Chapter 5. Rain’s Hand 14th 3E 419

With a book from Aryon’s library under his arm, Astarill ascended the stairs that led to his room in the Gateway Inn. He took out his key, but when he moved to unlock the door, he noticed it had already been opened.

Astarill cocked an eyebrow. He would never leave the door ajar or even unlocked. He simply kept too many valuable and potentially dangerous items in his room to be careless. He was also quite certain that today wasn’t the day on which the servants would clean the rooms.

On his guard, Astarill pushed gently against the door, opening it far enough for him to get a view of his room. His eyes widened.

“You?!” he exclaimed, “How did you get here?”

Elenore stood up from the chair by the desk with one of her characteristic mocking smirks.
“Pretty much the same way I did when I followed you into Anudnabia unnoticed,” she answered casually, walking towards him. “I have my ways.”

“I’m sure you do,” Astarill said and regarded the red haired woman with suspicion. “What do you want from me? I’ve got two more days to examine the orb, if my calculations are correct.” At that, he quickly glanced past the woman at his desk, to see whether the artifact was still there.

“No need to worry, Altmer. It's still there. I merely stopped by to see how you were getting on with your work.”

“Actually, not that good,” Astarill said, passing the woman to put Aryon’s book down on his desk. He checked the contents of the drawers, and cast a look upon the lock that sealed the large wooden chest that stood at the foot of his bed.
“But now that you’re here,” he continued, “You might be able to help me. I can't help but feel that you have something to do with my problem.”

“And that problem would be…?” Elenore inquired expectantly, crossing her arms.

“Yesterday evening, I was at the Temple of Molag Mar, searching the archives for files on the cleansing of Anudnabia. Could you explain to me why they weren't there?” Astarill asked. His eyes narrowed as he leaned back against his desk, resting a foot on his chair.

“Yes, I can,” Elenore answered matter-of-factly. “A week ago,” she started, “Mistress Dratha ordered me to steal those very same files from the Temple Library of Molag Mar. She was curious to what had taken place in Anudnabia. That way, she found out about a powerful artifact, still lying deep beneath the sealed ruins of Sheogorath’s shrine. Naturally, she ordered me to retrieve it.”

“Naturally,” Astarill echoed with an irritated edge to his voice. “So where are the files now?”

“Somewhere in the tower of Tel Mora. Mistress Dratha has them, of course,” Elenore said, shrugging her shoulders and sitting herself down on his bed.

The unyielding self-restraint and calm Astarill liked to pride himself upon, slowly began to melt away like the southern glaciers of Skyrim during spring.
“So in fact,” he began, “It was actually your fault that I was caught nosing around in restricted Temple files for nothing? That incident could have cost me my rank, or worse. I was lucky, no, you are lucky I was able to talk myself out of it.”

“Technically, that would be the fault of the Mistress, not mine. Again, you disappoint me, Altmer. I had expected more of you,” the crimson-haired woman said, tilting her head to look up at him with a defiant grin. “So much for the Hero of Vos, who supposedly solved the local vampire problem in a most unusual way.”

“You didn't think it necessary to inform of the fact that you had an entire stack of papers with information in the orb and its origin?” he asked sharply.

She shrugged her shoulders once more. “I didn’t think you’d need it,” she replied.

Vexed, he waved his hands in a wild gesture of incomprehension.
“Don't try my patience, madam. It isn't difficult to understand that I need as much information as I can get before I examine the object. Otherwise I might as well go mad due to some unforeseen curse if I were to touch it without the proper precautions. This book I've borrowed from Aryon is not going to be enough.”

The red-haired woman sighed irritably and stood up. “So what am I supposed to do about it? I suppose you now want me to retrieve those files for you?”

“Yes, indeed I do,” Astarill answered levelly.

The look in the eyes of the Dunmer woman turned vicious.
“I am not going to get those files for you,” she stated, “I cannot show my face in Tel Mora without first presenting the artifact to the Mistress.”

“You don’t have to show your face anywhere!” Astarill exclaimed, “Just sneak into town unnoticed, like you’ve sneaked into my room. You had your ways, you said. I’m sure you can get into that tower and steal the files without ever being seen.”

“That was not part of our deal, Altmer,” she reminded him with a menacing edge to her voice, “We agreed that I would let you study the orb for four days and that you would hand it back to me. We never agreed upon anything concerning me having to help you with your silly studies.”

“All right,” he sighed, “Let me make it a bit more clear to you, madam. If you don’t get me those files, I will never surrender the orb to you.”

The seconds that passed in the moment that followed seemed like hours within the deadly silence that settled between the Altmer and the Dunmer. A piercing, bloodred glare met a harsh, pale scowl.

It was Elenore who began to speak first after the moment had disappeared. Her words were soft and deliberate.

“You are in no position to demand things from me, Altmer,” she said. “You have violated our agreement, which grants me the right to end your life, should I so please. Now I know you would like to see me try, so I will not grant you that pleasure. However, I think you would be very interested to know that, as I was waiting for you here, I have taken the liberty to look around a bit. I have noticed quite a collection of books that are illegal to keep in one's possession according to Tribunal law. Very instructive, I must say, I never knew a corpse had so many applications. Now, I happen to be quite close to a high-ranking member of the Temple who would be very interested in your morbid fascinations...”

Astarill narrowed his eyes to slits. “I don’t believe you,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re bluffing. You have no tangible proof against me whatsoever.”

At that, a triumphant sneer tugged at her lips, as she produced a book from somewhere under her cloak. Astarill’s eyes widened in shock as he lashed out like a viper to grab it, but the crimson-haired woman was faster. She drew her sabre and rested the weapon at his throat.

“If I present this book –which fortunately has your initials on it– to the Temple, they will declare you a heretic.” With a voice as sharp as venom, she added: “They will hunt you down and torture you until you have confessed your sins and begged for them to end your life.”

“That book was warded against unwanted readers,” he said, ignoring her words, “You should have been poisoned just by touching the cover.”

“Once again, you underestimate me, Altmer,” Elenore said with a wicked grin. “I might not be a mage, but I do belong to the Telvanni. And unlike you, I was born into the House. The blood of powerful magicians runs through my veins.” She tucked the book away again, while keeping her sabre pointed at the High Elf. “And besides that, I make a point of using the standard Morag Tong equipment,” she added, holding up her hand to show him the ring she wore. It consisted of a silver band and a black stone with a faint green glimmer. “Protection against the most common forms of poison.”

Astarill sighed, rolling his eyes. The blade was painfully pressed against the vital arteries in his neck. “So... what happens now?” he asked.

“That is entirely up to you,” Elenore began triumphantly. “Personally, I have nothing against necromancy. I'll have you know that I am an unethical, opportunistic bastard in every way. I have been thinking and I decided that it is also in my own interest that you find out what the orb does before I take it to the Mistress. If it proves very useful, I might decide to keep it myself and a forgery will have to be created. That said, I see a great opportunity if we were to cooperate. Dratha often sends me to retrieve some magical artifact, and I understand you are a fairly skilled enchanter, am I right?”

Astarill nodded, as far as the sabre allowed him to.

“Excellent. What if I would share with you the locations of the artifacts Mistress Dratha orders me to find? And what if we could retrieve them together? You could study the items, gain their knowledge as scholars tend to do. Then, should we decide to keep the items for ourselves, you could create us a forgery with some minor enchantments for me to hand to Mistress Dratha…”

Elenore paused for a moment, and then said, “What do you say, Altmer?”

Astarill kept silent for a quite a while, before a sly grin crept up on his face. Puzzled by this, the woman tried to predict his intentions. This granted him a minor opening in her defence. Seizing his opportunity, Astarill grabbed the blade in the same fashion as he had done yesterday fighting bandits, evoking a startled scream from Elenore. She let go of the sabre, waving her hand in order to let it cool off. Astarill took the weapon and used the far end of the blade to force her head up to face him.

She sneered at his victorious expression.

“I hope you do not expect me to applaud now?” she said cynically.

He removed the blade and offered her the hilt. When she looked at him questioningly, he explained: “Your proposal sounds intriguing. I merely wanted to demonstrate that I do not wish to be threatened.

Returning a crooked smirk, Elenore took her sword and sheathed it. “I'll try to remember that,” she said. “So... do we have ourselves a new agreement?”

“We do,” he confirmed, “On the condition that you will retrieve the Temple files on Anudnabia for me, of course.”

“I’ll find a way. You’ll have them tomorrow.”

Astarill cocked an eyebrow. “If you’ve so easily changed your mind about returning to Tel Mora without the orb, why did you insist on going through all this trouble in the first place?”

“You threatened to withhold the orb from me,” she said. “And I do not wish to be threatened either,” she added with a smile, mimicking his accent. “Though… I'll be keeping this interesting book of yours, in case you try to violate our agreements again.”

