,” noted Gwyn. “That was beginning to look like a real possibility.”

“It’s been quite the challenge getting them to cohabitate without infighting,” sighed Gelebor. “The Betrayed are very territorial and did not take kindly to the refugees that continued to pour in. Eventually, we were able to choose representatives from the major clans and establish lines of communication. And boundaries. Matters have become much more copasetic since that milestone was attained.”

Linneá could scarcely believe what she just heard.

Neither could Serana for that matter. Is he serious!? she asked her wife silently. Did he just casually tell the two of you that he can communicate with the Falmer!?

Sure as [censored] sounds like it. That changes everything.

“Gelebor, you can speak to them?” asked Linneá.

“Oh yes. It took many long months after you brought peace to the Chantry, but the struggle was not in vain. There is even a council of sorts that I regularly meet with to keep tabs on their progress. The Betrayed are very intelligent beings who I fear are utterly misunderstood by the world at large. It is probably a good thing in the long run that so many have fled their homes to exist here among their own kind.”

“Yeah, but what’s the plan beyond that?” said Gwyn. “They can’t live here forever and if they continue breeding with each other the valley will grow too small to contain them. What happens then?”

“That will be a matter to address at that time,” said Gelebor.

“Uh, no it [censored] won’t be. Kicking a problem down the road isn’t going to work in this situation.”

Gelebor frowned and opened his mouth to retort when Linneá interrupted.

“You’ll have to forgive her bluntness, Gelebor, but Gwyn isn’t wrong in this, and her concern comes from an important place. It’s only a matter of time until her and my brother ascend to the throne of Skyrim. You’re looking at the future High Queen, and this is something she will have to contend with.”

“I see. In that case, I believe we should have an open line of communication going forward. For all our benefit.”

“Agreed,” said Gwyn. “But you do realize that means we have to be open with the inner circle of my father-in-law’s royal court, yes?”

“I will trust your judgement on what needs to be shared under our oath,” said Gelebor. “Let us move on for now. I would ask that you rest for tonight, and then tomorrow morning we shall meet with The Betrayed.”

-----

It was a fairly restless night in the tent for Linneá and Gwyn. They were safe in Darkfall Cave under the watchful eye of Auri-El’s Knight-Paladin, yet both of them tossed and turned while their minds processed the day’s revelations and what it held for the future of Skyrim. And for the current situation they had come so far to investigate. The answers were tantalizingly close.

The warm rays of the sun were not available to rouse them from the tent, and so Gwyn was thoroughly unsure of the hour when she shuffled out of her sleeping bag to heat up breakfast and tea over Gelebor’s seemingly everlasting fire.

He greeted her warmly and even shared a mug of tea with the Breton while Linneá remained asleep in the tent.

“Good morning, Ms. Gwyn. I trust you are ready for the day?”

“No. This will be Linneá’s show. I’m still too new to this land and I don’t know nearly enough about the Falmer to be of use. But it will be a good opportunity to observe and learn,” she added.

“A wise insight,” said Gelebor. “My heart tells me you shall serve your people well.”

There came a rustling sound from the tent and a tousle-haired Linneá poked her head out to see what was going on. “Any idea what time it is?” she asked.

Gelebor peered at the Wayshrine. “I can just see the sun rising through the portals. Dawn approaches.”

“Good enough,” said Linneá. Her head disappeared into the tent for a moment. She emerged a few minutes later fully dressed and ready for the day, her long and messy hair tied up in a ponytail. “What’s good to eat?”

Gwyn stirred a skillet sizzling with the few remaining fresh vegetables they had from their bag and tossed in some dried venison to re-hydrate it in their juices. She sprinkled some seasoning over the top and laid a hunk of bread near the coals to heat it up.

“Whatever you can call this,” she laughed. “I just tossed some [censored] in a pan and hoped for the best.”

“Smells amazing, sis. Where’s the tea?”

She helped herself to a mugful from the urn Gwyn passed her way and sipped carefully at the piping hot beverage while Gelebor began telling them how the morning would unfold. They hung on his every word with rapt attention. Meeting with leaders of Falmer tribes promised to be a harrowing experience no matter which way Linneá looked at it, and she did not want to be caught flat-footed, nor did she want to inadvertently cause harm or insult the fallen mer.

