Eyes Like the Summer Skies

• Posted by The Long-Chapper April 30, 2016 - Filed in TSC: Short Story - #TSC:Skyrim  #:TSC:Short  #Eyes Like the Summer Skies  - 2,028 views

  Warning: Contains foul language and adult themes. 

  

   

   

  28th of Evening Star, 4E 198, Bruma, Cyrodiil

   

  Damn, it was brutally cold, thought Celann as he gathered his timberwolf cloak about his shoulders and walked to the Fighter’s Guild in Bruma from the Northern gate. A light snow fell, dusting everything like sugar dusts a cake. Ha! you’re hungry, he chuckled to himself. Was a long road traveling from Pale Pass. Hopefully they’d be here. He passed the statue along the way and paused.

   

  The Champion of Cyrodiil. 

   

  He always paused when he passed it, regardless of how busy he was. Force of habit. A bit strange that it was an Altmer She-Elf, but she was clad in a third-Era set of Mithril armor and the sculptors still managed to make the statue imposing enough, though she only wielded a silver dagger and the other hand was raised as if casting a spell. A hero, Celann thought, is still a hero. Or heroine as was the case here. He nodded to the statue, muttering a half-arsed prayer to Stendarr and Akatosh, acknowledging her great contribution to all of Tamriel and proceeded on to the Fighter’s Guild, which was south of his position. That was where Helirox told him to meet. Why they couldn’t meet inside one of the local inns was beyond him. There were two in Bruma. He preferred Jerall View, but damn, even Tap and Tack was better than outside. It was less cold in the Rift and that was in bloody Skyrim.

   

  Celann was here to collect the dogs and escort them and their trainer back to Fort Dawnguard. They cost so much that Celann thought they were made of ebony, but Isran wanted them and Decimus let him, though he did increase the rent.

   

  “I love dogs, but they make a fucking mess with their shit and fur everywhere and they bark.” The Old Blade then scratched his bald head and grinned. “Sort of like me.”

   

  Celann didn’t blame the Goldpact Knight. ‘Twas his fort, after all, and so far, he was letting Isran do whatever the Oblivion he wanted, which suited Isran fine. Only it wasn’t going to be barking, it was going to be howling, Celann could no longer restrain a groan. War huskies, bred in the Imperial City, a bitch and her four weaning pups.  Even louder, but they needed to be that young. It would help their training, insisted the man they wrote to in the Imperial City.  It wasn't much, but it was a start. Celann kept his head down while he walked to ward off the icy wind, his reddish beard already gathering ice crystals. Crunch, crunch, crunch, his feet upon the snow. His stomach growled again.  Forget cake with a dusting of sugar, you just want a hot stew, Celann. Hot stew… Venison, or beef, you're not particularly picky…

   

  “Hey, Celann! Passed us.”

   

  Damn, thought Celann when he looked up at the sound of the man’s gruff voice. Aye, he did pass the building, but seriously, how can anybody tell any building apart in Bruma with all this Gods-damned snow everywhere! And there he was, Helirox, also in a wolfskin cloak over his heavy Dawnguard armor, his light brown beard crusted over with ice, standing next to an old She-Orc heavily wrapped in furs, her green skin deeply lined.

   

  Ah, Bumph.

   

  Old as Oblivion, but she could still carry that damn battle axe—probably even older than she was—and walk around in heavy armor better than most people a quarter her age. Still alive, one of the few in Bruma who was there when the Great Gate opened.  Still alive. She was the one who recommended Durak for Isran’s little band. She, despite her advanced age, was still a mainstay of Bruma’s Fighter’s guild. What was she doing with Helirox, Celann wondered.

   

  “It’s really cold.” Complained Celann.

   

  Helirox laughed at the Breton, typical High Rock, but he knew the humor was going to be very short-lived. Very short-lived. “And we live in Skyrim. You’d think.” Retorted Helirox.

   

  Celann shivered in response, stomping his feet lightly to keep warm. Helirox was their “field agent”. While Celann and Isran prepared the fort and Durak was sent out for new recruits, Helirox was their eyes and ears, scanning for vampire activity. He floated between the borders of Cyrodiil and Skyrim and he was indispensable to their small operation. He still maintained contact with the Vigilants at times, especially Vigilant Tyranus, much to Isran’s chagrin. Isran was done with the Vigilants, but Celann and Helirox knew they could still be useful. They were all former Vigilants once, save Durak, who was recruited when as they were tracking him down, they saw him by chance, killing the very vampire who slew his two wives. Or, at least he thought it was the one. It impressed Isran enough to talk to him then and there.  “Yes, yes, yes. But we’re high in the Jeralls now. That’s far colder than the Rift.” Celann countered.

   

  “You two are a bunch of pussies.” Interrupted the She-Orc. “You’re not high up anywhere. Now, the Wrothgarian Mountains, where I come from, that’s cold. Bruma is a fucking paradise, damn balmy if you ask me, so shut up and get a move on. I got a job for the Guild after I hold you hands and take you to the inn. Fucking goblins.”