“Very well,” he said, extending a hand.

Elenore looked down at his hand, and then up at his eyes with some suspicion. Recalling a minor spell of shielding, just in case the necromancer would try to cast a spell again, she took his hand and shook it.

“Very well.”

Chapter 6. The Orb of Madness (Part II)

A fierce storm had swept over Sadrith Mora during the night. When Astarill stepped outside through the backdoor of the Public Baths that following morning, the streets were damp and chilly. A strong wind blew through town. Shivering, the Altmer pulled the hood of his robe over his head and strolled down the main street in the direction of the Gateway Inn. Each hollow in the road had been turned into a puddle, and the gutters on both sides of the street where filled with gently babbling water flowing downhill until it would eventually reach the sewers. To the west, ominous stormclouds tainted the sky as though they had been driven away by the sun advancing from the east. The air smelled faintly of thunder.

Taking a deep breath of cold, fresh air, Astarill let his thoughts wander to the crimson haired woman and the deal they had made. The prospect of having more items for study certainly was alluring. It would save him a lot of research time if the locations of the items were already determined by Mistress Dratha. All that was left to do then was retrieving them. He had not doubt in his mind that, with the help of Elenore, the actual retrieving of the artifacts would not present any problems. If he knew her at all, she seemed efficient and relentless, and relentlessly efficient at that. And although he had no real need for the monetary advantages of sharing Mistress Dratha's reward, that also seemed quite beneficial.
The only real danger involved in their scheme was in the items they would decide to keep for themselves. Certainly, he was quite a skilled enchanter, and it should not be problematic to create a forgery, but Mistress Dratha was very old, experienced and not likely to be fooled easily. It wouldn’t surprise Astarill at all if she could somehow see that the item and its magical aura were much younger than they should have been. Not to mention that the artefact would obviously be less powerful than expected. With time, the old Sorceress should become suspicious. Yet modesty had never been one of his gifts and in his confidence, he did not fear the wrath of any Telvanni councillor, especially not that of an elderly woman. The thrill of the challenge was already beckoning him.

Opening the door of his room, Astarill was pulled out of his train of thoughts by a faint, rustling sound. He looked down and saw a bundle of parchments lying at his feet. It seemed to have been shoved into his room under the door. He picked up the bundle, and smiled.

Elenore is very quick, he thought.

-

Around him, the room had vanished. His desk, his chair had disappeared. He was floating in a seemingly endless void. The Temple files on the cleansing of Anudnabia that have should been lying beside him, were gone. His quill, his inkwell, all was gone. There was only him, and the orb in a vast sea of blackness.

The orb was floating in front of him and pulsing with brilliant white light that seemed to grow larger and brighter with each breath. There was a blinding flash of light and the sensation of falling deeper and deeper into the void. When his sight returned, he saw he was indeed falling down with great speed. Around him, flashes of purple energy alternating with yellow lightning blurred his vision.

A deafening scream cut through the void. As Astarill moved his hands to cover his sensitive elven ears, a gargantuan, monstrous arm appeared. Its skin was purple, its pulsing veins were faintly red and its claws were black as soot. As the gigantic talons closed around him, he heard a horrendous laughter. He struggled to get free from the iron grasp, but then he saw eyes, huge glowing red eyes, like the fires of Oblivion themselves.

A voice could be heard in the distance, slowly coming closer. It was a strange, incomprehensible language with many guttural syllables. As it got nearer and louder, he could hear that it was repeating the same words over and over again. He couldn’t understand the short sentences, but they were beating his mind like a hammer, crushing his concentration and willpower.

A spell? he thought, A spell that affects my mind?

He fought against it, shielding his mind, closing off his senses to the hammering words.

There was another gulf of laughter and the talons around him disappeared. There was a gust of wind, as if something was running around him in circles. As he focussed, he could spot a dark shape running, jumping, and sometimes crawling across invisible walls.

It's trying to get out, he realized.

Astarill grabbed hold of it, and withdrew immediately, as the flesh on his fingers burned away at the touch. The shadowy creature turned around, red eyes gleaming evilly. Hysterical laughter resounded, followed by the same repeating, guttural words.

Grinding his teeth, Astarill grabbed the creature once more. Screaming, he saw his flesh wither before his eyes, yet he held on. The creature inflamed, literally, and frantically tried to shake him off. Seeing its attempts were futile, it uttered a hideous shriek. It lashed out with a fiery talon, grabbing the Altmer's throat. The Altmer didn’t budge, however, and stared straight at the red eyes of the flaming creature before him.

Astarill had trouble recalling any spells. Only one sprang to mind. He managed to utter the words. His throat was dry and he could only croak.

He would not have guessed his spell to have any effect. Yet the creature uttered a deafening, mind-shattering, high-pitched scream. There was a blast of yellow and purple light, followed by complete silence. All was black. Disorientated, Astarill stumbled a few steps, and collapsed to the floor.

-

“Astarill!”

With some effort, he managed to open his eyes. He saw nothing but blackness, at first. Then he began to discern vague contrasts. The voice repeated his name. It sounded feminine and it seemed concerned, with a hint of impatience.

“Sivithi?” he wanted to say, but his throat was dry and hurting. The only audible sound he could produce was a muffled mutter.

“Astarill?”

He blinked. Slowly, his vision returned to normal. He saw the ceiling of his room and he concluded that he was lying on his bed. A female visage hovered into view. He noticed heartless, bloodred eyes set in a fine face with sharp features, framed by long crimson hair.

“Elenore?” he croaked with some confusion and astonishment. Quite contrary to his own common sense, she seemed like an angel to him at that moment.

“You look like a corpse,” she said bluntly. “What happened to you?”

“I'm fine, thanks for asking,” he growled and turned his eyes to the ceiling, trying to remember exactly what had happened before he had ended up like this. Realization dawned all of a sudden. He bolted upright and grabbed the woman's shoulders, shaking her violently.

“Did it escape?!” he asked frantically.

“Did what escape?” Elenore asked irritably.

“The demon! The demon from the orb! Did it escape?”

“There was no one when I got here, except for you lying on the floor in the middle of the room, if that's what you want to know. And there was a warding spell on the door when I got here, so I doubt anything could have passed without accidentally dispelling it,” she answered angrily. She took his hands and was about to fling them back at him, when she noticed the marks on his palms. “Your hands...” she said, “They're burned.”

Astarill didn't even hear those last words. He only sighed in relief. Yet at that moment, a stab of searing pain shot through his head and the world turned black before his eyes once more. He grabbed his head and bowed forward, flinching in pain.

“So are you going to tell me what happened?” Elenore asked impatiently. When he muttered a few unintelligible words, she frowned. “What?”

“I was trying to tell you... that I am in dire need of a potion. So please...” he groaned in pain, “Left most chest, the blue one, please...”

She cocked an eyebrow and stood up with a sigh. She found a chest in a corner, next to his desk. It didn't appear to be locked and she lifted the lid. Within the chest, several potions were neatly ordered according to colour. She picked one of the blue ones, holding it up.

“This one?”

He nodded curtly.

She walked back to the bed and handed him the blue vial. He immediately gulped it down and laid himself back. He closed his eyes to let the healing liquid do its work.

“Now can you tell me what happened?” she asked, sitting herself down beside the bed. “Did you find out what the orb does?”

Astarill winced at the memory.
“It is a tool to summon a particular demon, a Daedra,” he began his explanation, “A much stronger Daedra than any Daedra I have ever encountered. At first I even thought that it might have been Sheogorath himself who could be summoned, but perhaps it’s one of his champions. A champion that has been locked up in the orb as a punishment or something similar, I don’t know. It… it is a downright monster. It cannot be controlled…”

“You mean you can’t control it,” she interrupted.

“Yes, so I daresay no one can,” he snapped back angrily. “That thing is much too dangerous. If someone with insufficient power or experience would try to use the orb, the creature would use that person’s link to this world to escape its imprisonment. I think that was what it tried to do to me, but I prevented it. In any case, we can’t give the orb to Dratha. What if it escapes? Or worse, what if she actually manages to summon it?”

Elenore frowned. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any danger in giving her the orb, Altmer.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s broken.”

“What?!”
Astarill glanced up at his desk where the orb still lay still. It had ceased glowing, though, and there was a huge crack in the crystalline material.
“Ah…” he muttered, “Then... what will you tell Dratha?”

“I’ll tell her the priests must have broken it.”

“Will she believe you? The files explicitly mentioned that the orb was left untouched.”

“Have you not heard the rumours? The Splinterer is known to be rigorous and unorthodox. If anything, he's a fanatic. I'm sure he deserves his nickname. I think the Mistress will figure that he destroyed the orb in his anger.”

