The Rift

  • “I came to Skyrim in search of a way to make the voices stop.” The small Breton girl began, her voice trembling, not in fear, thought Isran, but in effort. As if she strained beneath a great weight that threatened to crush her. “I hear them in my head constantly crying, pleading, and screaming for mercy, for vengeance, and for justice. They are the voices of those who have died but not passed on, restless souls who reach out to me seeking absolution and final rest. I find it difficult to separate my thoughts from theirs, my wants from their pleas, and I fear that I will go mad if they don’t stop soon.  Even now they pull at me. This old castle is full of restless spirits, angry, vengeful, and ashamed. It’s only with great effort that I keep them in check, that I don’t lose myself to their desires. I don’t know why they come to me, or why only I can hear them. What it is they want from me is a mystery, but I must try to silence them, appease them, for the sake of my sanity I need them to stop!” As she spoke the desperation became more apparent in her tone, along with it she became more composed. Straightening her back and squaring her jaw. When she finished she sat stiffly in the chair that was provided. A single tear escaped down her cheek and was quickly wiped away.

     

    Isran sat listening intently his pale blue eyes and stern face a picture of razor sharp focus. He was the leader of a group known as the Dawnguard, whose entire reason for existence was the extermination of vampires. To his right sat First Captain Celann, young for his rank, and rakishly handsome with hair the color of mahogany and a day old beard. The only blemish to his chiseled features was a small scar on his right jaw that shone white through the stubble. To Isran’s left sat the orc Durak, Second Captain of the Dawnguard. He was large with gray-green skin and gray hair tied back in a tight topknot. His face was all furrowed brow and tusks. However despite his fearsome appearance there was a jovial nature about him, like a smiling cave bear. Of the three Durak seemed the least likely to lop her head off.

     

    She’s trying to appear strong and sure, Isran thought to himself. But she was clearly vexed by something. She was constantly shifting between the young sure Ysabette, and the broken waif Ysabette. The first was proud and tried to hide her vulnerability while the second trembled weakly and could often be found weeping silently or simply staring off into space completely oblivious to her surroundings. He wondered if she was truly hounded by spirits or simply mad. Hence the tribunal, the purpose of which was to determine just that. She had been staying in the fortress for three days now, ever since she was carried in by Durak. He had met the girl in Riften, and after hearing her tale had escorted her to Fort Dawnguard. The trip was not uneventful, and the girl had only regained consciousness a day ago.

     

    “That does not answer my question.” Isran replied flatly. His stern gaze never shifting in its intensity, “I don’t like repeating myself. Now answer me, why did you come to the Dawnguard?” Durak moved to answer but Isran raised his hand to silence him, “I want to hear it from her, Durak” he said coldly.

     

    Ysabette hesitated “I…I’m not sure. To be honest I’m not sure why I’ve come here, or why I’m in Skyrim for that matter. It’s what they want I suppose? They’ve pushed me this far, and they are relentless. I was hoping you might have the answer, might know why the spirits crowd Skyrim and plead for my help?”

     

    “Your being too harsh Isran, the girl came here because Durak brought her here,” said Celann. “Did you not send him to find recruits for the Dawnguard?” Celann smirked with a sidelong glance at the orc.

     

    Durak growled something under his breath but did not take the bait. Instead he turned to the girl, “start from the beginning, your journey to Skyrim. Tell them what you told me at the Bee and Barb in Riften.”

     

    ***

     

    “The Dawnguard is looking for anyone who will fight against the growing vampire menace! What do you say? Will you answer the call and defend your homes? Will you seek honor in the halls of your ancestors?” The orc crier announced in the main room of the Riften Inn known as the Bee and Barb.

     

    “Sit down you old orc, dis talk of vampiresh and honor is ruint my buzz,” slurs a man in brown leather armor his face obscured under a hood. Another inn patron shouts “I haven’t seen any vampires, sounds like a fool’s errand if you ask me.” There were several table thumps and “here here’s” of agreement.

     

    “That’s what everybody says, right up until they find their throat being ripped out by a hungry vampire!” the old orc retorted. “Come now, is Riften only full of rats and cowards? Are there no men of honor left among the cutpurses?”