   

  Orcs, Celann grumbled to himself. Wait... his brow lowered. She still took jobs? How old was she, past 200? Damn! "The inn. Is that where the dogs are?"

   

  "No." She replied, licking her tusk. "Come on. Stop pissing in the bushes." she urged.

   

  He then shrugged his shoulders and lifted up his hands, scanning the area for any signs of the animals. “Well? Where are they? The dogs? It is cold, you have them in the building, yes?” He asked, pointing to the Fighter’s Guild, a wooden building of Nordic design with red banners and decorated with plaques of weapons. Helirox shifted his position and looked away, the Orc was already turning away from them, impatiently waiting, kicking at the snow.  Celann didn’t like that look.

   

  “Dogs never arrived.” The Nord admitted. “Been waiting for a few hours already and the caravan’s always on time.”

   

  Celann shook his head at Helirox's words, trying to maintain his composure, but inside, he was beginning to panic, the sweat creating an icy trail down his neck. “Tell me you’re not telling me this? You know how Isran’s going to react?!”

   

  “Of course I know how that damn Redguard’s going to react!” The Nord bellowed. “Why do you bloody think I’m standing here with Bumph!? We think…”

   

  Celann’s eyes narrowed. “You think what, Helirox?”

   

  Helirox let out a growl. “Vampires, we think vampires got to the caravan carrying the dogs. Along the Silver Road. They’ve been growing more aggressive.”

   

  “Shit, Helirox!” The Breton threw his arms up in exasperation, “How the Oblivion am I going to explain this to Isran? Do you know how much those dogs cost?”

   

  “You don’t have to tell me, believe me, I know.” Groaned Helirox, looking away. Damn, vampires were always a step ahead. They had to have a base of operations somewhere in the Jerrals. Watching Pale Pass. Watching their movements. One day, he was going to find their base. Their lair. Bastards.  Helirox turned towards the Breton again. Bumph better be right on this. “Nobody knows what happened to the caravan. That’s why I talked to Bumph here. Hey! Bumph, get back here." The She-Orc trudged towards them, her face wearing a scowl that Helirox couldn't tell was out of annoyance or amusement. Damn Orcs. Durak was only a little easier to read, but even so. 

   

  "You done talkin' yet?" She grumbled. 

   

  "She says she knows someone who knows the area really well. Especially the routes. If vampires got to the caravan, he’ll help us find them.” His brow lowered. “And we can kill them.”

   

  “What? Tyranus’ is in town? That’s wonderful!” Exclaimed Celann. Stendarr’s mercy, having Tyranus would help matters a lot. Celann’s hopes were crushed when he saw Helirox glance at Bumph nervously, making her roll her eyes in annoyance. The Orc’s face was smattered with a measure of disdain. Celann wasn’t quite sure if she liked any of them yet. 

   

  “Not quite,” She barked, turning to head south along the road, “Follow me to the Tap and Tack.”

   

  Celann gave Helirox a nudge in warning while they plodded through the snow-covered path, following the She-Orc towards the Eastern gate.  “What does she mean ‘not quite’? No Tyranus? We better not be wasting time.”

   

  “Following her is better than just traveling up to the Rift and telling Isran, don’t you think?” Helirox retorted. “Even if we don’t save the dogs, Celann, we still do our jobs. If vampires got a hold of them, won’t be nothing left anyway. Not with the Volkihar...” The Nord let his voice trail off.

   

  “Aye. They’re getting bolder with each passing day. ” Celann whispered. “Still think they have a lair in the mountains?”

   

  “Aye, and I’m gonna find it.” The Nord punctuated his words by spitting on the snow. “Fucking vampires.”

   

  They continued to talk while they followed Bumph, making the left turn at where the Chapel of Talos used to stand. After the Great War, it was torn down, leaving a foul taste in the mouths of the Nords that still lived in Bruma. Some couldn’t stand it and left for Skyrim, where the Empire wasn’t so strict with enforcing the terms of the White Gold Concordat. In the Chapel’s place was built a stone park lined with pine trees and at its center was a statue commemorating the peace treaty that ended the Great War; Titus Mede II shaking hands with a Thalmor Justiciar. Celann heard Helirox growl as they passed it. “Still a sore spot, eh?” Asked Celann.

   

  “Fucking Elves!” Helirox snarled, louder than he should have by the stares from the locals, his storm-blue eyes crackling with a deep-seeded spite. Then he chuckled, “Sometimes, though, the little brats living here get their revenge at night and tack a nasty mustache and Daedra horns on the Thalmor. Then paint his fat lips bright red, like a fucking harlot. This is still a Nord city, Celann. Ha! Even the Altmer living here don’t give a shit and laugh too. Why not? Can’t torture and kill everybody in a city for laughing.” Another chuckle, laced with bitterness.  

   

  They continued to follow Bumph past the “park” until they faced the Eastern gate. On the left stood a humble house of timber and stone. Well, it was no longer merely a house, for it was once owned by the Champion of Cyrodiil. When she disappeared, it was kept as it was, a sort of museum to her memory. She was a curious person, who collected many artifacts. Typical Altmer collector. All High Elves were damn collectors, Celann thought to himself. It was in the race. The sword Chillrend was once shown there, until a thief stole it and fled to Skyrim some years ago, but there were still other things on display in that house. A mage’s staff, books from the era, enchanted rings. A curiosity really. Celann was brought back by the Orc’s gravelly voice.