She stood up and took the orb from the desk, carefully folding it in the rags they had used to transport the artifact. She put it away securely in the satchel at her side.

“Get well soon,” she said, as she walked towards the door, “I'll soon have a new assignment and a new artifact to find.”

Chapter 7. The Splinterer

“There it is!” Elenore shouted, gesturing with her head while she reloaded her crossbow.

Astarill could hardly distinguish what the Dark Elf had called out to him. Every word was drowned out by the boisterous roar of the ash storm. He parried a blow from a cliff racer's tail and glanced in the general direction of the woman’s gesture.

“I see it!” he yelled back at her, “Cover me!”

Astarill dashed away, while Elenore fired a bolt that went straight through the cliff racer's throat. The creature crushed to the ground with a dull thud. Its companion shrieked and dived towards the young woman. In one fluent movement, Elenore took her crossbow in her off-hand and drew her sabre with the other to grant the cliff racer a bloody greeting.

In the mean time, Astarill ran down a path to the south, covering his face with a sleeve of his robe to prevent the ash from blowing into his eyes. Behind him, the sound of the rogue’s fight with the remaining cliff racer was lost in the howling of the wind. Before him, the crude path emerged from the mountains and ended in a small valley of no more than a few yards wide. Seen through the red haze of ash, silhouettes of dead tree stumps and trama shrubs seemed like dark and ghostly figures. On the opposite slope of the valley, the indistinct contours of a stone entrance could be seen. A skeleton guardian stood in front of it.

A sardonic grin appeared on the Altmer's lips. Raising the decayed remains of warriors and forcing them to guard a specific location was a widely used form of necromancy in Morrowind. It was simple in the sense that the procedure was accurately described in several books, yet casting the necessary spells demanded a lot of experience and knowledge, mainly of the Conjuration School. Quite remarkable was the fact that it was the one form of necromancy that was approved of -and even widely used by- the Temple.

Hypocrisy in its purest form, Astarill thought as he approached the skeleton carefully. The undead guardian did nothing but stare ahead into the storm through empty eye sockets. But as Astarill had expected, the skeleton awakened as soon as he had stepped within arm's length of the entrance.

The skeleton drew its rusty sword that had been strapped to its back in an awkward manner by a mouldy leather belt. Readying his sword in his right hand, Astarill took a step back and extended his left hand.

“Nirish'a-tokgh'iri,” he uttered, remembering the most common magical command to hold and command undead creatures. Or, as he liked to refer to it, a long-winded way of saying 'halt'.

The skeleton did not obey though. Astarill cringed in anticipation of the slow, but devastating blow that was to come. Ancient steel crashed down upon elven silver with a force that made the Altmer's sword arm give way.

Astarill cursed aloud, feeling his arm go numb.

Older than I had expected, apparently, he thought. As the skeleton drove him back with sluggish yet precise blows, he searched his mind for older, less traditional spells and procedures that were used to bind souls back to their mortal shell. He found his thinking hampered by the need to dodge, avoid and parry attacks.

“Amhan'amrisi!” he decided eventually.

The undead warrior raised its sword over its head with apparent determination. Astarill braced himself for another blow, but none came. The skeleton stood frozen to the spot. Sighing in relief, the Altmer put his sword away. At another word of command, the rusty sword dropped to the ground. The skeleton collapsed. Bones crumbled to dust, and were carried off by the wind.

May you be so fortunate to meet the priest who did that to you, Astarill thought with a vile smile, drawing a certain malicious enjoyment from that thought. He chose not to think of the things that he himself would have to answer for on his dying day. For all his affiliation with death, he feared it as much as anyone. Perhaps even more.

He remembered the words of his father, clear and calm, yet as cold as the old man's eyes.

Justify your deeds, or face the consequences...

He lived by those words.

Suddenly, his ears twitched at dull sound behind him. He swung around to see a cliff racer lying on the ground before his feet, a bolt poking out of its back. He looked up to see Elenore casually walking up to him.

“Hope you didn't have too much trouble with that skeleton,” she said, grinning one of her characteristic crooked grins that he had grown used to over time, “But my bolts won't do much good against creatures without vital organs to get stuck in. Is this the right tomb?”

Astarill turned to the large stone door and studied the symbols that were carved into its surface. He traced the words with his forefinger, wiping the dirt and ash away where necessary.
“According to these writings, this tomb is the final resting place of some Arch Magister of Great House Telvanni, specifically from the second era.” He squinted his eyes. “The stone has weathered, but I think his name was... Lirtis Nerellis?”

Elenore nodded. “Yeah, that's the one Mistress Dratha was talking about,” she confirmed, while keeping an eye out for more cliff racers. “Does it say anything about his wife?”

“No, except that she has been sealed within this same tomb twenty three years later, together with some loyal servants. And there's something else here... can't read it, but it seems more recent than the other symbols.”

“Well, she's in there, that's what matters,” Elenore decided, “According to Mistress Dratha, Lady Nerellis is the one who created the artifact we're looking for, so my suggestion would be to look for her corpse. Agreed?”

Astarill nodded and tried to get some movement in the heavy stone door, but the chinks and cavities in which the door should roll were filled with sand and ash from the storms that had swept around the tomb for centuries.

“Give me a hand with this,” he grunted, and together they managed to shove the door aside just far enough for them to squeeze through.

Once inside and out of the howling wind, Astarill suddenly became aware of the ash that itched in his neck and within his boots. He shook out his hair and his robe feverishly. Small clouds of red dust whirled down to the floor.

“I despise the Ashlands,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “And I hope you've noticed this tomb is significantly further south-west from Tel Aruhn than you said it would be.”

Elenore ignored his complaints and pressed a finger to her lips. She gestured him to stay where he was, and muttered the words of a Nighteye spell. She reloaded her crossbow with quick and soundless efficiency and sneaked down the shadowy corridor that had opened up before them.

Intrigued, Astarill watched the way she managed to sneak to the end of the corridor without a sound. He listened hard, but he could not hear her even though he could see her quite clearly now his eyes were adjusting to the dark. She pressed herself to the wall and peered around the corner. She turned back and gestured him all was safe.
As soon as he had caught up with her, Astarill found himself in a small, dusty ante room. Elenore had removed a torch from one of the rings on the wall and handed it to him. At a snap of his fingers, a small flame emerged above his hand. He brought it close to the torch, and immediately the room was filled with a dim, flickering light. There was a soft rustle of vermin scurrying away from the sudden brightness. The room was covered in cobwebs. On the opposite wall, three doors became visible.

“So, Altmer, which one do you reckon we pick?”

“I thought you were the expert on traps?” he asked with a snort. He approached to examine the three doors more closely in the light of the torch.

Elenore rolled her eyes. “None of them is trapped,” she sighed. “I can see that from here. I was merely trying to put that knowledge of yours -on which you pride yourself so- to our advantage. It might save us some time.”

“Fair enough,” he muttered, ignoring her sarcasm. He took in the situation and considered his options. Suddenly, he narrowed his eyes. “There’s something wrong with the door on the left,” he said.

She moved to stand at his side and submitted the door to a critical survey. “No cobwebs,” she concluded quickly. “Which means this door must have been used recently.”

“Exactly,” Astarill said, and added with an exaggerated gesture, “After you, madam.”

-

The shrill, crackling sound of the concentrated bolt of lightning that left Astarill’s hand, was followed by the otherworldly grunt of the Dremora as it smashed into the wall. Elenore took advantage of the situation, jumping forward and trapping it between the wall and her blade with a vicious grin.

“No, wait!” Astarill interrupted, as he grabbed a small, orange gem from one of the many pockets on the inside of his robe. “Let me finish this one…”

She stepped aside to let him pass and he approached the severely wounded daedra, holding up the gem in one hand. As he began to speak, harsh incomprehensible words left his thin lips and a purple glow appeared around both of his hands. The Dremora moaned painfully and struggled to crawl back against the wall. Astarill placed his boot on the creature’s chest, forcing it down, and bent down to press his fingers on its forehead. The same purple glow began to encircle the creature.

Hellish glowing eyes stared up in fear at the cold gaze of the elf, as the Dremora slowly felt the last of its life drain from its body. It closed its eyes to welcome the soothing darkness of Oblivion, but instead, it felt something tugging at its soul. The Dremora uttered a terrifying scream.

Astarill closed his eyes and drew in his breath as he pressed his fingers harder. He felt the essence of the creature’s soul depart from its body. Seizing the tortured spirit with his mind, he absorbed it within his own being and transferred it to the gem in his hand.

When he opened his eyes again, his arms felt numb and cold, and his head ached. The gem in his hand glowed weakly for a few seconds before its light faded. The Dremora lay before him, cold and lifeless. The body would eventually fade and return to its plane of origin, soulless.

Astarill noticed Elenore staring at him with horrified fascination.