The hour finally arrived after Linneá and Gwyn finished their breakfast and tea. Gelebor led them once again to the Wayshrine, but this time they entered a portal to Wayshrine of Resolution, which stood on a rocky hill overlooking the frozen lake. Gwyn bundled her cloak more tightly about her and cast her warmth spell to fend off the icy gales blowing in off of the tent-packed expanse. They descended the hilltop single file to where a massive Falmer hut – much larger than any Linneá had ever seen – was erected on the shoreline. The familiar gates crafted from the chitinous chaurus barred entry to the hut’s interior.

Gelebor pinched his throat between his fore and index fingers, and spoke in the raspy, guttural language of the Falmer. The gate swung inwards, and he led them inside.

[Acadian]

A familiar face and a warm, welcoming fire!

So it looks like the Thalmor haven’t rounded up all the falmer – a great many have escaped to Forgotten Vale and the helpful aid of Gelebor.

Given Gwyn’s bluntness and Linneá’s experience, it seems wise to let the Nord take the lead. This could be some of the most interesting – and potentially delicate – negotiations Gywn has seen to date. Most likely, superb training for the future High Queen.

[Grits]

Whew, I had a little catching up to do!

The new Jarl of Windhelm seems a vast improvement over the old one!

Great idea to keep Captain Lorn in Cain’s escort. Future High King Cain will need all kinds of advisors he knows and trusts.

Ooo, Blackreach! Finding that out was neat work on Delphine’s part. Maybe she and Retnarr will agree enough to escape.

Oh gosh, the Dark Heart of Namira sounds like a lot of bad news. Maybe that mouse-kicker Lisotel will trip and fall into it.

The Falmer have not all been fed to the Heart! Excellent news if they can come to an agreement.

“Whatever you can call this,” she laughed. “I just tossed some [censored] in a pan and hoped for the best.”

When it comes with a piece of bread, I think it’s called [censored] on a Shingle?

[Kane]

Acadian: I'm too nice to wipe out an entire race. Not even the Falmer deserve that. Quite the opposite in fact. And this will definitely be an eye opener for Gwyn.

Grits: welcome to Act 3! Things are heating up in a hurry, eh?

=================

Chapter XXX – On the Trail

Sakiir joined Cain, Lorn, and the others where the tunnels of Duskglow Crevice ended and he saluted his captain. “What does this one need of Sakiir?”

“Your tracking skills, Corporal. We need to know if anything other than the Falmer were here.”

“Very well. I shall take a look around.”

Cain moved to the path leading out of the cavern and waited patiently with Lorn. He busied himself checking the straps of his armor and honing the edge of his blade to keep from awkwardly watching the Khajiit flit about the icy cave in search any elusive clues. Cain hated when others watched him work and he always tried to avoid doing it himself.

Captain Lorn, however, resolutely observed every move Sakiir made as if he was proctoring an examination in a schoolhouse. Cain nearly told the Nord to relax, but it occurred to him that an aspect Lorn’s job was just that: making sure those under his command performed their duties to the letter.

They didn’t have long to wait before Sakiir came to an abrupt stop and hissed.

“Over here!” he called out to them. “The stench of Mer is prevalent on this wall. Most likely an Altmer.”

“High Elves?” said Lorn. “In here? Somethin’ fishy about that, m’lord.”

“I agree,” said Cain. “Sakiir, can you inspect the tunnels leading back to the surface? If an elf was careless enough to leave a strong scent here, we might get lucky yet. We’ll bring up the rear.”

“Aye, sir. But this one must stay at least five paces behind Sakiir. Your man stenches are just as strong.”

“I’ll try not to take offense to that,” chuckled Cain.

The Khajiit headed back into the tunnels with his nose at the ready. Winding their way back up the surface took much longer with Sakiir at the lead – his thoroughness slowed them down considerably, but impressed Lorn greatly and the captain felt he’d earned a promotion by the end of this unexpected detour.

Three hours later, Cain spotted the telltale glow of daylight and began to feel dejected. Gwyn sensed it offered a small amount of consolation.

Cat didn’t find anything else?

No. At least… not yet. But we’re almost back to the entrance.

It was a long shot, my love. Don’t beat yourself up about it.

I know. Just thought maybe – wait. Sakiir hissed again.

Cain and Lorn dashed ahead to where the Khajiit stood in a small alcove near the entrance, pawing at something stuck in the muddy ice.