   

  “Here we are, Tap and Tack.”

   

  

   

  Celann wrinkled his nose. A small inn, part stone, part wood, with a snow-covered roof, tiny, paned windows, and sturdy wood door. Designed to keep the cold out, but not to impress. A crescent moon and two stars were on its sign, to advertise rooms for rent. It was the more “seedy” place in town. Bumph pushed open the door and all three stepped inside, bringing with them a gust of snowy wind and a beam of light. It was dark, lit dimly by lanterns, candlelight, and a fireplace. The locals squinted up from their afternoon meals, as if light was something they were unaccustomed to seeing, while the publican calmly wiped the counter.

   

  “Afternoon, Karinarre,” Barked the Orc. An older Altmer She-Elf looked up from her table as she ate her lunch.

   

  “Bumph.” She answered with a nod, her golden skin sallow from age, pinched.

   

  “He upstairs?” Asked Bumph. Karinnare was about to speak when a man’s voice cut her off.

   

  “The Priest?” Answered the publican. A burly Nord who was Olav’s great, great grandson, Odfel. They managed to keep the inn in the family all these years. “Aye, he’s upstairs. Didn’t sleep last night. When he’s not out on a job, he’s got that damn nose of his in a book.” His green eyes then flashed with an unspoken humor between the two of them. “And Bumph, tell him there’s sunshine and fresh air outside.”

   

  “Ha!” The Orc snorted, “He’s not stupid, Odfel, stayed at Bruma enough times to know there’s never sunshine here. Though a few weeks ago those eyes were as bright as sunshine. Sly old Bastard.”

   

  “Aye, Bruma’s local face sculptors paid another visit to the stone park. He’s getting better with the lips. All those years of painting. Been working on a new tempera formula. Thalmor had to scrub for days to get all the red off this time.” Odfel grinned.

   

  “One day, he’s going to get in trouble for doing that.” Interjected Karinarre, bringing a serious tone to the conversation that had the two Dawnguard members exchanging glances.

   

  “Why? They don’t know he’s here. You gonna say something?” The Orc challenged, her hands instinctively reaching for her battle axe, making the Altmer flinch in fear.

   

  “Auri-El’s Grace, no Bumph. But he does need to learn. You can’t deface a statue like that. You don’t know what they’d do.”

   

  The Orc gnashed her tusks, her face beginning to color up with a simmering rage. “Let the brats have their fun and if I recall, you laugh too. Can’t kill a city for fucking laughing.” The Altmer resumed eating, though her face was worried.

   

  “Well, he should still get out,” Odfel replied, clearing his throat, “Be social. Talk to him, will ya? He’s in one of his ‘moods’ again. And… he took a chair.”

   

  Bumph nodded. She knew what ‘mood’ meant.  Meant that he was up there researching and didn’t want to be disturbed. But she could usually coax the Old Fart out of his tiny aerie for a bit of fresh air, preen his feathers, stretch his wings. Besides, she had these two fancies in tow. He would at least be intrigued by their armor. Bastard and his armors.

   

  “You heard him, gentlemen, up the stairs.” Bumph began her slow climb up the stairs, her old bones cracking as loudly as the steps creaked, Celann and Helirox close behind.

   

  “Let me do the talking,” Whispered Helirox, while they ascended, trying not to trip over the train of the Orc’s cape when she stopped to wait for them impatiently. “I don’t want to mention the Dawnguard, alright? Not until we know who this person is?”

   

  “Aye,” Replied Celann.

   

  Celann watched Bumph walk down a small hallway, stopping before a wooden door. She then proceeded to pound on it loud enough to wake the dead, surprising Celann and Helirox. Damn publican said the Priest didn’t want to be disturbed and there she was banging on the door. It wasn’t going to exactly ingratiate him to their plight. By the Eight, thought Celann, now the She-Orc was yelling!

   

  “Old Mer, you got company! So stop reading in the crapper, pull your trousers up, and open the door! Or I'll break it down with my battle axe, and don’t think that I can’t!”

   

  Both men were instantly relieved that the Orc’s off-color remarks were met with a hearty laugh from beyond the door. Whomever was behind that door understood Orcs. 

   

  “Surprised you can still lift the damn thing, Bumph!” Came the voice. Altmer, Celann could tell, probably from the South because he had known Altmer from the more northern cities. Their accents were more, well, the only word to describe it was “snobby”. This one’s voice was still refined, but not ‘snobby’, and had the rolled ‘r’s—Celann suddenly stopped dead and his eyes widened. Priest, Southern Summerset accent. Shit! Iran was going to kill him!

   

  The door opened and immediately Helirox drew his silver axe when he saw the hooded figure who greeted them. A vampire!  The impossibly fair skin, the red-orange eyes, his lips stained a dark red from recent feeding! Ysmir’s Beard, Tap and Tack had a vampire in their midst!  “Die Vampire!” Cried Helirox as he charged, swinging his axe.