“Give me a moment to catch my breath,” he said, and leaned against the altar that was standing in the middle of the room, putting the gem back into the pocket of his robe.

“So that is how it’s done,” Elenore whispered with amazement. “I’ve never actually seen anyone do it. It looks horrible. I mean… How does it feel?”

Astarill shook his head. “I couldn’t accurately describe it to you,” he said, “It feels… wrong, I guess. Just wrong. Each soul you capture seems to eat away at your own spirit, taking a bit of yourself with it into the gem, as if it’s desperately trying to hold on to the world, the flesh.”

“Ah…”

“In any case,” he began, “There’s an awful lot of daedra roaming about for your average tomb. The Temple never guards tombs with demons, only with undead,” he said and added under his breath, “Which apparently makes it all right for them.”

“Well, the man was a Telvanni,” Elenore said simply, shrugging her shoulders.

“Yeah, but still…” he mused, rubbing the painful sides of his head before he stood up. He unsheathed his sword. “Let's get going.”

Before she could have replied, there was a terrible thunderous sound, not unlike an explosion. The door broke out of its hinges and was flung against the opposing wall by a burst of searing flames. Astarill and Elenore stared at the burning pieces of wood that would have hit them, had they not ducked behind the altar in time.

They peered over the altar at the smoking door opening. The misty contour of a woman appeared, stepping through the flames seemingly unharmed.

“You have violated my husband’s grave and my home! You have killed my pets! I shall punish you for this, you filthy, puny mortals!” a hideous voice cried out.

The woman stepped into the room with utmost precision and elegance. She was dressed in an exquisite gown that once must have been a beautiful emerald green colour, but that had worn out and paled with time. Her hair was milk white, just like her eyes, and reached down to the ground.

Vampire... both Altmer and Dunmer realized simultaneously as they exchanged a glance.

“Lady Nerellis,” Astarill mouthed soundlessly, and Elenore nodded at this.

“Come out, little rats! I can smell you!” the vampire screamed and launched another ball of fire into the room.

“Aim for the heart,” Astarill said, before he rose and directed a crackling ball of lightning at the figure in the door opening. The woman did not try to dodge it. On the contrary, she closed her eyes and welcomed the sizzling energy with open arms. The lightning came to an abrupt halt only inches in front of her.

“For all the magick I sense in you, is that the best you can do, mortal?” she screamed.

With elegant movements of her arm, she shaped the destructive magic into a small bundle of dense energy and threw it back at the Altmer with uncanny speed and strength. Astarill's eyes widened in shock. Knowing for certain that he was too late to dodge, he tried to force the concentration of energy to a halt by means of Telekinesis. Grinding his teeth, both hands extended, he realized that the attack was much too fast to control on such a short range. The compacted ball of lightning struck him, flinging him against the wall. The pain of the electricity that surged through his body, contracting his muscles uncontrollably, felt oddly soothing compared to the pain that shot through his head as his skull hit the wall. He collapsed to the floor.

The vampire approached him and grabbed his collar. She lifted him up slightly, sniffing. She shook her head. “Your blood is tainted,” she muttered, “You'll die purposelessly.”

At that moment, Elenore saw an opening and fired a bolt. It struck the vampire right below the shoulder, close to the heart, but apparently not close enough. Lady Nerellis gazed vacantly at the young woman and then at the bolt in her shoulder. With a wicked grin, she pulled the bolt out without a flinch. She threw it up in the air, where it kept hovering. With a snap of the vampire's fingers, the bolt broke in half and fell down to the ground.

“You’ll have to do better than that, my dear,” the woman said sweetly. “Not that you’ll get the chance, of course…”

Before Elenore could have reacted, the ancient sorceress disappeared and reappeared again right in front of the rogue’s nose. “Sleep, my child,” the vampire hissed and dug her nails painfully deep into the young woman’s neck.

Elenore tried to cry out, but all that left her mouth was a muffled gargling. She felt the long fingernails dug into her skin. A searing, yet at the same time freezing sensation emanated from the ten punctures in her neck, spreading slowly through her entire body. Her vision blurred, her mind was hazy and her limbs grew numb. The last thing she felt before all went black, was the cold, lifeless breath of the vampire against her neck.

Lady Nerellis lifted the numb girl and brushed away the strands of crimson hair to expose her neck. “Do not worry, my child,” the woman hissed viciously. “In contrast to your companion, you shan’t die in vain. Your blood shall renew my vigour and beauty for the coming century.”

The vampire bent forward, exposing her fangs, but instead of sinking her teeth into the young woman's neck, she uttered a deafening scream, blank eyes wide in shock. She dropped the rogue and looked down at her chest. The blade of a silver elven sword protruded from her chest. She turned around and saw Astarill before she dropped to her knees.

“You…” she hissed and wheezed, “You were… stronger… than I th–…”

Astarill pulled his sword free from the back of the vampire. Though he had driven it straight through the heart, there was no blood. As soon as the blade left the body, it shrivelled and withered, as the flesh dried out and peeled loose from the skeleton. On one of the bony fingers, a gold band glistened in the torchlight. Astarill bent down and removed it. It was a heavy golden ring, engraved with strange letters on the inside. Five bright, green stones decorated the front. He could sense a magical aura radiating from the trinket.

He put the ring in one of his pouches and turned to Elenore. Her limp body lay on the floor close to the shrivelled corpse of the vampire. He squatted down beside the rogue and lifted her head. There was no reaction. He studied the punctures in her neck and reached for his satchel. He produced a small, green vial. Resting her head on his knee, he placed a hand under her chin and pressed her mouth open with his thumb. He poured the liquid in and held her mouth shut for several moments, forcing her to swallow the potion. Then, he propped her up against the altar and stood up.

Rubbing the back of his painful head, he walked to the smouldering door opening and glanced into the next room. It was dark and covered in cobwebs. In the middle of the small room, Lady Nerellis' sarcophagus was exposed upon a large pedestal. Astarill peered inside just in case, but it was empty. He rummaged around through the chests that were stacked against the back wall. He found piles of old, dusty tomes, undefined potions, rare gems and several enchanted items. He began to sort the books and laid a few interesting volumes apart. After a while, his ears twitched at a rustle from the other room. He put down the book he had been leafing through and returned to see the rogue regaining her consciousness.

“My head...” Elenore moaned and blinked. She found herself sitting on the dirty tomb floor, leaning against the altar. Astarill squatted beside her. “What did I miss?” she asked, “And what on Nirn is that disgusting taste in my mouth?”

“I’m afraid that would be the potion I gave you to neutralize the poison,” he answered. “Lady Nerellis applied some strange form of venom on her fingernails.”

Elenore rubbed her neck. “Yeah, I remember that. Did she… bite me?”

Astarill shook his head.

“Thank Mephala!” she sighed in relief. Then, a thought seemed to strike her. “Why was it that she didn't try to bite you?” she asked with a frown.

“I don't know,” he said.

“She was grumbling something about your blood being tainted or so,” the rogue insisted, narrowing her eyes.

“Did she?”

She submitted him to a scrutinizing look.
You are one terrible liar, Altmer... she thought, and couldn't help but smile a crooked grin. “Yes, it was rather strange,” she said, “I would have thought Altmer blood to be quite tasty. Did you find the ring?”

“Yes,” he nodded, tapping the pouch at his side. “Together with some intriguing old books. A lot of interesting items are stored in the next room. You might want to take a look around before we go,” he said as he rose to his feet and offered her his hand.

She took his hand and allowed him to help her up. She reached for something that was hidden under her cloak and produced an empty sack. “I'd say we fill this loot bag up,” she said, unfolding the bag, “And then head back for Tel Aruhn for a bottle of shein to celebrate our success.”

-

Astarill took a seat at a table in one of the gloomy corners of the Plot and Plaster. He removed the cylinder-shaped case from his belt and took out an empty parchment. With a piece of coal in one hand and the ring from the tomb in the other, he began to copy the markings that were engraved on the inside of the small artifact. The symbols resembled Daedric, though there were slight differences.

A Daedric dialect, perhaps? he mused. Or a code based on Daedric created to shield her work from unwanted readers?

His train of thought was interrupted by Elenore, who returned with two goblets of shein and sat down opposite of him. She raised her glass.

“To another successful cooperation,” she said.

“To Mistress Dratha,” Astarill replied, laying down the ring and taking his goblet. “Who selflessly showed us the way to another one of the most valuable artifacts on Vvardenfell.”

A vague, crooked smile appeared on her face as she nodded at this, fading as quick as it had appeared. She averted her eyes and took a thoughtful sip of her comberry wine.

Raising an eyebrow, he narrowed his eyes and studied her face, wondering whether he had truly seen it correctly. Her smile had been different than usual. Quite shockingly, it had seemed genuine for a change. Nothing like the occasional sneer or mocking grin she often shot at him.