“Filthy Thalmor! Their stink is all over that broach!”

Lorn stooped over and pried the object free from the ice. Glistening even though covered in grime, the golden eagle indicated beyond doubt that the Aldmeri Dominion yet operated in Skyrim, despite being expelled many years ago by the Dragonborn king.

Cain ruminated silently on the implications of their discovery. They were a long way from any province borders, and the nearest port was in Dawnstar, over two weeks away on foot. And what would they be doing in a Falmer den? And why take Delphine? His father needed to know at once, so Cain took out a slip of parchment and a bit of charcoal from his traveling bag and scratched out a hasty note.

“Lorn, give this to your fastest runner and have them take it to Dunstad. They ought to have carrier pigeons there. It’s for the King’s eyes only and must not be opened, understood?”

“Aye, m’lord.” Lorn took the note and stepped out under the night sky. “Olna!” he yelled.

A thin Imperial woman from their cadre snapped to attention. “Yessir!”

The captain handed her the note and her new orders. Olna checked over her armor fitting and made sure her boots were snug before dashing off into the moonlit wilderness, bound north for the village of Dunstad and the same garrison Delphine had enlisted the guards of her ill-fated endeavor for.

The rest of them set up camp down the hill from Duskglow and retreated to their tents after a hasty meal. Tomorrow marked a new day, and they were now further away from Riften than originally planned. Cain sat alone in his tent and stared longingly at the little smudge on his map where Elysium sat empty. At this rate, it would be several weeks until he set foot in those walls again.

It’s never soon enough, is it?

Never. I miss you. How are things going with Linn?

Well enough, answered Gwyn. She’s a lot of fun. You two are more alike than I realized. Now go get some sleep; I can feel how tired you are.


[centre]-----[/centre]


After a fair bit of backtracking through the cold Skyrim winter on horseback, Cain and his guards eventually crossed the River Yorgrim for a second time and began the southern leg of their journey to The Rift. The hot springs in the volcanic lowlands of Eastmarch offered a warm reprieve from the bitter winds, though the air remained cold enough for flurries of snow to fall and meet their end on the ashy soil. Hot springs casting lofty towers of steam dotted the landscape, and, more than once, the travelers left the road to make camp near one and soak away the aches of riding.
Gwyn chose to remain silent during these times, and it wasn’t hard for Cain to pick up on her annoyance to the fact that he got to bathe in piping hot waters while she fought off the constant cold of the mountainous Reach and the Forgotten Vale. And he’d learned to let it be instead of teasing the fiery Breton, even if it was from a good place.

On the eve of the thirteenth day, they crossed into a dense pine forest bordering the volcanic tundra to the north, and the aspen forest to the south. There, a road running east-west straddled the bottom of a vast mountain range with only one stop along the way: the small town Darkwater Crossing. It was in this little mining village that Cain and company finally found a tavern with proper beds to sleep in, and kegs of mead to drink from. He was knee deep into a second tankard when the door burst open and a town guard entered with a pigeon on his shoulder and a scroll bearing the King’s emblem clutched in his fist.

Recognizing Lorn’s regalia, the guard stomped over to the bar and handed him the note. “Cap’n! This arrived moments ago. It’s addressed for High King’s son, Cain Windborne!”

“Over here,” Cain beckoned. He took the note from the guard and slit open the seal with his dagger while the guard made all sorts of honorable platitudes. “I appreciate all that, but please return to your post. And, thank you.”

“Aye, sir!”

The guard left, and Lorn waited patiently for the boss to read the letter, and to learn if it pertained to him in any way. He figured it did not, as the face on his charge remained placid while Cain’s eyes roved further down the parchment until he sighed, crumpled up the note, and threw it in the fire pit at the inn’s center.

“On we go to Riften, Lorn.”

“Good. I was hopin’ to visit the meadery while we’re in town..”

Cain watched in amusement as the captain punctuated that statement by finish his fifth pour of the sweet spirit. “Never met a mead you didn’t like, eh Lorn?”

“Never.”

“Just make sure you can manage to walk come morningtime. I’m turning in.”

The Redguard tipped the barkeeper and sought the surprisingly posh chair in his tiny room intending to take another crack at his book. He should have guessed this to be in vain, as he only made it through about three paragraphs before Gwyn stole into his mind in quite the state.