   

  The figure, an Altmer by the height, quickly stepped behind the door and opened it wide, letting the Nord fall in on his swing onto a mountain of books and scrolls. He poked his head out the door while the Nord growled, fighting to right himself, fury still in his eyes. “Bumph, where is the vampire? I do not see one?” The Altmer asked, making to draw a thin, silver blade, and the Orc let out a hearty laugh.

   

  “Always told Odfel that guests needed fucking mirrors in the rooms. Here, Ro—fuck—Äelberon.” She drew her battle axe and shoved the blade near the Altmer’s face while Celann struggled to reach a fuming Helirox. By the Eight, Mer was a walking library!

   

  Äelberon stared at his reflection, putting his stained fingers to his lips. He understood now and he laughed, his laugh lines creasing. “My apologies, gentlemen,” He said, graciously offering Helirox his stained hand.

   

  Helirox, at first, was going to refuse, but then he smelled it and let out a gust of air. Damn. Blackberries and strawberries. The Mer was eating berries.

   

  “Next time two vampire hunters decide to pay me a surprise visit,” The Altmer continued, “I shall forgo the berries and opt for oranges.” Helirox chuckled at the words and took the Altmer’s hand, who hoisted the Nord up with an easy pull. Damn, he was strong. Wait, why was Celann looking like a chicken about to meet a fox for dinner?

   

  “Hello Äelberon,” greeted Celann, leaning uncomfortably against the door.

   

  “You know him?” Asked Helirox. That name rang a bell...

   

  “How is Isran, our favorite Redguard?” The Altmer asked Celann with a knowing, sarcastic smile.

   

  Damn, thought Helirox, he knew Isran too? Former Vigilant? Altmer Vigilants? Nah….

   

  “Same,” Replied Celann.

   

  The Altmer grinned. Helirox studied the face. He was old, for even the dim lantern light revealed a lined face under that grey hood. Lined, but still firm. The hooked nose was the most distinctive feature, like a hawk’s, though the entire face seemed to be drawn in strong, hard lines. And then there were his eyes. Intelligent, red-orange eyes, clear and very keen, framed by slanted, bushy silver eyebrows. Helirox rolled his own eyes, I’m growing as paranoid as Old Isran. No way was this a vampire, though he was pale. Altmer weren’t typically colored that way. Had to be mixed with something.

   

  “That bad, eh?” Chuckled Äelberon, “I forget my manners, though. Here, Bumph, sit.” He took the She-Orc by the shoulders and led her to a small wooden chair, sitting her down.

   

  “Odfel wants this back,” Bumph thumped her fist on the side of the chair, facing the Altmer, her tusks jutting forward.

   

  “Tell Odfel he can bill me extra for the damn chair, but it is far too noisy downstairs to get any reading done, and I cannot read in the bed. I am old, I will fall asleep.” He turned to the two Dawnguard members. “I know Celann, but I know you not.”

   

  Helirox offered his hand again to the Altmer. “Helirox.” The Altmer took it and gave it a shake that would put hair on a Nord’s chest. Fuck.

   

  “Strange name for a Nord.” He commented.

   

  “Father’s Imperial, but I’m my mom all the way.” Answered Helirox.

   

  The Altmer nodded, gesturing to the two Dawnguard members to sit on the bed. “Take a seat, the room is very small, my apologies, and I keep forgetting my manners. Too long away from the Isles, I guess.”  Äelberon took a seat upon the chest next to the table and slowly removed his hood, as was the custom of his people when guests were present. Did not even remember why he was wearing it in the first place. Oh aye, ‘twas cold, his ears and nose were cold. And he certainly did not think he would have any visitors today. Well perhaps Bumph, but Bumph always liked poking her head in and coaxing him out of his room to join the living downstairs.

   

  The Altmer pulled his hair from his cuirass and Helirox’s jaw dropped. By the Nine, he had never seen one in the flesh before and he finally took notice of the silver-plated armor, putting it together with the entire package. The pale skin, the red-orange eyes, the armor, and the long, silver-white hair with its top-knot. A Priest of Auri-El… A priest of Auri-El. Oh shit. Was it him? Now, he remembered the name. Vigilants spoke of him. Older than Tyranus and just… different.  Able to do things the Imperial couldn’t. Able to go where there wasn’t any light.  "You're Äelberon of Dusk, aren't you?" Asked Helirox.

   

  The Altmer smiled, a bit warmer action than Helirox expected, but also laced with something profoundly tragic. It was the eyes, like those eyes had seen far more than anybody else in the room. “Äelberon of Dusk… Aye, I am he still.” He admitted, almost shyly to Helirox. “Though I would appreciate it if you did not go and advertise my presence. The Tap and Tack deserves safety for their continued generosity and discretion.  Now tell me, gentlemen, what brings two vampire hunters to my room at the Tap and Tack?”

   

  Helirox glanced at Celann. “Shall you tell him, or shall I?”