     

    “I know nuthin bout cutpurses, but there’s bout to be one more cutthroat if you don shaddup greenskin!” Shouts the drunkard in brown leathers as he rises from his empty mug. The orc takes a step forward willing to exercise some of his frustration out on his detractor. The tension is quickly defused by the inns steward a soft spoken Argonian who places a fresh mug in front of the man and a calming hand on the old orc’s shoulder.

     

    “Enough Durak,” the Argonian says in his strange whispery voice. “I’ve told you before, you’re free to post your request with the others on the board and even the doors to the Inn but if you continue to disturb my patrons then I will be forced to call the guard and have you removed.” The stewards lizard like face was inscrutable, a quality that left many of the other races uneasy when dealing with the reptiles. If looks could kill then the glare Durak sent the Argonian would have surely slain him then and there. The steward recognized the anger and lifted his hands pleadingly, “we go back a long way Durak, and I’d like to think we are friends, but Keerava and I are running a business here, and Riften is not known for honor. Please, let me mix you something on the house, have a seat.” The Argonian’s patience won out and Durak relented seating himself at one of the corner tables.

     

    “Here you are Durak; it’s a new recipe ‘Cliff Racer’ only for the bravest of souls.” The inn’s steward set a tall mug before the old orc.

     

    “Thank you Talen-Jei,” the orc replied. Taking a large gulp of the mixture he slammed the mug back down on the table and growled his throat clear of the liquid fire. “Damn Jei, what did you put in this?”

     

    “I thought you’d like it,” said the Argonian making a strange hissing sound that must have been laughter. “I believe the saying is, ‘it will put hair on your arse.’”

     

    “On your chest,” said Durak, chuckling deeply as he took another less robust sip of the drink. “Though I imagine this will do both.” Laughing the steward went to attend other customers and left the orc to enjoy his drink in peace.   Slowly the mirth of Talen-Jei’s little prank wore off and Durak turned his thoughts back to his mission. Isran had sent him to Riften to recruit members for the Dawnguard. So far he had failed miserably. Tomorrow he would leave for the journey back to the secluded fort and would be making that trip alone. He began grinding his tusks in frustration.  Failure seemed to be his destiny, failure to sire, failure to protect his two wives, further failure to protect his stronghold from those two wives, and now failure to repay the debt he owed Isran, even in this small way.

     

    Surveying the room Durak began to realize the problem, and felt even more foolish that he hadn’t realized it three days ago when he arrived in Riften. The Bee and Barb was a busy Inn located in the “Plank District” of the lake side city, called such because this particular section of the city was built over the lake making all the buildings connected by plank walk ways and thus the name. Evenings would be busy with the local fishermen coming home off the lake looking for a stiff drink before heading home. Tonight the inn was bustling but not with young men smelling of fish, instead Durak noticed many of the men present were old, older than even he was, or were lame nursing injuries both new and old. In fact there were more women present then men, dressed in durable trousers and shirts with their sleeves rolled up and smelling of fish and salt. Then there was a smattering of children, boys on the cusp of manhood, and the two hatchlings of Talen-Jei and Keerava zipping around the main room mopping up spills and clearing away empty mugs. They were getting big Durak realized, each stood as tall as his navel. The boy, Asum-Ja, took after his mother with pale coloring and no head adornment, meanwhile the girl Gish, shared the green scales of her father and had a crest of bright yellow feathers that turned red at the tips.

     

    The young fishermen were missing, and Durak knew where they were. The reason he couldn’t find any recruits was because all the fighting men were already off killing each other in the civil war, those left behind who could fight were busy keeping food on their tables and keeping the war effort supported at home. Durak felt such the fool for having been so oblivious, so full of his own mission, so focused on the fire in his heart that he missed what was right in front of him. The only person in the room who looked like they could handle themselves in a fight was the hooded man in brown leathers. The thought had Durak look across the room to where the man was sitting. Only then did he realize that he was being watched. The hooded man stared at Durak with open aggression written all over his face as he sipped the drink Talen-Jei had given him. Durak noticed the man’s dark look, and made note of his face, since he might have to break it before he left Riften. The man had the dark brown skin of a Redguard like Isran, and like Isran he had startlingly pale eyes for his race.