This is going about as poorly as one could have expected.

Oh? Not much progress then?

Well, only one of the clan chiefs tried to [censored] murder us today, so I guess that’s a sign of improvement. Honestly, I don’t know how your sister has the patience for this madness. She plays it down, but Linn is a born diplomat. Makes sense why your dad sent her and Serana to Morrowind. Bringing the Dunmer to our side was probably one hell of an achievement, but it will pale in comparison to anything she achieves here.

Anything you both achieve, Gwyn. Don’t undersell your own contributions.

That’s cute, but I don’t think the elf takes my opinions seriously. [censored] thinks I’m too brash.

What about Linn?

She backs me up. But Gelebor is treating the Falmer with lace gloves. He needs to be more firm.

I have faith in you, hon. In the both of you. But maybe you need to have an aside with Gelebor and try to have him come around. Let loose on him instead of playing the diplomat. And maybe do that without Linn around.

Gods, I [censored] love you. No one gets me like you do, Cain Windborne. I’ll keep that advice in mind.


[centre]-----[/centre]


Cain was barely more impressed with Riften than he had been with Winterhold. At least that city made an earnest attempt to crawl back from the literal brink, and improve the lives of the few citizens it had. Riften, on the other hand, seemed to be nothing more than a crime-ridden pile of rotten timber and polluted canals. There were more beggars per square foot than he’d ever seen, and Lorn had to warn him ahead of time to keep his coinpurse lashed in place lest one of the less fortunate swipe it with deft fingers.

But it had the honor of being the last stop on his trip. An honor which fade quickly after introductions were made with the Hold’s Jarl: Hemming Black-Briar. Cain disliked the man instantly, and his gut had never steered him wrong.

It took every ounce of patience he had to not strangle the entitled whelp, and when Cain left Mistveil Keep following the briefest meeting of all seven other Jarls, he was in a rare foul mood that even kept his fiance from chiming in on the matter. Instead, he made straight for the meadery where he knew Lorn would be, and bellied up to the bar for more mead.

After the fourth pint in less than an hour, Gwyn very firmly suggested he find another way to cool off. He’d been combative with her at first but she drove her point home with a dagger by reminding him of their time together in Evermore.

That was a low blow.

Got my point across, didn’t it? Go find a quiet place to sober up. I’ll even leave you alone if you feel like reading. I promise.

Find such a place proved to be quite the task. Cain first stopped by the Bee and Barb, but that turned out to be one of the rowdiest taverns he’d ever set foot in. Probably something to do with the amount of illicit trade, he reasoned. And the bunkhouse run by an old woman appeared to be a brothel in everything but the name. In the end, he walked slowly back to the meadery, gave Lorn implicit instructions not to bother him, went back outside, and ducked behind a tree before recalling to Elysium for some peace and quiet. Or so he had hoped.

You selfish asshole, chastised Gwyn. I can’t believe you went home to relax while I’m stuck here trying to do the impossible.

Hey, I’m just following your advice! Even got my book sitting on the table beside me.

That’s not what I meant and you know it. I love you to bits, but you better keep that healing spell primed for when I see you again, idiot.

Love you, too. Why not join me? Will Linn really miss you for an hour?

...You know what… I don’t care if she does. Give me a few minutes. And you better hope that mead won’t hinder your performance.

[Acadian]

Oh noes! Elf stench and man stench both! Poor Khajiit.

Well, no surprise the Thalmor have visited Duskglow. Still no closer to finding Delphine though.

Riften sounds like a low point of Cain’s tour of the holds. Nothing Gwyn won’t eventually be able to fix though.

Looks like the couple’s going to be able to slip away for an hour or so to warm up their mattress!

[Grits]

Man stenches!

Riften seems like it will land near the top of the reform list once Cain takes the crown.

[Kane]

Oh boy, Gwyn would have had many things to say to Hemming Black-Briar if she were there for the Riften stop. So many!


And Riften will definitely need a lot of attention.

=======================

Chapter XXXI �" She Who Would Defy the Gods


A warm breeze fluttered through the dew laden wildflower fields of northern Alinor causing a dizzying array of autumnal blossoms to dance about the meadow in a joyous celebration of yet another sunny day buffering them from the coming first frost that marked the long dark months of winter. If the flowers could speak, most of those covering the earth would sing lilting tunes aloud for all to hear.