He wondered if it was a smile she reserved only for people she trusted or cared for. A small part somewhere inside of him hoped, if not prayed, this to be the case. For a brief moment, a strange mingled feeling that he could not define filled his soul. He knew that neither of them was quick to warm up to people, though Elenore could very convincingly act as though she did. They were both distant and distrustful by nature, he knew, but he had grown fond of her company over the past few weeks.

Only a few days ago, they had combed out an Ashlander tomb in search for a particularly interesting guar hide with supposed magical properties. Apart from a few diseased rats and nasty moulds, there were no real threats. He had let Elenore handle it, while he had taken his time studying the unique mummies and burial rites typical in Ashlander culture. He had tried to point out to her the similarities that seemed to reappear in every culture no matter how small or primitive, but she had only frowned at him.

“My job is to kill,” she had said, “I don't care what happens after that.”

Astarill smiled at the memory. He found he enjoyed having someone around to talk to without worrying too much about what and what not to say. He enjoyed working with her. He enjoyed having a friend, though he was afraid to use that word. He would never cease to prefer solitude above anyting else, yet sometimes the benefits of having a trusted person to turn to surpassed that.

But can she be trusted? If not, she knows too much...

Moments passed as he stared ahead, entranced and caught up in his own thoughts. A soft and delicate melody from a bard’s lute filled the tavern. He saw other patrons having their conversations in subdued voices to avoid disturbing the music. The bittersweet, sedating smell of alcohol hung heavily in the air. The room was small and somewhat stuffy. There were little to no windows to let in the light in Telvanni architecture. Flickering candles provided the only available light.
Astarill noticed their glow falling on the ashen skin of the woman opposite of him. He followed the play of shadows and light on her face framed by long, wavy hair as deep a red as the wine in his goblet. He studied her, observing her as though he had never really looked at her before. She was nothing special. Women of far superior beauty had left him unmoved. The streets and courts of Shimerene were loaded with them. Tall and elegant women, much like his own mother in her younger years, with warm and tender eyes. Elenore wasn't tall, though not necessarily less elegant. She displayed a crafty, feline grace, where others were proud and haughty. In contrast to Altmer women, she didn't try to appear better than she really was. If anything, she tried to appear less. He would have liked to compliment her on that, if it wasn't for the fact that it would seem rather awkward. He suspected that she wouldn't appreciate any compliments from him without an exceptionally well-formulated reason.

“Are you quite all right?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Astarill woke from his thoughts with a start.

“Yes...” was all he could say for several moments, “I was just thinking about the symbols on the inside of the ring,” he said, realizing he must have looked fairly stupid, staring ahead like that. He hastily put down his glass and took the parchment, concentrating hard on the strange letters he had jotted down.

“There’s no need to hurry with that,” Elenore said. “Mistress Dratha will leave for Ebonheart tomorrow to attend a High Council meeting on the improvement of women’s rights. She won’t expect me to bring her the ring before she has returned again.”

“I know,” he muttered under his breath.

“And besides, there’s bound to be some clue in one of those books we’ve–…”

When it occurred to him that she hadn’t finished her sentence, Astarill looked up. He saw her staring at something beyond the scope of his vision. Opening his mouth to ask what was wrong, he turned his head and followed her gaze. His breath caught and his eyes widened.

A Dark Elf with crimson red hair bound in a tight tail casually strolled towards them. Astarill’s eyes were immediately drawn towards the massive warhammer strapped to the man’s back. The gloom of the tavern cast ominous shadows upon the man’s appearance and the candlelight made his bloodred eyes flare dangerously.

“What a fortunate coincidence to have ran into you!” the man said joyfully. It wasn’t completely clear whether he was addressing both, or only one of them, though he was looking at Elenore.

He moved behind her, put his hands on her shoulders and placed a kiss on her forehead. “My dear sister,” he said, “It has been a dreadfully long time since I’ve last seen you.”

Astarill stared incredulously at the two Dunmer. He could not believe that he hadn’t seen the resemblance before. That same deep red colour of hair, those same heartless eyes set in almost the same sharp features…

She is his sister, his mind cried out, She is the Splinterer’s sister! It was him. He was the high-ranking Temple member she was talking about… Gods... Where have I gotten myself into?

“Seltn…” Elenore began, with a quavering voice, though she recovered remarkably quick. “It’s good to see you. What are you doing in Tel Aruhn?”

“I was sent to negotiate with Arch Magister Gothren. The Temple wants to build a small shrine here in town, in order to provide the poorer citizens with a place to pray and cheaper potions. Most people cannot afford the expensive Telvanni alchemists,” Seltn told, “But how about you? What are you doing here? And more importantly, what are you doing here with one of my fellow priests?”

Elenore glanced at Astarill, who was still staring ahead in complete shock. “Mistress Dratha sent me to retrieve an artifact for her,” she began, slowly and hesitantly, “And I was told that the artifact was in the hands of a vampire. I asked around for a priest with some experience with vampires... and that way I met Astarill.”

Seltn nodded with understanding, though Elenore could not tell whether he truly believed her makeshift explanation or not.

“Well then, my brother,” Seltn addressed Astarill as he sat himself down at the table. “I see you are even more renowned than I thought.”

Astarill turned to the Dark Elf and managed a weak smile. “Apparently,” he replied.

“Now then, let me buy you two another drink, while Elenore tells me what she has been up to these last few months in which she didn’t think of visiting her dear brother,” Seltn said, smiling a crooked grin that apparently ran in the family.

“Not for me, thank you,” Astarill abruptly said, rising from his chair. “I would like to be back in Sadrith Mora before sundown and I venture my boat will be leaving soon. I bid you both farewell.”

He quickly packed his things together and prepared to leave the tavern, when Seltn stopped him. “Why are you taking that with you?” the Dark Elf asked, pointing at the ring. “I thought it was supposed to be returned to Mistress Dratha? By my sister?”

Astarill looked at the ring in his hand, then up at Elenore. “Yes…” he began, “But the Mistress will be out of town for an undefined time, and in return for my help, I may study the artifact in the mean time, before it will be returned.”

“Yes,” Elenore added quickly, “That’s what I’ve promised him in return, Seltn.”

“Ah... Everything for knowledge, eh? You have the makings of a true Telvanni, Astarill of Shimerene,” Seltn said.

Astarill managed a polite smile in return, ignoring the Dunmer's mocking tone. He exchanged a glance with Elenore and took his belongings. “Good evening,” he said, and left the tavern.

-

As the harbour of Sadrith Mora appeared on the horizon, he leaned his elbows on the railing and rested his head in his hands. A weak sea wind blew strands of hair in his weary face. He sighed heavily, lines of worry deepened on his forehead.

She is his sister…

His sister…

The Splinterer's sister...

The thought kept echoing through his mind.

How could I have ever put my trust in someone this close to that witchhunter? What if this all was a trick? He mistrusted me from the beginning… What if he used his own sister to get close to me and find out whether I am truly the loyal priest I pretend to be?

Suddenly, his pale grey eyes widened in shock.

By Phynaster! She still has a book of mine! If she betrays me... That bloodthirsty hypocrite of a brother will have my head.

“Oh gods…” he moaned through clenched teeth.

Chapter 8. The Rise of Anudnabia

As soon as Astarill descended the gangplank to set foot on the docks of Sadrith Mora, a fierce gust of wind greeted him, nearly knocking him off his feet. Grumbling a collection of gross obscenities, he voiced his displeasure about the weather and the evening in general as he pulled his robe around him and legged towards the entrance of the Gateway Inn. He realized in time that there was no need to forsake his manners and he made a point of neatly closing the door behind him, instead of slamming it as had been his original intention.

Inside, the warmth of a crackling fire and the savoury smell of guar cutlets added a homey atmosphere to the small dining hall, yet it failed to move him this time. Sivithi was serving a plate of steaming marshmerrow stew drenched in gravy to one of the patrons. When the publician returned with an empty tray to take her place behind the bar, she noticed the Altmer in the dooropening. She granted him a warm smile, but he found himself unable to answer it.

“What can I get you today?” the elderly woman asked kindly.

Astarill sat down on a bar stool and shook his head. “I don’t feel very hungry at the moment,” he said, “A slice of bread and some scuttle to go with it will do.”

The publican nodded and disappeared into the kitchen to comply with his request. He was grateful for the fact that the old white-haired woman always seemed to know exactly when he did not wish to be questioned and when it was better to just leave him be.

He thanked her when she returned with his plate, and told her good night before he ascended the stairs to his room. Closing the door behind him, he sighed heavily. The events of the day finally seemed to take their toll as exhaustion came over him all at once. He dragged himself to his desk and put down the plate with his frugal meal. He took off his robe and flung it onto his bed without much elegance. He allowed himself to flop down on the chair by his desk and closed his eyes for a brief moment. Then he took a deep breath and began to sort out the books he had taken from the tomb that afternoon, intend on immersing himself in study, if only to take his mind off other things.