   

  “Isran’s going to kill us either way.” Groaned Celann. “He explicitly said he didn’t want anything to do—“

   

  “By the Gods, is Isran still sore at me for not joining his little group?” Äelberon asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “I am sorry, Celann, but you and I both know he is a bit too eager to consult The Torturer’s Guide. I know they are vampires, but it is against my Order. Same reason why I no longer work for the Silver Hand. I was witness to what that Krev did to the Beasts on my last job for them and…” Äelberon shook his head, “I did not even collect my fee.  I just left. It was revolting.” It was a sensitive subject for the Altmer and Celann braced himself for the lecture.  “That Vigilants and Priests like I are lumped with them is an insult. Celann, I needed the coin, but not that badly to go against my principles. I do not abide by torture, and I do not agree with the Dawnguard exploring such unpleasantness. It is wrong, fundamentally. I have no problems sending creatures back to Oblivion or killing demons, but I kill them quick, releasing them from their torment. Or, I offer them alternatives.”

   

  The Altmer finally paused from his lecture enough to take a deep breath. Celann nodded. He knew what Äelberon meant by “alternatives.” If a vampire was willing to listen, the Priest sat with them and told them of Falion.  Their go-to for a cure with the death of Melisande, one of the last of the Glenmoril coven.  “Isran means well, I wish you’d reconsider.” Offered Celann, “We could sure use you in Skyrim.”

   

  “Absolutely not.” The directness in his baritone boom made Bumph chuckle. He was fiery sometimes, the nostrils flaring just a bit. “Besides, he insulted me. Called me what? 'A weak fool that would go the way of the Vigilants'.” His red-orange eyes narrowed and his tone became haughty. “His very words. I have my pride. I did nothing to warrant the insult, save disagree with him. He is a child. I am better off alone anyway, but now you have me very curious, what happened?”

   

  Celann sighed. “We were expecting a shipment of dogs, war huskies, from the Imperial City. They were supposed to arrive today. The caravan never came.”

   

  “Did they take the Silver road?” Asked Äelberon.

   

  “That’s my guess.” Replied Helirox.

   

  “Who would want a caravan full of huskies?” The Elf pressed. “They are rather loud, no?”

   

  “Those who wish to stop the Dawnguard.” Replied Celann, his mood very serious. Äelberon scowled. Aye, that’s it, get angry, thought Celann, we know you hunt them too.

   

  “At the foot of my bed, Helirox, is my pack, would you hand it to me please?”

   

  Helirox found it quickly. It was tattered and worn. Damn, looked nearly as old as the Elf, with large, clumsy stitching betraying numerous repairs. The Altmer took it from the Nord’s hands and began to rummage through it, while the two Dawnguard waited.

   

  Seemed the only fine things the Altmer had while Helirox studied the tiny quarters were his stunning armor set and his weapons. The armor was old, bloody third Era, but in incredible repair. Shining and grand. Similar to Tyranus’ silver plate, except the Elf’s featured an elegant eagle motif throughout the armor. Probably weighed thousands of angaids, definitely heavier than his own Dawnguard armor. Helirox imagined he had silver weapons and probably a crossbow. More than likely kept in the chest the Elf sat upon. Demonhunters of his status were usually armed to the teeth.

   

  And then, there were the magicks.

   

  Tyranus was an elemental mage, a witchblade to be precise, but Äelberon was a true Paladin, only possessing skill with the Priestly magicks and his knowledge was older, knowing spells that were no longer officially taught in the Cynod, Winterhold, or the College of Whispers. A strange mixture of Restoration, Mysticism and Conjuration designed for one purpose. To destroy the abominations of Tamriel, or to send them back from wherever dark Realm they came from.

   

  He knew little of other schools, supposedly could not even heat tea or cast the most basic of elemental magicks, but damn, it was said that he made armies of the undead retreat. That he could burn them with the heat of his sun magicks.

   

  And then he did other things. Cleaving Daedric shrines, severing their connection to Mundus. The exorcisms, driving Daedra from the afflicted. The Mer before him killed the children of Daedric Princes. Legends of a bow, an axe striking a gilded shield under burning skies. The fall of a Tower.

   

  The last of his kind.

   

  Helirox was excited, he had worked with Tyranus before, and now perhaps he would work with Äelberon of Dusk! It was in a way, quite sad that this Paladin was reduced to living in a cramped room at a Bruma inn, and not even the good Bruma inn. That he had to take whatever jobs he could get, be they Daedra or smelly goblins. But he knew that the Altmer was also dodging Thalmor hounds. The Vigilants of Stendarr helped him out by being discreet. In exchange, they could call upon him for the most difficult jobs in Cyrodiil.

   

  “Got it.” Äelberon spoke, making the Nord jump in his seat and Bumph release a chuckle. Day-dreaming, eh, Fancy? Bet you never met a real, fucking badass before? Not the pussies you find among the Vigilants, that’s for sure!   She watched Äelberon remove a map of Cyrodiil from his pack and set the pack at the foot of the chest. He then carefully opened the map. It was well-worn and smelled of Lady’s Smock and Alkanet flowers. Bumph smiled, that was the brew he drank. No alcohol may poison that body, but there was enough sugar and tea in him to kill a Daedroth. He smoked too, though not as often as he used to. Nothing really heavy. Mostly clouded funnel cap in quiet evenings. He had smoked Skooma in Elsweyr. He traced his long finger along the route of the Silver Road.