     

    Durak thought better of staying in the main room and headed for the exit. He had wasted his time with the inns, and was now desperate to find someone, anyone, to recruit. Anything to keep him from returning to Isran empty handed. Perhaps he could find some recruits in the evening bread line at the Temple of Mara.

     

    ***

     

    The world is falling apart, thought Durak as he watched the despondent line of beggars, drunks, skooma addicts, and various other dregs stand in line at the stone wall that separated the old city of Riften from the sprawling new city that wrapped in a crescent around the eastern shores of Lake Honrich and extended a good half mile onto the lake itself. The official name was Old Riften but most of the locals, those who didn’t live in Old Riften, called it the Heights since it was located on a small hill that further raised the old city above the sprawl. It was the home of the nobility, the jarl, and a few other establishments which included the Temple of Mara. The priests would come out to the wall every evening and deliver a sermon while neophytes of the order would hand out alms to the poor.

     

    A steady drizzle began to fall, promising a night that was just as dreary and miserable as the day had been. The priestess, a Dunmer dressed in a heavy robe of pale yellow finished her sermon and departed back behind the wall toward the temple. The poor sat in the rain and munched on stale bread heels and fish stew that was thankfully warm if flavorless. There weren’t many of them, a few dozen men and women of varying ages and about as many children. Anyone who was able probably joined the war effort weeks ago, killing their neighbor for a full belly and small stipend. “Well isn’t that my plan as well?” Durak grumbled to himself half ashamed. Isran had done a good job procuring stores for the winter and even planned on renovating the fort during the cold months.   Durak’s hope was that he could entice with food where honor and glory had failed. He had waited for the priestess to finish her sermon out of respect. Now that they had departed Durak stepped up to the line and began his spiel, calling for recruits, anyone able to hold a sword, to join the Dawnguard. None bothered to even acknowledge his presence.

     

    “Will you do nothing then?” the orc shouted his ire rising. “Will you just wallow here in the mud until death comes knocking? Have you no desire to live, to protect your kin?” Still no reaction, “sod you all then, I hope they come eat the whole lot of ya!” The orc roared stomping in the mud for emphasis. One of the younger children began crying and the old orc slumped defeated.   The child’s mother began to leave scooping up her child and hurrying down one of the alleys. Durak reflexively took a step after them meaning to apologize; despite his bluster the old orc had a soft heart. In the end he just let them go, too defeated to care, there were worse things in this world then a stupid orc yelling in the rain.

     

    The sun had finally set somewhere behind the clouds and a thick fog quickly rolled in from the lake. Durak resigned himself to defeat and began heading back to the Bee and Barb. Whatever Isran had planned he would have to do it without new recruits. One of the other dregs, an old codger blind in one eye began ranting and cavorting in the street. He was shouting some apocalyptic mantra through a mouth hidden behind a wiry white beard, his bald pate reflecting the light of the street lamps. It had something to do with a great dragon devouring the sun and leaving the world in darkness. Durak, grunted, there were enough real threats in the world already with the civil war and the roving vampires, one didn’t need to invent dragons returning. But that’s exactly what they did.

     

    When Durak had arrived in the city the rumor of Helgen being destroyed was already circulating. Some said that Ulfric Stormcloak the leader of the rebellion was rescued from execution by a dragon ally. Others said that Ulfric himself turned into a dragon. Still others were saying that the dragon was sent by the Emperor to slay the rebel leader. It was ridiculous; even now the others were shouting the old codger down for a fool. “You’ll see when the world burns in dragon’s fire!” the old man shouted into the face of one of his detractors. That earned the old coot a shove which sent him sprawling in the mud. Others joined in, hoodlums and street urchins, flapping their arms like wings and swooping in on the old man pushing him down whenever he tried to recover and mocking him with calls of “look out it’s a dragon” and “help, I’m burning in dragon’s fire.” Durak took a purposeful step away from the commotion he was weary of Riften and its stupidity.

     

    “Stop it!” one of the onlooker shouted. Stepping forward to help the old man to his feet was a young woman, barely more than a girl. She was thin, almost to the point of gauntness, and had a grimy tear streaked face, with large red rimmed blue eyes that seemed luminous in the street lamps. “He’s not wrong,” she yelled at the crowd that now encircled her and the old codger. “I was there, I saw Helgen burn, I saw the dragon.”