-

He could not quite remember how long he had been searching Lady Nerellis’ journal for clues on the translation of the Daedric code, but at a certain point in time he was distracted from his work by strange noises that appeared to be coming from the bar downstairs. He put down his quill and turned on his chair to the direction of his room door, listening hard. He discerned a loud thump and the stamping of several pairs of feet, accompanied by agitated voices.

Astarill frowned and stood up to reach for his belt to which his sword sheath was attached. He made his way down the stairs with caution, while he fastened the leather girdle around his waist. When he reached the dining hall, he witnessed two Dunmer men stumbling through the door, carrying a wounded man between them, cursing as they did so. Sivithi appeared from the kitchen with a bowl of hot water, bandages and some healing herbs. The wounded man moaned while his two companions laid him down on one of the tables.

Astarill’s frown only deepened at the sight before him, while the two men passed without even noticing him. As the men left the dining hall, Astarill glimpsed through the dooropening to see many more people standing in the corridor. The annoying humming noise of dozens of conversations held at the same time rose from the hallway beyond.

“What’s going on?” the Altmer asked.

Sivithi seemed to notice him for the first time, looking up from the wound she had been tending. “Oh, Astarill!” she began, “The town has been overrun by demons! It’s horrible! We’re bringing civilians to safety here and in the Council House, as Master Neloth has closed off Tel Naga.”

“What?!”

Without waiting for further explanations, he hurried out though the cramped little corridors. He pushed past women and children who had taken refuge within the inn, and men who brought more wounded to safety. When he stepped outside, a fierce wind reminded him of the current state of the weather and of the fact that he wasn’t wearing his robe. Cursing under his breath, Astarill buttoned up his shirt and unsheathed his sword. He walked up into the street and witnessed the chaos enfolding around him.

Guards were running back and forth, swords raised and shouting instructions at the top of their lungs, as they chased and surrounded the wide variety of demons that freely roamed the streets. Some brave civilians were assisting the guards. Particularly pugnacious merchants were fending off small bands of scamps that threatened their goods. Warehouses and shop windows lay in ruins. Several mages whom Astarill recognized as people he had occasionally seen at the Council House were lending a hand in the battle against the Daedra. Some of them were enjoying the situation a little too much, it seemed. The few priests that manned the Temple in the damp and cramped basement of the Council House were about as well, assisting where they could even though the inhabitants of the Telvanni districts never showed much respect for those who were religious and faithful.

Suddenly, there was an enormous roar. A gulf of collective silence spread through the streets, as a gigantic Storm Atronach appeared on the hill on which Tel Naga stood. The creature raised its immense arms and brought them down at the base of the tower with an incredible force. All those who were down in the main street at that moment, felt the vibrations caused by the Storm Atronach’s blow not unlike a small eathquake. The creature sent another thunderous roar to the sky.

Astarill peered up at the spires of Master Neloth’s tower. The construction was protected and held together by powerful incantations. All wizards’ towers were constructed to withstand the fiercests of weather and the assaults of entire legions. It would not budge for the attacks of a insignificant Storm Atronach. Astarill imagined the old, sulky Councillor sitting in his study in the upper most chambers of the tower, requesting a servant to do something about those annoying sounds outside because it was distracting him from his work.

“You!” someone shouted, waking the Altmer from his thoughts, “You there!”

It took a while for Astarill to register that the guard had been addressing him.

“You are the one they call the hero of Vos, yes?”

“Yes?”

Well, don’t just stand there! Do something, man!”

Astarill cocked an eyebrow, watching blankly as the guard mingled with his colleagues once more, harassing a Dremora with their spears. Galos Mathendis, the Mouth of Master Aryon, who had been standing within hearing range and had caught the conversation between the Altmer and the guard, approached his Master’s apprentice.

“I know you can stop that Atronach without even breaking a sweat,” the old Dunmer man said, just when the creature sent another shockwave through the ground. “Stop it the way you wiped out that vampire den in Vos.”

“I can’t…”

“Don’t be such a fool, Astarill. The creature needs to be dealt with quickly. If it looses its interest in the tower, it will turn hostile towards us. The guards will have a hard time dealing with it, but you could clear it in an instance.”

“I can’t,” Astarill said more forcefully this time, and nodded his head in the direction of Niras Farys, the Temple Master of Sadrith Mora, who was casting defensive spells to aid the guards in their struggle against the Daedra. “There’s Temple people around. And I do not wish to be taken for a fool,” he whispered through clenched teeth, referring to the Mouth’s earlier remark.

Galos turned his gaze to the priest and fingered his small, grey beard. “I hope I do not have to remind you of the fact that Master Aryon specifically told you not to get involved with the Temple. You were foolish to join them in the first place.”

Astarill snorted in aggravation. “Well, I couldn’t stop myself, I’m such a pious old sucker!” he snapped at the Mouth with evident sarcasm.

The old man stared him up an down for a brief moment, and then -despite the situation- burst out in a fit of hearty laughter. Astarill couldn’t help but laugh at this as well. Regaining his composure, Galos laid a hand on the Altmer’s shoulder.

“Look, I will deal with the Temple,” he said in a low voice. “I will make sure that they are discretely removed from the streets. You just cast your spell.”

Astarill watched as Master Aryon’s Mouth approached the group of priests, addressing their Master. The Altmer couldn’t quite hear what was being said, something about tending to the wounded apparently, and eventually the group left, following Galos in the direction of the Council House. Astarill smiled. He had to hand it to the old man, he had a way with words. He hadn’t been appointed as Aryon’s eyes, ears and voice for nothing.

Astarill turned to the Storm Atronach, who had begun to launch its attacks in a higher rate, banging its stone fists against the tower. The Altmer closed his eyes and shielded his senses from the chaos around him. He focussed hard, and eventually the fabric of the universe began to unfold before him. He called out, searching the planes, as the boundaries of dimensions flashed by.

Rasmacharan… Are you there…?

Something reached out for him and he felt a comforting presence. The strain of searching extensively through the planes of existence left him, as he felt a strange, exciting force connect and merge with him. Refreshed energy coursed through his veins. Slowly, the impressions of the world around him registered to his senses again, but not in the way he was used to. His senses were heightened, perceiving the world much more clearly and defined. He saw dimensions he had not seen before, he smelled things he had not smelled before, heard things well beyond the hills that cradled the town.

He looked up to see the decayed remains of a truly horrendous creature whose soul went by the name of Rasmacharan. The bonewalker had grown stronger since the last time it had been summoned, Astarill noticed. The creature now stood as tall as the Storm Atronach. But Astarill could not only see its newly gained strenght, he could also feel it racing through his own body. It was a side-effect of the bond he had tied between his own life force and the artificial energy of the creature, as he lay at the feet of the vampire of Vos. Rasmacharan had been nothing but a regular, insignificant raised undead put together by the vampire at that time. Breathing his last breath, Astarill had remembered a primitive way used by the shamans of the Dragontail Mountains to prolong their own life. He was bound to Rasmacharan both physically and mentally. He could summon the creature, from whichever hellish plane it was roaming ever since the incident, through a channel of collective life force between them. If one of them grew stronger, so did the other. If one of them died, the other one ceased to exist, his soul lost forever.

Astarill extended a hand, and Rasmacharan charged forward, roaring, crashing into the Storm Atronach. The creatures nearly rolled off of the hill. The bonewalker tore at the Daedra’s head, while the Daedra sent a rocky fist into the undead’s stomach releasing a ray of lightning as it did so. Rasmacharan howled, and Astarill fell to his knees, clutching his stomach. The pain that seared through his being like a saw, granted the Altmer the opportunity to accurately assess his opponent’s strenght.

Finish it! It’s not that strong! Now!

The bonewalker roared, clutching the Daedra’s head once more. Though the Atronach was composed of stone and therefore immune to Rasmacharan’s decaying touch, the undead managed to dig deeper to attack the magical force that bound its enemy together. He tore off the head with a victorious roar and the Atronach collapsed in a pile of stone.

In the mean time, a small crowd had formed, watching the spectacle in horror.

“Look out!” someone suddenly yelled, and there was a sound of spears being readied.

Astarill and Rasmacharan turned in the same movement to see a small horde of Clann Fear approaching them in a manner that was not unlike a guar stampede that occasionally occurred in the Grazelands. The bonewalker charged down the hill awkwardly as was to be expected from its deformed limbs. Rasmacharan lashed out, separating the horde and flinging one of the creatures in the air. He caught it deftly, snapping its spine between its two claws. He let out another victorious roar, ripping the creature apart before he began to feed on its entrails.