   

  “Come here, brothers.” Äelberon beckoned the two Dawnguard members to approach while he stood from the chest. He needed more space. He slid a few scrolls and books to the side of the table and laid the map flat. They stood on either side of him and he quickly shifted position to accommodate the Breton.

   

  Damn he was tall, gawked Celann silently. Had to be taller than the average Altmer. The beast of a Mer pointed to a location South of Bruma, along the Silver Road. 

   

  “Here, Toadstool Hollow. It is normally abandoned. The Champion of Cyrodiil cleared it of goblins and undead as I fought Daedric armies in Summerset, but the location gives a good view of the road. If the ambush were to happen. I suspect that the vermin would utilize this location.” He turned to Celann, “Have you horses?”

   

  “Aye, Äelberon, we’ve got them.”

   

  Äelberon suddenly moved quickly and opened the small shutters in his room, letting in some daylight. He studied the window for a few moments, as if judging something, and then began to don his hood.  “If we ride now,” He said, fastening his hood, “we will reach Toadstool with enough light to spare. Coming with us, Bumph?”

   

  "Nah, got that goblin job." The She-Orc shook her head. "Catch you later. I won't be long, but I gotta get going. You boys go out and play, get some fresh air, make nice with the vampires." She bared her tusks menacingly. "Kill the Sons of Bitches." The old Elf shared a grin with the She-Orc that bordered on dark, his eyes flashing like fire snaps and flickers in a hearth. 

   

  Celann and Helirox just stared blankly, while Äelberon reached for a cloak that was draped over the foot board of his bed. A simple, but large cloak of grey linen, lined with snow fox fur. Didn’t get those in the shops, thought Helirox, must’ve had it made, ‘cause from the pack, Helirox garnered that the Altmer’s own sewing was terrible. Would probably make a fine blanket if he was ever stuck in the cold. Ah, reversible! How cunning! Linen for the rain, fur for the snow and cold. He wore the fur side out now.

   

  “Well, your dogs? You coming with me, or not?” He asked impatiently, walking briskly to the chest, making both men start.

   

  That’s it, show a Nord what he really wants to see, Helirox thought, a grin forming against his beard. Fuck maps and talking, show me weapons. He nudged Celann to start putting on his cloak and he secured his own while the Altmer drew from the chest a beast of a Cyrodiilic crossbow that glowed orange red with a fire enchantment. Bet he could load one-handed. He slung the bow upon his broad back and then removed a bandolier that was stocked with silver bolts, fastening it to his chest. He then put on his silver gauntlets which had been laying on a small cot opposite the chest. Another bed? Helirox was pretty sure the Altmer worked alone most of the time. And finally, from the chest, Äelberon retrieved two more items; a great gilded shield and a silver katana. Oh fuck! Akaviri! Did he know Blades? The Mer could carry both a shield and a crossbow on his back, it was impressive. But there must be another weapon in that chest and Helirox leaned forward trying to get a better look, like a child waiting for a present on Saturalia.

   

  There had to be a golden bow.

   

  “Aye, he is there.”

   

  Helirox started again at the Mer’s voice who then placed a hand on the Nord’s shoulder, smiling, his face betraying great pride. “The very bow I used to challenge the Demon Bet. Make your peace with your Gods, men, as I make peace with mine.  And if we survive to fight another day, I will show you the bow.” He then bowed his head and both Celann and Helirox knew what was coming.

   

  “Let us pray.”

   

  

   

  Äelberon chewed the inside of his lip as the trio approached the stretch of road near Toadstool Hollow, his cloak blowing gently in the cold breeze, his body cast in the glow of his healing aura. The snow had let up some and it revealed a grisly scene near the great forest.  His heart was not pounding as it typically did when Daedra and their minions were nearby.

   

  They were long gone. Damn it.

   

  Äelberon immediately dismounted with a fluid motion from his dapple charger and cautiously approached the scene, his shield ready, Sun fire charged, ever cautious. Celann and Helirox followed close by, Celann approaching with his crossbow loaded and Helirox wielding two compact silver axes. Though he was curious as to their make, Äelberon did not question the Nord. They were far too busy for such mundane matters. Not when death was so near.

   

  It was the caravan, but now no more than a pile of wood and metal. Overturned, to the side of the road. Äelberon knelt on one knee near the horses’ bodies and sheathed his spell to feel the animals. Frozen to death, with magicks! By Auri-El…  “The vile creatures targeted the horses first, causing the wagon to overturn.” He began, his tone ominous. “They then finished off the rest.” He shook his head, surveying the scene, steam coming from his mouth as he knelt. His eyes narrowed.

   

  The caravaneers were killed with either frost or shock magicks; their faces were contorted in absolute horror. Some had their throats slashed. All had been fed upon, but there was no desire to turn any of them, which was not normal. No, these vampires just wanted them drained and dead. He rubbed his chin with his free hand, the next sight even more disturbing than the dead caravaneers.