Some, however, were less fortunate and had been trampled underfoot of a long procession of troops, wagons, carts, and a singularly unique object levitated with great care ahead of the rest. Bound for a hidden Thalmor port near Coral Aeire, Queen Penolore herself led the procession on its journey to the coastline.

The monarch cast her head back at Transparent Law, the Heart of the ruined Tower of Crystal-Like-Law bobbing serenely along behind her and allowed herself a rare smile of satisfaction. Penolore felt supremely confident that no one could stop her this time. A crushing blow lay within her grasp, but she didn’t rise absolute ruler of the Dominion by being careless, and she decided to circle back to her newly appointed right-hand for another round of inspections and demonstrations that what he had promised could be achieved. She dug a heel into the side of her Onyx Indrik and cantered around to the wagon just behind the Heart.

“Have the prisoner demonstrate it again, Cirion,” she commanded of her new Prime Magistrate.

“Yes, m’lady,” Cirion snapped eagerly. He jumped under the canopy of the covered wagon and kicked a bound and gagged figure huddled up on the floor. “On your feet, whelp. The queen requires you!”

The figure remained steadfastly inert, even after a painful kick was delivered to its ribs. Cirion bent down and rolled it out of the wagon’s rear, and it crashed to the ground with a thud. The haggard form of a Bosmer missing a pointed ear writhed in agony from the drop.

“Ready to obey your queen now?”

The elf managed a single nod.

“Good.”

Cirion snapped his fingers and the bindings fell away, leaving the Bosmer to stagger to her feet in an ungainly manner. Once a proud, albeit secretive practitioner of magick, the woman, Teliel, of a small village on the outskirts of Silvenar, brushed dust and pollen off of her tattered blouse.

“I require my staff,” said Teliel.

The staff in question had been strapped to the outside of the wagon to keep her from laying a lithe hand on it. Cirion plucked it free of its mount and handed it to the scraggly Bosmer.

“Any hint of deception and you shall lose the other ear, along with those ridiculous antlers. And that shall only be the beginning.”

Penolore watched the exchange with an air of impatience. “Show me again now, rat, or I shall carry out Cirion’s promise of my accord.”

“Of course, your majesty.”

Teliel emphasized that last part as sarcastically as she could managed and received an ice spike to her shoulder as a result. She stumbled momentarily, cast a short burst of healing magick, and regained her composure. Deciding she would rather go back to being bound and left alone than subjected to further torture, she gripped her staff tightly and reached deeply into the enchantment it provided.

The staff itself was wholly unremarkable, save for the utterly black, jaggedly cut stone cradled at its tip and woven into place by fibrous tree vines plucked from the great graht oak of Elden Root. When Teliel focused her own magicka pool to supplement the staff’s dark purpose, the bright light of day dimmed around the caravan and swirling eddies of even darker magicka encircled the stone as its power grew. With a practiced flourish, Teliel swung the staff about her and pointed it at Transparent Law. A bolt of pure black magick burst from the stone and struck the Heart causing it to disappear entirely.

“Return it at once,” commanded Penolore.

Another flourish and bolt of magicka and the Heart returned.

“And you will guarantee its safe passage while in that state?” asked Cirion.

“Yes. I have visited the realm of Shadows on many occasions.”

“Excellent.” Cirion snapped his fingers a second time and her bindings returned. He ordered two guards to chuck her back in the wagon and then returned to the queen’s side. “We cannot fail, m’lady.”

“See to it that we do not.”

Queen Penolore steered her mount back to the front of the procession and pondered deeply on the further uses of a long-forgotten branch of magick. What else could they learn from this mysterious practitioner? And from where had a Bosmer learned the ancient secrets of Shadow Magick? That gathering of information would have to wait until they raided her home and acquired her belongings. For now, The Dominion possessed a singular purpose that must be executed with haste.

-----

Seagulls circled the docks filling the air with their constant chatter while the waves of the Sea of Pearls lapped gently against the wooden moorings. A tall sailing ship staffed with devout volunteers helped the caravan delicately load Transparent Law onto its deck and stabilize it in place with magickal bindings. Cirion led the Bosmer up the gangplank and then belowdecks where a makeshift brig had been set up to hold Teliel until she was needed.

