Ariem and Rykon spun around to see an Imperial in his late fifties. He wore grey hair and a beard over his stern but calm face, but his eyes hid secrets that even the oldest of Altmer could not hope to uncover. He wore a padded brown coat, and his hand rested on a sword of the finest steel belted to his waist – and he looked like he knew how to use it. “How did you get here?” he asked. “You have not completed the trials!”
“Please, this is a matter of utmost – “
Ariem was cut off as the man drew his blade, speaking with utmost confidence. “You have interrupted my practice. I suggest you answer my question or you shall become part of it.”
Rykon placed the ewer on the ground between them. “There is a threat to the entirety of Skyrim – we need the Challenger’s help to stop it!”
“Yes... I can see why Serana gave you her ewer. Very well, give me your names and I shall give you mine.”
“Ariem Sorelann, Scholar of the Isles.”
“Rykon, mercenary.”
“Marcellus, Paladin of Stendarr, Dragonborn, slayer of Alduin and the Vampire Lord Harkon, Archmage of Winterhold, Thane of the nine holds, Legate of the Imperial Legion, and Challenger of the Ebony Warrior.”
The pair of seekers stood mouths agape. “Come on inside then. We’ll get you something to eat; we have much to discuss.”
Marcellus led them into a stone citadel atop the vale. “This architecture... I’ve never seen anything like it! Who built this place?”
“This temple – the Inner Sanctum of the Chantry of Auri-el in the Forgotten Vale – was built by the ancient snow elves. I’m sure you’ve already met Feramer,” Marcellus said, shooting a glance in Rykon’s direction, “unless you simply killed him on sight, like most of you adventuring types do.”
“I assure you he’s quite okay,” Rykon replied, a bit offended by the remark. “He told us about this restoration thing you folks up here. Are you one of these Masters?”
“Along with my two associates, yes. You’ll meet them later.”
Ariem spoke up. “I’ve lived in the Summerset Isles most of my life, and never have I seen magic so... advanced! How did you manage something like this in just 30 years?!”
“More Illusion and Restoration magic than I’d care to describe. Some of this knowledge I obtained through... dishonourable methods, which is why I prefer to live in this exile in the Vale.”
They reached a dining room of some sort, with a table large enough to seat about 10 people. Marcellus seated them and returned with some bread and cheese. “So how exactly did you find me? And what about this ‘threat to all Skyrim’? Start from the beginning.”
“The Thalmor, huh? And they have a fleet? This is worse than I thought.”
“And the enchanter, “ Rykon said. “Don’t forget about him.”
“Yes... effortless spellcasting, well armoured and a deadly enchanted blade... you said his weapons were made of this... ice?”
“Yes sir. Went straight through the Imperial Commander’s breastplate as good as an ebony blade.”
“Sounds like he’s using Stalhrim. Made by the ancient Nords of Solstheim, favourite of enchanters.”
Marcellus looked at the table and furrowed his brow in thought. They sat in silence for several minutes, when all of a sudden, Marcellus burst out laughing. Rykon was confused while Ariem seemed quite shocked.
“This elf has killed hundreds and thousands more will die, and all you can do is laugh about it!?”
“No no no, “ Marcellus said. “He’s made the same miastake as the Ebony Warrior.”
Now they both looked confused.
“He’s relying too much on his magic and sword. Any warrior knows that you need a mace to get through a good set of armor,” Marcellus said, glancing at the fine steel mace on Rykon’s hip. “And magic, well, that can be resisted, absorbed, or, as the magisters of the 3rd Era tell me, reflected, much more easily than a sword stroke.”
“So say we’ve taken care of the Enchanter. He’s still got an entire fleet of trained warmages and spellswords behind him,” Ariem said with a hint of frustration. The Challenger didn’t appear to have all the answers she was expecting. “I’ve seen them myself. The Legion’s no match for their magic.”
Marcellus chuckled. “A great man once told me that battles are won by trained and disciplined men. But wars are won by talented and exceptional individuals. And I’d say we’ve got a few of those here.”
“3 people can’t beat an army in open battle.”
“I’ve got a few favours to call in with some old friends. But first, you two deserve some rest. You’ve travelled far, and we have much further to go.”