   

  They were just beasts, but he was very bothered by what had been done to the dogs. The bitch seemed to have put up a fierce fight from the darkened blood on her white muzzle, but was ultimately disemboweled and tossed to the side of the road, one pup beside her, its skull crushed. The other two were among the wreckage of the wagon; barely recognizable as dogs. Äelberon cleared his throat. To do this to innocent animals?  “This is strange,” He called out to Celann and Helirox, “Vampires are not usually so brazen. Not since the Vampire Symp—“ He stood quickly and walked to the two Dawnguard, who were inspecting a body that was practically fried black with shock magicks. He squatted again and shoved Celann’s shoulder with his hand, a dark scowl marring his features. He needed to know. “Hey. I am talking to you. What do you know that you are not telling me?”

   

  Celann met his fiery gaze and watched as Äelberon gestured to the destroyed caravan. Aye, I am in no mood for games, Breton.

   

  “This is no Cyrod clan. They do not attack thusly. Not in the daylight. These attacked in daylight.” Äelberon only knew of one clan who was this ruthless. He knew because he had fought them before, remembering the screams of terror from the young nobles, the crash of the ancient chandelier. He knew because he tracked one of their members, forcing his mind to put aside images of a marble tomb, the rage. He stared hard at Celann, watched the Breton shrink under his glare.  “Volkihar?” Äelberon snarled, his trembling uncontrollable now.

   

  By the Eight, Celann didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure if Isran would approve. He turned away and closed the eyes of one of the dead. They would have to journey to Skyrim tomorrow and break the news to Isran.

   

  “ANSWER ME!”

   

  Roared.

   

  Helirox was a brave man, but even he cringed when he heard the Altmer.

   

  Celann let the echo of the outburst die in the winds before he answered. “Aye, Äelberon, Volkihar.”

   

  Äelberon rose and they could both see his face contort in fury mixed with sorrow. He growled, his rage intensifying. All the Vigilants and now the Dawnguard knew who he scoured Cyrodiil for. Roamed the other provinces, like a wolf on the hunt.  The Hunted now the Hunter. He searched for the very monster who murdered his parents and burned his city, and more than likely it was the very vampire who carried out this raid. They knew little of the Volkihar clan, but over the past hundred years, a new member had become the bane of the Vigilants, the source of Isran’s ire. One hundred years of terror that began with the Void Nights. An Altmer vampire. A former Thalmor, though who knew? They were so skilled with Illusion that it was possible he still dwelt among them, fooling even his own people with heightened Illusion spells. Using the Thalmor’s free reign over the provinces as a means to further Volkihar clan interests.

   

  They simply knew him as the Hound.  They jumped when they suddenly heard him cry out.

   

  “VINGALMO! I will find you!” Äelberon threw his shield to the ground and then squatted again, resting his hands on his knees. He shook his head in frustration, banging his fist on his thigh repeatedly, “I will find you… You son of a Bitch!”  They then watched the Altmer freeze and turn his head quickly towards the Hollow. His red-orange eyes narrowing, his keen nose catching a scent. He quickly picked up his shield and moved rapidly towards the Hollow, a spell charging in his right hand.   

   

  “Damn it.” Swore Celann under his breath, “We need to catch him. Come on.” Helirox nodded and the two Dawnguard followed the Altmer into the Hollow.

   

  

   

  After navigating through the dense underbrush of the forest, they found Äelberon at the foot of the stone steps leading up to the wooden door of the Hollow, close to the beheaded statue.  Snow began to fall again, creating a scene of eerie tranquility.  The old Knight-Paladin was kneeling, his back turned, his shield resting next to him. He seemed to be cradling something in his right arm. And they saw that his left hand was glowing with the soft gold of healing magicks. He spoke as they approached, for he had heard their footsteps upon the snow-covered ground, the voice thick with emotion.

   

  “I heard a noise as I cursed that monster on the road. So small. So weak. As a baby crying. At first, I thought it was a baby, for babies often mew.  But when I approached the side of the road where the mother lay, I saw tracks. Her tracks.”

   

  Why was his voice so breathless, thought Celann.

   

  “They led, the tracks, they led away from the wagon. She did not die right away. The mother.” His voice almost broke at the word ‘mother’. He cleared his throat and continued, recounting the animal’s final moments. “She was wounded, bleeding, dying, but she carried one to safety. I followed her trail of blood. One. She carried one. To the very place they came from because she knew, she knew they would not go back there.” He took a deep breath, close to being overcome. “So cold, you are so cold, little one, so still… but as Auri-El is my witness,”—he shook his head in defiance—“You will not die today. I swear this to you. She did not die in vain. Her son…” Another ragged breath. “Her son endures.”

   

  Celann saw the Altmer’s left hand tremble as it cast healing magicks and the two Dawnguard let the Priest work, holding their breath, letting the Mer who killed for Auri-El now heal for Him. Their suspense was alleviated when they heard the Altmer’s gruff laugh after a feeble, high-pitched whine pierced through the snowfall. It was followed shortly by a barrage of stronger whines and squeals, making the Altmer laugh louder before he himself yelled into the forest, not bloody caring if he was heard.