     

    The crowd was silent for a long moment. Durak too had paused watching the girl. Something about her statement was compelling, it didn’t sound like the ravings of an addled mind. Instead it had the ring of truth, a sincerity that imposed belief. Then the silence was broken by the old man crooning “you see, Alduin has come, the Worldeater has come to devour us all!”

     

    The crowd roared with laughter. “She’s as mad as the old man,” someone called. A passing hoodlum tripped the girl sending her sprawling into the mud. The taunts and arm flapping started anew as the crowd found a new target for their teasing.

     

    “Enough!” Durak roared as he stalked toward the crowd. The girls shout had stunned them to silence the orc’s roar dispersed them. The site of a mountain of orc armed and armored stalking their way was enough to take the fun out of it. Durak lifted the girl out of the mud and moved to help the old man but found he had gone. “Are you alri-” he began asking, but found himself suddenly laying in the mud his vision slowly turning red as a man in brown leathers seized the girl and quickly gagged her to prevent a scream. Two more hauled Durak to his knees.

     

    “What should we do with orc?” one of them asked the Redguard.

     

    The Redguard, the man in brown leathers with his hood casting his face in shadow tightened the final knot on the girl’s ankles and settled a baleful glare upon the orc. No longer did he have the piercing eyes of blue steel. They now shone yellow in the dim lamplight like the night eyes of a predator. “Kill him,” he stated adding, “a message for Isran.”

     

    There was a glint of wet steel to Durak’s right as one of his captors moved to slit the orcs throat. Durak surged forward suddenly seizing the man’s wrist in his mouth crunching it with his large pointed lower tusks. Durak wrenched the man’s arm so violently that he sent him slipping in the mud. The maneuver earned Durak a deep gash on his left cheek, the pain of which only further fueled the orc’s rage. Durak then turned to the stunned man on his left and seized both crotch and neck in an iron grip. Durak lifted the other captor over his head and slammed him face first into the man he had bitten. Both men fell in a tangle of limbs, some of them broken.

     

    The Redguard sighed and began drawing his scimitar a weapon unique to the warriors of Hammerfell. Durak likewise drew a dagger from his boot and lifted his steel war ax out of its loop at his waist. The warriors clashed blades. The Redguard spinning gracefully with the curve of his weapon and using its momentum to deflect the orcs ax at odd angles. For his part Durak held his ground with heavy chops of the ax followed up by quick stabs and swipes with the dagger. However, the Redguard clearly had the advantage, quickly lining the orc’s heavy leather gambeson with deep grooves from his scimitar some of them even seeped blood. Finally the guard performed a spectacular feat of acrobatics, with his sword he deflected the ax out wide and then performed a quick double kick spinning as he switched legs. The first kick sent the dagger flying from Durak's hand the second landed squarely in the orcs stomach and sent Durak sprawling on his back.

     

    The whole engagement lasted only a few seconds. The girl looked on helplessly bound and gagged.   The Redguard with the glowing yellow eyes stood over the prone orc resting the tip of his blade against the orcs throat. The man grinned showing off pearly white fangs. “Goodbye Durak, say hello to Broga and Grel for me.”

     

    There was a white flash and the Redguard stumbled back clutching his throat with his fee hand. Black spurted through the finger tips. From nowhere a wolf had appeared and now stood between the Redguard and the orc. The creature appeared to be made of moonlight and mist, black blood dripping from its snarling mouth. Both combatants stared in wide eyed amazement, their stupor broken by the shouts of men coming from the Old Riften side of the gate. The Redguard cursed and burst into a cloud of shadowy leather wings that disappeared into the night. The wolf dissolved, its ephemeral form blowing away like smoke on the wind.

     

    The Riften city guard found orc and girl sitting silently in the rain, staring at each other. The old orc bloody and weary, the girl bound and gagged.   They both turned in unison toward the approaching lamplight and fainted.

Comments

1 Comment   |   The Long-Chapper and 1 other like this.
  • Sotek
    Sotek   ·  January 22, 2017
    That's one hell of a 'start at the beginning'  Vargr...