The next morning after a meal Marcellus introduced them to the other Master – an ancient Snow Elf named Gelebor. Ariem, grinning with excitement at her once in a lifetime opportunity, had pulled out her notebook and was asking him question after question. Gelebor seemed not to mind however – apparently he had been teaching some of the Restored to read and write over the past weeks, and he welcomed the distraction. Marcellus pulled Rykon aside after the meal.
“I have something I need to show you. You’re going to need it to stop the enchanter.”
“Me? Can’t you just strap on your fancy armor and –“
“You’ll see. Come on.”
The two Imperials walked through the corridors of the Inner Sanctum.
“You said when we arrived that you were practicing. The tales say that you’d already mastered everything?”
“Every combat style, school of magic, and art of shadow and guile. But there’s one thing they don’t take into account for ordinary men.”
“Your Dragonborn powers?”
“Aye. They Greybeards said they had taught me everything there is to know about the Way of the Voice. Between my duties here at the Sanctum I’ve been experimenting with the Dragon language. I see why the Greybeards have their Way of the Voice; some of the Shouts I have discovered are truly devastating.”
The pair rounded a bend and found themselves in front of a large, bronze door. On the floor before it was a small Imperial dragon sigil. A small knife lay in a slot next to it. The Challenger extended his hand, using telekinesis to pull the knife from the slot. Leaning down over the sigil he cut along his hand, his blood filling the sigil. The door swung inwards to reveal a suit of gleaming Dawnguard armor on an armor stand. A wall mount above it held some kind of Elven shield, and a mace and sword of the finest make.
“Now, to answer your question. After I defeated the Ebony Warrior and took up residence here, I placed another enchantment on my equipment. Anyone who is not pure of heart and dons the armor will die.”
Marcellus walked up and tapped on the armor, jolting backwards as it shocked him.
“I thought you were a Paladin? Why can’t you wear it?”
“Was a Paladin. In my quest to defeat the Ebony Warrior, I broke many of my vows. I murdered, I stole, I warped the minds of innocent people, I even made deals with the Daedra. I'm hardly proud of what I did, the Warrior barely stood a chance...”
“So you want me to wear it?”
“That is what I was hoping, yes.”
“I’d hardly say I’m pure of heart myself. I worked for gold, not to rid the world of evil. To be entirely honest I was only coming up here with the elf to claim your equipment and get famous.”
“But what are you up here for now? You and Lady Sorelann are putting your lives on the line to save Skyrim from the grasp of the Thalmor. I’d say you could wear it.”
Rykon walked over to the armor stand and cautiously placed his hand on one of the gauntlets. His hand tingled slightly, but it wasn’t the shock that hit Marcellus.
“Well, Challenger,” Marcellus said. “You’ve got an enchanter to defeat.”
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The Windhelm Imperial Legion Barracks was abuzz with activity. Soldiers with orders and reports as well as recruits being outfitted hustled throughout the barracks. General Hadvar sat in the war room alone, having just finished hearing the report of a particular Solitude Guardsman.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Bernan.”
“I find your tale somewhat fanciful but it does make sense. A Thalmor agent attacking Solitude alone, and then these two adventurers after the Challenger?”
“I only tell you what my eyes and ears tell me, sir.”
“Dismissed. I want you back here tomorrow to advise us on this enchanter. Someone make sure this man gets hot food, good drink and a warm bed tonight. Next!”
Guardsman Bernan was escorted outside and a courier entered after him.
“Report!”
“General Hadvar! Enemy scouts in our perimeter!”
“Where?”
“Northern quadrant, on the move. The bulk of their force is just over a day away. We’ve received no word from the Winterhold garrison.”
“How long until reinforcements from Whiterun and Riften arrive?”
“A day, General.”
Hadvar looked over his map and sighed. The attack had been so sudden, so brutal, and without warning.
“Thousands dead in the first day. Dawnstar and Winterhold lost. Reinforcements from Cyrodiil over a week away.”
He hung his head low and closed his eyes.
“By the Eight, if someone doesn’t bring help soon, there won’t be a province left to save.”
Comments
It was a really good series, but you posted it, June 1st, which was....oooh, about half a year ago? Even I don't proc... more
Used them several hundred times. And I'm still trying to work out who that third master is...
I kind of had it that Marcellus never did anything on Solstheim (I retired him after beating the Ebony Warrior, which was the first thing I did after getting the DLC), so yes, the Thalmor would have gotten ... more