Queen Penolore supervised the entire process with an authority born of her aristocratic upbringing. Not a single deckhand or soldier dared misstep under her watchful eye, and the imperative affair was wrapped up in under an hour. The captain, a stout old sailor who had severed the Thalmor navy well in his many long years began barking out orders as the ship made to get underway.

“Victory is inevitable, m’lady,” said Cirion. He stood not quite beside her at the end of the pier watching with earnest.

“Only death is inevitable, Cirion, and it shall come to some sooner than others. Your work is not yet finished. By my command, you will board that ship at once and see to it personally that our objective is carried out.”

A fearful look filled the Prime Magistrate eyes, but he knew that to disobey the queen meant instant death at her capable hands. Yet boarding that ship also signed his death warrant, whether he succeeded or failed. Faced with an impossible choice, Cirion swallowed hard and saluted smartly.

“As you wish, m’lady.” He bowed low and trotted up the gangplank with his head held high, determined to find a way out that didn’t involve a heretical demise.

----

Far out from the rocky shore, the sails of Dawn’s Ghost unfurled and caught the stiff breeze of ocean air that billowed betwixt Alinor and Auridon, driving forth many of The Dominion’s naval vessels to the open waters of the sea. Penolore stood unmoving, watching the ship sail into the sunset until it resembled little more than a tiny speck, rapidly losing itself amid the last grasps of evening light.

Behind her, a nervous guard timidly cleared her throat to garner the monarch’s attention.

“What do you want?” snapped Penolore.

“Sorry, my queen. A letter arrived by carrier pigeon. It’s for your eyes only.” She proffered the bound scroll and returned to her post the moment Penolore snatched it from her hand.

The queen slit the seal with a sharp fingernail and unrolled the parchment sent by her Magistrate overseeing operations in Skyrim. She read it twice, crumpled the message in her fist, and destroyed it with a burst of magickal fire. A glorious day approaches, she mused to herself. Even Lisotel cannot fail now.

This post has been edited by Kane: Oct 23 2025, 12:43 AM

[Acadian]

What a grim affair as Penolore leads her procession containing Transparent Law down to the coast. I cringed at the idea of poor Teliel losing an ear – those ears are so important to wood elves - from amplifying their hearing to serving as erogenous zones to holding their hair out of their face. . . .

Teliel has been schooled in shadow magic – perhaps by a follower of the Mistress of Shadows or even Nocturnal herself. It seems the Thalmor intend to use her shadow magic to somehow facilitate moving Transparent Law.

Cirion seems to believe that the ship now carrying Transparent Law will be a casualty of its mission – which remains less than clear at this point. Can’t wait to learn more of Penolore’s dastardly plan!


Looks like you may have inadvertently posted this episode twice in the same post?

[Kane]

That's a new one! I must've CTRL+VV'ed.

[Kane]

Chapter XXXII – On the Run


“We can’t just sit here and wait to die, Retnarr!”

Delphine felt she may as well have been speaking to a brick wall for all the progress (or lack thereof) she had made in convincing her cell mate in doing anything other than lying pitifully in the dirt and bemoaning his misfortune in life. She privately scolded him as being the least Nord-like Nord she’d ever met and wondered if the poor sap might have been a beggar in one of the larger cities before trying his hand at living in the wilds.

“Why can’ we?” moaned Retnarr dejectedly. “Gotta die anyway, my’swell get it over with. Ain’t ne’er escapin’ the elves or tha dark, ya old bag.”

“Then you’re a useless fool,” chided Delphine. “I can get us out of this cell at any time, but I need someone watching my back if we are to escape! My reflexes aren’t what they once were.”

“Cuz yer old.”

“Stubborn ass,” she snorted.

Footsteps echoed up the corridor, and they ceased bickering while the guards made their rounds. Delphine feigned sleep until the haughty elf moved on – being awake meant several minutes of gloating that not a single one of the Thalmor troops resisted partaking in over her captivity. It gave Delphine a feeling of satisfaction to know her efforts against The Dominion in her younger days did not go unnoticed, even if it made her current predicament that much worse. Exactly how much worse depended entirely on whether or not she could convince the otherwise useless sack of potatoes that was her cell mate to escape with her.

Maybe the Legion can house him in Solitude. Thinking that might entice Retnarr enough to risk it, Delphine tried a different tack.