“Gods!” a guard cried out, “Get that monstrosity out of here!”

Another one tuned in. “That's enough, we can take it from here.”

Astarill swung around, his blouse and hair fluttering around him in the wind. The second guard let out a gasp as his gaze met the glazed eyes of the Altmer. They were white and glassy, like a blind man's. They stared at the guard without registering him or the surroundings. Rasmacharan did register everything though. The abhorrent bonewalker tore itself away from its feast and positioned itself behind its master, lowering its horrendously deformed head to stare at the small crowd with its one good eye. Fresh blood dripped from its mouth.

The guard's voice caught in his throat as he took a step back. Galos Mathendis had watched the proceedings with reserved amusement, but decided that it was time for him to step up to aid the dumbfounded watchmen.

“Dispel it, Astarill, if you please,” he bade calmly, “It has served its purpose.”

The bonewalker snorted, sending wisps of foul-smelling green fume to the ground. The creature was clearly unwilling to leave the mortal plane, but Astarill nodded. He closed his eyes. For a brief moment, it seemed as though the Altmer was about to collapse. Bright flashes of light sparked at the junctions of Rasmacharan's limbs. Its body detached itself, but before the separate pieces could have fallen to the ground, they quite literally seemed to go up in smoke, diffusing into the air. Astarill opened his eyes, which had returned to their normal pale green colour.

He stared at the people in front of him blankly for several moments, before he returned to his senses. Galos nodded at him approvingly, and Astarill gave a curt nod in response.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he muttered, and legged off in the direction of the Gateway Inn.

-

In the far distance, Master Farys narrowed his eyes to slits. From the balcony of the Telvanni Council House, he had been able to follow the events that took place in the main street closely. He handed a rolled up, sealed piece of parchment to the man at his side.

“Go now,” he ordered the messenger, “Inform the Splinterer.”

-

“You could have asked me, Elenore. I am trained to cope with those atrocious creatures,” Seltn said, as he was slowly pacing up and down the room he had rented in the Plot and Plaster during his stay in Tel Aruhn.

Elenore recognized agitation in her brother’s voice, though he tried to mask it. “I know, Seltn, but you’re always occupied with matters of much more importance. I didn’t want to bother you,” she tried to sooth.

He turned around abruptly and eyed her viciously. “I am never to busy to help my family!” he said, raising his voice. “I…” he began and saw the look on his sister’s face, realizing he had sounded more angry than he had intended. He sighed and sat down on the bed beside her. “I would have made time for you, Elenore. You know that very well.”

She stubbornly refused to meet his eyes. She should have seen his reaction coming. To accuse him of something their father would have done was like mocking the beliefs he held onto so strongly.

“Look,” he began, “I apologize for my outburst just now. I shouldn’t have directed my anger at you. It’s just that…” he hesitated.

She cocked an eyebrow and watched him expectantly. “Yes? It’s just what?”

Seltn sighed as he stood up to resume his walking back and forth across the small room.
“I should not be telling you this,” he emphasized before he continued, “But Master Rotheloth has recently grown suspicious of that friend of yours and I cannot say I find this very surprising. The Altmer joined the Temple for ambiguous reasons. I, for one, have never trusted him. He cares too much for obscure lore and too little for our values. Not so long ago, he was caught in the library, searching through restricted archives…”

Seltn sat himself down on a chair and turned to his sister. “I do not wish you to associate with that man any longer. He cannot be trusted. There are rumours saying that he engages in necromancy. You never know how much of those rumours is based on reality.”

Elenore rolled her eyes. “I do know how to take care of myself, Seltn. I have dealt with people much worse than him.” And I'm dealing with one now...

When her brother was about to reply to her last remark, there was a soft knock on the door. He shot her a warning glance that told her just how much faith he had in her ability to take care of herself, and made his way to the door in three large strides.

“Yes? What is it?” he snapped.

A young Dunmer girl, whom he recognized as one of the publican’s kitchen maids, stood before him in the door opening. “There’s a messenger downstairs who wishes to deliver his message to you personally, serra,” she said with a curtsy.

“Thank you. Tell him I’ll be with him in a moment.”

Seltn closed the door again and moved to a large chest that contained his luggage. He took out a pouch of gold pieces and fastened it to his belt. “Come,” he said to Elenore, “It’s well past dinner-time, we should get ourselves something to eat.”

Together, they descended the stairs that led to the bar. It wasn’t difficult to spot the messenger among the patrons. A black-haired Dunmer man, about the same age as Seltn himself, stood next to the front door, leaning against a wall. He was the only one in the tavern who was not sitting down at the bar or at a table. He was donned in leather that looked old and worn, yet kept in good condition, apart from the fresh dirt on his boots and the traces of ash on his armour.

Seltn ushered his sister to a table and told her to order a meal for both of them while he would deal with the messenger. He approached the black-haired man, who immediately seemed to recognize him.

“Master Othras,” he began with a courteous bow, “Master Farys ordered me to deliver this message personally. He said it was urgent and of utmost importance.” He took out a letter from the satchel on his side.

Seltn took the sealed piece of parchment and handed the messenger a few gold coins. “I might need you to return an answer. Get yourself a drink in the mean time.”

The messenger bowed gratefully and found himself a comfortable seat at the bar, while Seltn returned to his sister.

“I’ve ordered a stew,” she informed him as he sat down opposite of her, “They serve hound meat and hackle-lo today. Your favourite, wasn't it?”

Seltn nodded and mumbled something in response while he opened the letter and started to read. His eyes quickly darted over the elegant handwriting of the Temple Master. By the time he had reached the end of the letter, a dark and grim expression dominated his ashen face. He did not look away from the writing even when the food was brought to the table.

Elenore thanked the publican and turned to her brother. “Is there something wrong?” she asked, masking her concern masterfully.

Seltn narrowed his eyes and slowly lifted his head to face his sister. “It's a message from Master Farys of Sadrith Mora,” he began, keeping his tone ominously level. “He reports that the Daedra have returned to Anudnabia. Groups of lesser demons have even wandered into town. The guards are fending them off as we speak. Apparently your friend, our great Hero of Vos, is among them.”

Elenore fought hard to keep the expression on her face neutral, but she could not prevent that -for a split second- her eyes widened when Anudnabia was mentioned. Seltn spotted her unease immediately.
Not only an expert on tracking down and destroying vile demons, he was also trained in the prosecution of heretics. He was able to spot the slightest details and detect the most innocent of lies. At that, he could read his own sister like a book. They had grown up together, and together they had endured many hardships on the long road from the City of Tear -their place of birth- to Vvardenfell.
He knew her through and through, even though their personalities differed exceedingly in certain respects. Seltn had taken more after their mother, who had been a loyal worshipper of the Tribunal Temple even after her marriage to a Telvanni Councillor. Elenore was a perfect copy of their father, an unscrupulous man as befitted a sorcerer of the House. Seltn had often tried to point out the error in their father's ways, explaining that it hadn't been for nothing that he had been murdered. Yet Elenore never seemed to be able to accept that.

Seltn narrowed his eyes even further. “As I told you earlier, we caught your vampire-hunting friend nosing around in forbidden archives a few weeks ago. The following day, a clerk reported that one file was missing. That missing file concerned the cleansing of Anudnabia which you remember, I'm sure. And now suddenly, the Daedra have been let loose upon the world once more, roaming the ruins of what's left of Sheogorath's shrine. An unfortunate coincidence, surely?”

Elenore stared at her brother and said nothing. All the things she could come up with at that moment would only make things worse. She took the cutlery on either side of her plate and began to eat slowly, faking perfect calmness.

“Your food is starting to get cold,” she pointed out levelly and ignored the piercing, scrutinizing stare of her brother. When he began to speak again, his words were soft and deliberate.

“Yes,” he said, putting down the letter and taking up his fork and spoon, “Indeed.”

Elenore shook involuntarily. A shiver ran down her spine at her brother's words. She had heard that tone before.

-

Deep within the ruins of Anudnabia, ominous chanting echoed off the cold black walls, accompanied by a slow drumming that resembled an enormous hammer beating down upon anvil befitting a giant.
The sound grew louder near the Inner Shrine of Sheogorath. Creatures cloaked in dark brown robes dragged heavy black boulders to the pedestal in the centre of the Shrine, hauling the ropes to the rhythm of their incantations and the foreboding drums.

They were rebuilding the statue of Sheogorath.

-

Near the end of the following morning, Astarill made his way through the mass of townsfolk that had gathered in the small town square at the foot of Wolverine Hall. He pushed through to the local cornerclub and climbed a small wall to get a good view on the cliffs.

