"Back! Back you abominations!" yelled a Dunmer. He was clad in Nordic steel, but even steel couldn't protect him from his fear of the dead. He stood a place where he thought was unreachable to them, until they climbed on top of each other. There were five of them, inhumanly skinny and growling at the Dunmer as they slowly approached, their slightly rusted weapons in gnarled and clawed hands. The Dunmer is, no, was once a chief of his own bandit clan, but due to a raid gone wrong in the tombs, they have accidentally awoken its inhabitants, and were all punished for their impudence.
He prayed to all the Divines, and the Daedric Princes, anyone, just somebody, somebody to save him. Nothing happened, no flash of light, no booming voice of a Divine commanding the advancing undead or the evil cackle of some wicked Daedra going to make a deal with him. Nothing. He snarled, half in frustration, half in disgust, not at the Divines nor Daedra, but at himself. His sins finally caught up to him.
No wanting to go down cowering like a babe, he grabbed his weapon and jumped down from the ledge, gripping onto his battleaxe and swung at one of the draugr, it fell down to the ground, the blue glow in its eyes faded. Seeing that these were merely just like any other opponent, the bandit chief fought back more vigorously, this time with the will to live, instead of dying in the tomb, alone.
As soon as the fifth hit the ground, the sarcophagi around him started to rumble, more draugr burst out from their slumber, weapons ready and growling in that guttural language of theirs. The chief looked left and right frantically, but seeing that there was no where to run, his grip on his weapon tightened. He opened his mouth, but what ever battle cry he was to yell was immediately snuffed by the sudden blinding light that enveloped and began to radiated from him. The undead fell to the ground as the light touched them, and turned to ash.
He looked around in awe, as well as shock. "What was..."
"Meridia..." whispered a voice. It hit him both audibly as well as in his head. He shivered as he heard the voice. It did not sound benevolent at all. "She has saved you..." whispered the voice.
The chief looked frantically for the source, "Who are you? What do you want?"
"What do I want? I wish things beyond your grasp. She gave you her blessing, be proud, mortal," said the voice. There was a slight hesitation as it said the word 'mortal'. "You are quite the warrior, despite you being a coward to what you don't understand. You would make a fine addition...if she would allow."
"Who are you?" asked the Dunmer. There was a light laughing, like a young girl's laughter, this sent chills down his spine. "My name you need not know, I simply came just to praise you, is that so hard to take in?"
"Who are you?" the Dunmer asked again. Who was this person? A ghost? A mage trick? Or a sign of insanity. "No tricks...neither a ghost, do not be afraid, after all is praise such a scary thing to you?"
"N-no, m-milady," said the Dunmer. The laughter came again, this time louder, and it seemed to come from behind him. He turned, but the voice came from everywhere again. "Milady, I like that, but you do not serve me...at least not yet..."
He smelled the scent of juniper berries and blood, a red tattooed hand touched his shoulder plate, and the Daedra whispered into his ear, "This is all but a vision, heed my warning, keep your usefulness,"
He woke up with a start. He was in his bedroll, still outside the tomb, his clan still alive, and not dead from traps, sword, axe or arrow wounds. That felt real, the dream felt so real, he looked at where the hand at touched him, there was a strange marking on his shoulder plate. A shield crossed with an axe, a sword and a bow behind the shield, he then remembered the dream's last moments, Skyrim suddenly seemed a lot colder than before
Comments