“How about this, Retnarr… help me get out of here and I’ll convince the king to find you a place to live in the capital? Sound good?”

“Like I’m ta believe that,” said Retnarr. “Jus’ cuz you have a high ‘pinion of yerself don’ mean his lordship do.”

“I was captured doing reconnaissance for Kirin, you oaf. Even traveled to Dawnstar with his son for a bit. I joined the High King’s court several weeks ago after traveling back here to Skyrim at the Empire’s request.”

“Makes sense why yer so stuffy.”

Delphine groaned audibly and gave up. “Fine, stay here and rot for all I care. I’m leaving after the next shift change and I’m not coming back. If you can figure out where your manhood went feel free to follow me. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

Retnarr murmured something crude under his breath as Delphine laid down on the hay pile in her corner to rest up ahead of her next task: getting out of the dreadful place she’d been dragged to. She knew it would prove to be a tall order, and that she’d be racing against time the moment she left her cell. Once the guards realized she had flown the coop, all hell would break loose. She needed to find one of the Dwemer lifts to the surface as quickly as she could possibly manage.

She made sure to say a prayer to all nine Divines, hoping that any one of them would take pity on her.

-----

The hour had arrived. Delphine made a final vain attempt to have Retnarr follow her before unlocking the cell door and vanishing alone into the darkness. She passed through the familiar room at the end of the hall and then stole through the heavy Dwemer door and into the massive realm of Blackreach just beyond. Furtive glances at her surroundings revealed two more structures on either side of the one she’d been held in, but the doorways to them were collapsed under rubble. Far off in the distance Delphine could just make out an odd glowing light floating high above the ground.

It suddenly occurred to her that being underground skewed her sense of direction and that she didn’t have any idea of her bearings. Thinking back to her days at Sky Haven Temple, Delphine recalled a handy spell Esbern taught her, and she ducked behind one of the ruined buildings before casting it, lest the glow attract unwanted attention. A summoned compass alighted on her open palm and indicated that the solid rock wall on her left was due west

“At least it’s something,” she muttered.

Dispelling the compass, she fled into the darkness while keeping her eyes peeled for any obvious landmarks to help her stay oriented. Enormously tall mushrooms cast an ethereal glow in faint pockets beneath their caps and Delphine was bathed in the light of one such mycelial outgrowth when hurried footsteps approached her from behind.

“Delphine!” hissed Retnarr in the nick of time. Had he waited even a second longer, the Nord would’ve been greeted with her primed and ready paralysis spell. “Wait fer me!”

“Change your mind?” she asked.

“Aye. They’dve taken it out on me anyhow. Figgered getting’ killed on my feet would make fer a better story in Sovngarde. ‘Ere, take this. I offed the guard to buy some more time.”

Retnarr handed Delphin an elven dagger, and it was then that she noticed the matching sword slung over his back.

“Your confidence is inspiring, Retnarr,” chuckled Delphine. “Thanks for the dagger.”

“Wha’s the plan?”

“Finding a way out of this maze. We’re heading roughly south along this rock wall. Hopefully we find something of note along the way.”

“I knew you was gonn’ say somethin’ like that,” grumbled Retnarr. “ I nabbed a map from the elf I did in. Take it.”

He handed Delphine a worn map frayed around the edges from use. She opened it up and held it under the dim light from the mushroom stalks and tried to get their bearings. There was no way of knowing if the map was to scale, but it did have plenty of markings and notations, including a scribble on top of the three buildings they’d fled from.

“Looks like were held here, in this old Farm Overseers house. So that would mean…” Her finger traced along the outer wall and stopped near a particularly craggy outcropping. “We are roughly here. Hm. I think we have to go in another direction, or we’ll come to a steep cliff. What is… oh! That’s it!”

“Wha’s what, woman?”

Delphine pointed at a marking towards the east. “Mzark. I know that ruin and it comes out in the mountains southwest of Dunstad. If we can make it there, we’ll be able to make a run for the village and talk to the garrison. The guard captain there knows me; he’s the one that outfitted the team that escorted me to Duskglow.”

Retnarr whistled low. “I dunno, Delph. Tha’s at least a day’s walk, and tha’s if’in we had some light!”

“Only one of us has to make it, Retnarr,” she said grimly. “The king needs to know of what’s going on down here immediately. We have a duty to Skyrim, and to the Empire.”