Several guards were holding the crowd back, while priests hurried through. The Temple was attempting to install a magical shield in between the town and the ruins of Anudnabia, in order to prevent any more Daedra from wandering into the streets. To create and maintain such a shield -a smaller and weaker version of the Ghostfence- was such an exhausting task, that every priest from the Temple of Sadrith Mora had been called to duty. Earlier this morning, two high-ranking priests from Vivec had arrived to assist their less experienced peers.

Astarill watched the proceedings from a distance. The ominous feeling that had kept him awake throughout the night dawned on him again, filling him with a sense of guilt that seemed to gnaw at his very soul. He had not been ordered to help with the creation of the shield, because his field of expertise lay elsewhere. Though he would be able to assist in preparing the basic Conjuration spells, the actual shield could only be maintained by powerful incantations from the School of Restoration, which was largely unknown to him.

Though he could do nothing but watch, he felt that he was somehow responsible for the return of the Daedra to Anudnabia. Not only that, he knew he was responsible. Before he had broken into the ruins, it had been a harmless and empty place for years.

The demon from the orb, he mused, It must have managed to escape somehow, and here I was thinking I defeated it. And the one thing that could contain it, lies broken in the vaults of Tel Mora. Gods know what might happen...

He cast a glance at the dark silhouette of Sheogorath's shrine on the horizon. A part of him was curious to the nature of the demonic force that had entrenched itself within the ruins. Another part of him was afraid to face the consequences of his actions, yet he would have to accept his fate without a flinch, as he had always done. He had to set things straight.

You can't meddle with the fabric of the universe without repairing the damage that you'll undoubtedly leave in your wake, he remembered the words of one of his teachers. But I can't do much about it now...

He moved his gaze to the sun that was standing high above the Daedric spires, and read from its position that it was time. He turned on his heels and made his way to the docks.

-

As soon as he had set foot on the docks of Tel Mora, an anxious premonition of impending danger came over him. He tilted his head and looked up at the majestic tower that dominated the small town. Thick, ominous thunder clouds packed around the spire, mimicking his own inner turmoil. A cold wind howled and swirled through the streets.

Shivering, he pulled his robe tighter around his frame. He walked down the main street leading from the docks into town. Remembering the instructions Elenore had once given him, he found his way along the winding roads. No one else seemed to have ventured out into the streets in this weather, except for a few guards, shielding themselves against the wind in alleys and corners.

After passing a street with shops on both sides of the road, Astarill eventually reached the end of town. Several houses were built against the hillside. He approached the left most one. A warm, welcoming light shone from the small window and smoke was coming from the chimney. It was a welcoming and comforting sight, yet it did very little to put his mind at ease.

Astarill climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. A few moments later, the door was opened. Elenore appeared in the door opening, as the smell of heather tea emanated from the inside of the house. She didn't even as much as greet him before she looked up at the sky.

“Better step inside quickly,” she said, “Looks like it'll start pouring like hell soon.”

She moved aside to let the Altmer in and closed the door behind him. “I was just making tea. Would you like some as well?”

Astarill nodded absently and sat down at the table. While Elenore fetched the teapot from the stove, he took the time to look around. As he had suspected, it was a house like any other Telvanni house pod. It consisted of one round room, basically with an open second floor. It was small, but it was too sparsely furnished to even look cramped. The table at which he sat stood between the door and the stairs. Below those stairs was a large larder. On the other side of the room was a fireplace that was not only used to warm the room, but also for cooking. Other than a few cushions in front of the fire, there was nothing that could have made the place remotely cosy.

Elenore returned with two cups of tea and sat down on the other side of the table.

“Thanks for coming over on such a short notice,” she began, “I doubted my message would even reach you in time.”

Astarill said nothing, but instead produced a small leather pouch from a pocket of his robe and shoved it towards her.

“What’s that?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“The ring,” he explained, “I figured that was what you wanted to see me about.”

“No,” she said, as she opened the pouch. She took out the Lady Nerellis' ring and held it up into the light. “But now that you’ve brought it anyway, did you find out what it does?”

“The enchantment grants the wearer a constant immunity to a wide range of poisons. Much like the one you're wearing, only stronger,” he said, taking a sip of his tea and gesturing at the standard piece of Morag Tong equipment on one of her fingers. “Lady Nerellis used it during her work, most probably. She was a renowned poisoner. Many people paid enormous amounts of gold for her potions that killed without leaving a trace, or so it's said.”

“Indeed?” Elenore said, putting the ring back into the pouch, “Is it worth keeping?”

“I suspect that the reward in septims divided by two will still be greater than the use either of us would have for it.”

“A simple 'no' would have been sufficient,” she remarked irritably, “I have no choice but to trust your expertise in this. Anyway, as soon as I have delivered it to the Mistress, I'll bring you your half of the reward.”

“So what did you really wanted to talk about?” Astarill interrupted.

Taken aback by his sudden question, Elenore didn't immediately know what to say. He would have taken pleasure in the fact that he had rendered her speechless if only for a fraction of a moment, had he not felt as uneasy as he did then.

“My brother,” she muttered eventually, “I’m sorry about what happened. I had no idea he would be there. He never travels out here in the Telvanni districts…”

“Telling me these kind of things beforehand would have been highly appreciated,” he said wryly, staring at his tea. “For Phynaster's sake, why didn't you tell me he was your brother? That man is the Temple’s foremost Inquisitor. He hunts people like me.”

“I did mention that I was close to a high-ranking Temple member. It's not my fault that you chose to disregard that fact,” she said with a slight shrug.

“Well, of course I disregarded it! I thought you were bluffing. Do forgive me my bluntness, but that's what your kind does all the time.”

Immediately after the words left his lips, he cursed himself for saying them. The change in her posture was subtle and discrete, but he spotted it nonetheless. Her fingers clenched around the ear of her teacup as her body turned rigid and the look in her eyes grew vicious.

“Unlike most people of my kind,” she snapped, “I do have the means to backup my threats. You can't hold me responsible for your miscalculations.”

He stared down at his tea angrily, finding himself unable to argue with her logic.

“Look, for what it's worth...” she began reluctantly, “And though you clearly do not deserve my apologies: I am truly sorry, Astarill. I never meant this to happen.”

He couldn't prevent a shiver from running down his spine when she mentioned his name. She had never before called him by his actual name. At least, not directly. She always addressed him as ‘Altmer’ in her characteristically mocking tone. To hear his name coming from her mouth, bothered him beyond his understanding.

“I want my book back,” he said resolutely.

The irritated look on her face made way for something else.
“Oh…” she began, “Yes... of course. Hold on a moment, I’ll go fetch it.”

Eyes narrowing, Astarill watched her ascend the stairs. She had sounded almost disappointed when he had told her he wanted his book back. It was a rather abrupt change of moods, even for her doing. Puzzled by this, he felt that same ominous feeling, that had prevented him from falling asleep at night and which had been bothering him the entire morning thereafter, creep up on him again.

When the crimson haired woman returned, she carried the familiar blue leather bound book. He stood up and held out his own hand expectantly.

“I am sorry,” she said.

It was the first time that Astarill was able to discern some emotion in her bloodred eyes. There was a hint of sadness, he guessed, mixed with something else. Guilt, perhaps. Taken aback by her sudden display of actual feelings, he took a step away from her.

“It's fine,” he assured her, “Just give me my book.”

She shook her head angrily. “Listen to me,” she whispered through clenched teeth, “And remember that I am sorry.”

“What are you talking about?” he snapped at her, losing his patience. He grabbed hold of his book with the intention of pulling it out of her hands, yet she held on to it firmly.

“I know the phrase is hackneyed enough as it is,” she said softly, “But rest assured that this is going to hurt me a lot more than it will hurt you.”

“What...?”

Before he could have properly posed his question, Elenore grabbed the collar of his robe and forced his head down to her level. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her lips to his harshly. A shock surged through his entire being like a bolt of lightning. Much too late, realization dawned on him.

Lover’s Kiss, the small voice of his vast magical practice informed him, The most powerful spell of paralyzation known to the mortal realm…

He felt his toes and fingertips grow numb. His limbs started to tingle, until he could no longer feel them. His eyes glazed as his vision diminished. He could hear nothing, except for his own heartbeat pounding weakly and irregularly. The last thing he perceived, was the smell of heather tea.

“Well done, my sister!” a sly and raspy voice spoke.

Elenore sank back into a chair. Exhausted from the effort it took to cast the spell, she needed some time to catch her breath. She watched her brother descend from the stairs, followed by two Ordinators.

Seltn took the book from his sister's hands and moved to stand in front of the paralyzed Altmer. With a triumphant, crooked grin, he turned to his men.

“Take him away.”


DATA ÿ(š™™>BOOKÐï&V
EDIDAAEthelleMist3FULLMist and Mysticism, Book ThreeMODLClutter\Books\folio04.nifMODB8ý›AICONClutter\book\iconbook12.ddsDESC4ï