   

  “You hear that whine, you old Son of a Bitch! A good, strong whine! You did not kill everything! He will grow strong and you will know fear, Hound of Volkihar, for another hunter joins the Hunt!”  Such eyes, he thought, gazing intently at the wee thing. Eyes like the summer skies over his beloved City by the Sea… so blue, so blue.

   

  Celann walked to Äelberon and knelt next to him to have a look. Cradled in the Altmer’s strong right arm was a small husky pup, black and white, with prominent white eyebrows and black around the eyes. It squirmed a bit, but seemed to enjoy the warmth of the Elf’s body, its whining calming down, safe and secure.  “By the Eight!” He gasped, “He’s tiny! We knew they were still weaning, but we didn’t think they were this small. How old is he?”

   

  “Just shy of a month,” Äelberon replied, gently pressing open the pup’s mouth, “See, the little teeth. Just came in. Damn, still needs milk. Still needs a mother.” The pup instinctively tried to clamp his mouth over Äelberon’s finger, its teeth making little metallic grinding noises as they grazed the silver-plating. “Ha! No! Do not suck on that, boy, a gauntlet makes for a poor teat.”   

   

  “Only 4 weeks?” Helirox walked over and knelt to Äelberon’s left. “Celann, that dog won’t survive the trip. Not to Riften. That’s why the mother was with them. Shit. What do we do? Isran’s going to kill us.”

   

  “We try again,” Celann said, his tone resigned. “I don’t think Isran’s going to let a vampire raid stop him.” The stud was still in the Imperial city. Celann watched the Äelberon with the dog, watched how the little thing looked at him, unafraid. Mer was huge and yet, it was unafraid, despite the horror it endured. Sure, they could take the animal, salvage their losses, but it would die in transit. Or, he could have a fighting chance… with Äelberon.   

   

  “And the pup?” Asked Helirox.

   

  Celann grinned as he tickled the pup’s belly. He was a lucky bastard that Äelberon had such sharp ears. They would’ve left him.  “I don’t know about you, but I somehow really like the idea of this pup growing up to chase down that son of a bitch Volkihar. Pup’s got a family to avenge now. Maybe he’s better off with someone who understands and can keep him alive long enough to accomplish this.” Celann turned to Äelberon, “Can you take him?”

   

  Äelberon’s eyes widened a bit. “Xarxes’ Arse! Me? Take the dog? Oh, I have not had a dog in many, many years.” He looked down at the pup and let out a gust of air. His resolve was already weakening. How would you take care of a pup? Where would you put one? Tap and Tack? Odfel would kill me, and Bumph may try to eat you. The little rascal squealed again and he bit the inside of his lip, releasing a whiny groan. Weak, Old Mer, you are weak. “My father kept hounds in the Isles and I grew up with them underfoot, but it has been so long…” Those blue eyes met his. That is it, you are done for, Old Mer, seduced by a pair of puppy eyes, Oghma’s tits! “He is very young, but with care.” Convincing yourself, are we? Äelberon then caught himself grinning as he watched the pup yawn, turning his head slightly to face Celann, “He does already think my gauntlet a teat, so there is that bond. Though perhaps that just means he’s not all that bright.”

   

  “Aye, and what closer bond can there be than babe and teat?” Offered Celann with a broadening smile.

   

  “Very little is closer than that bond, but the best reason for taking this little beastie under my wing, besides the fact that he is a tough little bastard and this old softie of a Mer already quite likes him, even though I suspect he will grow up to be a big, fluffy snowberry who loves sweetrolls." His expression then softened, the old eyes showing an uncharacteristic tenderness, "With great blue eyes like the summer skies over my beloved city, over my beloved Summerset, Koor lok over Keizaal, dii vahzah hofkiin, Koor...” He whispered softly, his eyes blazing, holding the pup close to him, “I name you, little one, Koor. Zu’u faan hi, mal gein, dii mal gein…”

   

  Celann was puzzled by the Altmer’s ramblings. Altmeris? Was that Altmeris? Had to be. Wasn’t any High Rock dialect he knew and a quick glance at Helirox saw a confused shrug from the Nord’s broad shoulders.  “Äelberon, the reason? You were saying?”

   

  The Altmer snapped back to attention, looking disoriented for a split second, like he didn't know where he was, but it didn't last long and Celann smiled when the eyes again glinted with mischief, losing that strange blaze they had before when he was speaking in that other tongue. The Altmer smirked and rubbed the pup’s tummy vigorously, making the animal kick his leg reflexively in response. “’Twould make that Old Redguard Son of a Bitch seethe, would it not? Never could stand me.”

   

  Celann and Helirox both laughed. What a cheeky bastard!  Gods forbid it if those two ever had to work together!

   

  

  

   

  Author’s Notes – Dovahzul, non-canon translator.

  Koor lok – summer skies

  Keizaal, dii vahzah hofkiin – Skyrim, my true home.

  Zu’u faan hi, mal fein, dii mal gein – I name you, little one, my little one. 

   

  Tale for the Hearth Fire ToC