“Bloody die ‘ards,” said Retnarr. “S’pose it’s better than dyin’ unnerground. Ain’t natural, tha’. Lead on, Delph.”

She clasped his shoulder warmly and together they discussed tactics on what to do should they be spotted. It took them about half of an hour to iron out a plan they both agreed to before finally getting underway again.

Staying away from the bioluminescent spore carriers, the unlikely duo slowly picked their way through the grim darkness of Blackreach, taking great care not to trip over large rocks, or tumble down steep slopes. Somewhere in the distance the roar of a waterfall added to their wariness – getting swept away by the current of an underground river meant certain death. They only had the odd rat to contend with until all hell broke loose.

A dozen or so Thalmor troops with torches ablaze suddenly clambered by, coming within fifty feet of where they were crouched against a tall stalagmite, bound for the cluster of Dwemer structures Delphine and Retnarr had escaped from less than two hours ago.

“Damn it!” hissed Delphine. “I hoped we would have had more time! We need to pick up the pace, Retnarr! They’ll be searching for us soon and I don’t know any spells to counter Detect Life. Unless… did you pick out any robed figures in that squad?”

“The wizard types? Nah, they all had clankin’ armor on.”

“We might get lucky, then. Let’s get a move on.”

With the weight of being recaptured and likely tortured or fed to the Dark Heart looming over Delphine and Retnarr’s heads, they doubled-timed their efforts in reaching the Tower of Mzark with its promise of reaching the surface before it was too late. That, unfortunately, didn’t turn out to be very fast with the utter blackness of the aptly named lost Dwemer city hindering their progress at every turn. They soon learned that unless you stuck to the clearly marked roads on the map, navigating the labyrinthian cavern was no small task, whether there were elves nipping at your heels or not.

And Thalmor were indeed doing just that. Torches and candlelight spells blossomed out in the distance, and the barking of dogs echoed off the stone walls and pillars interspersed throughout the colossal underground expanse.

“This isn’t looking good, Retnarr. Look, if things go south, I need you to run for the hills. You’re younger and faster than me – it’s imperative that you make it to Dunstad.”

“Pointy eared bastards ain’t caught us yet, Delph. I know a few tricks to keep the hounds off our scent, too. Hope ya don’ mind muckin’ about in the mud.”

“Whatever it takes, friend. But I think we’re going to have to hide out somewhere for a while. They’ll surely catch us before we make it to Mzark.”

Retnarr fell silent for a few minutes as he desperately tried to recall hazy memories from his time in the Legion. There had been a dark elf colonel commanding another unit with a penchant for alchemy, and she regularly touted the brews and salves she concocted to help with their missions: especially espionage, or courier services. He was almost certain the elf had spoken of an ingredient that masked life signs, rather than turn one invisible. The name eluded him, but it lay on the tip of his tongue.

“Delph, how much do ya know about alchemy?”

“I have a passing knowledge,” she said. “Why?”

“I’m tryin’ to amember the name of an ingredient but it ain’t comin’ to me. There was this elf lass I served with ya see, and she knowed a way to mask ‘er troops from detection and the like.”

“Hm. Well, the only thing I’ve seen around here is a Nirnroot variant, but –“

“Nirnroot, tha’s it!”

“Retnarr, that plant is used for invisibility potions. You can still be detected by other magickal means.”

“She didn’ brew it, Delph!” he exclaimed. “The lass would mash it to a pulp, mix it wit a sorta salty muck, and ‘ave the men rub it over their hearts like.”

“And it made them undetectable?” replied Delphine. The Breton had been around for a long time, and she was a spymaster for much of it. Not once did she ever hear of such a thing. “I don’t know, Retnarr. Seems like a stretch.”

“Whadda’ we got ta lose?”

“Point taken. Hold your breath and don’t move for a few seconds.”

At his pause, Delphine strained her ears for the telltale siren-like wail of the elusive plant Retnarr spoke of. She thought the faintest trill of Nirnroot song emanated from somewhere nearby, but she couldn’t pinpoint exactly where and slowing down to search for it offered ample opportunity for the Thalmor searchers to catch back up with the escapees.

“I think I hear one close by. Are you sure about this? The elves will be gaining on us.”

“I’m sure, Delph. Stake me life on it.”

“Very well. Let’s hunt some Nirnroot!”