4E 202, College of Winterhold
Isran
There was a sort of tenseness among the gathered crowd, sothing he wholly expected for sothing as grand as an Elder Scroll reading. The tall stone walls of the Hall of Elents seed to hold the breath of everyone present, as if the building itself knew the gravity of what was about to unfold.
Isran snorted. It might as well have since this damn building was created an Archmagus centuries ago.
The hall that was usually used for lectures was cleared of students, new wards and protections of all kinds inscribed by Gerron himself just in case anything went wrong.
They had gathered in a semicircle before Dexion, who sat with perfect stillness at the center of the floor. The Moth Priest's eyes were half-lidded, his breathing slow and deliberate.
"Is he ready?" Isran asked, voice carrying in the high chamber.
Savos Aren nodded. "He's been ditating for hours. He says the visions are clear."
It had been two days since the attack on the College by the Thalmor. Kiera and Serana had returned just that morning. The Dragonborn and Vampiress looked to be in a good mood, whatever mission they had seed to have been a success.
Dexion straightened, his head tilting slightly as though listening to sothing none of them could hear. "I am prepared."
The words silenced the room. Gerron shifted his stance, one arm on the Dragonbone shield he boasted could handle much magical output. Kiera's hand hovered near her sword hilt out of habit, while Serana stood just behind her, piercing red eyes fixed on the Moth Priest.
It was quite the surprise to see her being able to walk under the sun without any discomfort. It bore ill tidings since it ant that many other Vampires could learn to do so. He cald slightly when he learned that what it took was to be blessed by ridia herself of all things.
Savos Aren, Tolfdir, and Mirabelle Ervine slowly readied their magicka in case they needed to pull up a quick ward. Isran did the sa thing.
Dexion reached for the scroll. The mont it unfurled, light poured into the room. It wasn't torchlight nor sunlight, but sothing purer.
"I see a vision before … an image of a great bow. I know this weapon! It is Auriel's Bow!" His voice grew in intensity, the gaze fixed on sothing beyond the mortal world. "Now… a voice whispers. 'Among the night's children, a dread lord will rise, a Champion of the Lord of Domination.'"
The title alone sent a cold ripple through Isran's gut.
"In an age of strife, when dragons return to the realm of n… darkness will mingle with light… and the night and day will be as one."
Sowhere in the air, a low, unearthly hymn began to thread through the chamber. It wasn't coming from Dexion's lips. It wasn't coming from anywhere that made sense.
"The prophecy speaks of the Tyranny of the Sun," Dexion continued, his voice calr now. "The items required are the Bow of Auri-El… and the blood of a Daughter of Coldharbour. The bow, wielded by Auri-El himself, holds the sun's own power. Once claid, a blood-stained arrow loosed into the sun will blot out its light… drowning the world in eternal night."
The scroll's light dimd all at once, leaving motes of gold drifting in the air before fading away. Dexion fell to his knees, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Isran was by his side in an instant, holding him up.
"You alright?"
"Yes… yes." The Moth Priest's breath was shallow, his eyes unfocused. "I just… need rest."
Tolfdir volunteered to escort him to his chambers, and Dexion thanked him with a weak nod before shuffling out.
The heavy door shut behind them, and for a mont, no one spoke. Then Gerron broke the silence.
Gerron exhaled slowly. "Auriel's Bow…" He shook his head. "Must be one hell of a weapon if it can block out the damn sun."
"Agreed." Isran growled, "we can't let Harkon get his hands on it. Especially now that we know he's the Champion of fucking Molag Bal."
Savos Aren folded his hands behind his back as he shook his head. "Such a thing in the hands of soone… less dangerous… would still be a risk. But in his? The whole of Tamriel is in threat."
Mirabelle, her brow furrowed, looked between them. "And this… Daughter of Coldharbour? What does that an?"
Kiera's mouth opened. "That's… difficult. We—"
"It's ." Serana's voice cut in. Everyone's attention snapped to Serana.
The vampiress held her head high despite the flicker of anger and sha in her eyes. "I'm a Daughter of Coldharbour."
Kiera stepped toward her. "Serana… are you sure about this? You don't have to—"
"Yes," Serana said firmly. "I might as well get everyone up to speed."
Her voice stayed even as she explained. How her father had offered both her and her mother, Valerica, to Molag Bal in so twisted display of devotion. How the so-called "blessing" had bound her in blood and power to the Prince of Domination himself.
Mirabelle's face went pale, her lips parting in quiet disgust. "That's… horrible."
Even Isran, who'd spent years hunting her kind, found himself clenching his fists. Not in rage at her, but at the Daedric filth who'd done it.
"Fucking Daedric Princes." he muttered.
Gerron's hand ca to rest lightly on her shoulder as Savos's eyes narrowed in cold fury.
The discussion turned to the practical then. How to find the bow before Harkon, how to keep Serana safe, how to avoid letting her blood beco the key to ending the sun. They talked strategy, they talked tactics. Though many words overlapped or were shot down, the undercurrent was the sa. This could not be allowed to happen.
Isran stayed quiet for a ti, just watching them.
Kiera the Dragonborn, standing resolute beside the woman she clearly trusted with her life. Gerron the Dragonslayer, arms crossed but his mind clearly working behind that guarded expression. Savos and Mirabelle, Master level wizards. And Serana…a pure blooded vampire, but one who seed determined to defy everything her father and her so-called "blessing" represented.
The world was burning at the edges. Dragons. Vampires. Cults. Prophecies. It was everything he had foreseen and expected, the whole reason why he revitalized the Dawnguard.
But looking at this group, Isran felt sothing he hadn't in a long while. Was it hope? Maybe. Perhaps they just weren't as dood as he'd thought.
…
4E 202, Thalmor camp outside of Northwatch Keep
Elenwen
They had lost contact with Ancano and Aralor. She had tried contacting the forr with the Vox Matrix, only to receive static and silence.
She didn't know if it was betrayal… or if they had simply failed.
Ancano had always been ambitious, vying for her position as First Emissary and Ambassador. She'd kept him at arm's length, sending him to Winterhold precisely so he couldn't cultivate too many allies among the Justiciars and the other Thalmor rank and file. Let him chase his dangerous prize under the thin illusion of autonomy, while she pulled the real strings in Skyrim.
The College of Winterhold, while severely lacking in terms of their teaching thods, housed so of the most powerful mages in Skyrim. It was how she managed to convince the need for an agent to be stationed there permanently.
They were not an entity they could make an enemy so easily, yet the lure of an Elder Scroll had drawn her into approving his plan. High risk, high reward. Though as the hours ticked on with no word, it seed the risk was all they'd won.
And the timing could not have been worse.
She stood now in the largest Thalmor encampnt on the northern shores of Haafingar, pitched on the rocky slope outside Northwatch Keep. The crumbling fortress now occupied by the night stalkers. The Vampires had claid it like carrion lords, slaughtering the garrison before the Thalmor could reinforce it.
Her force was formidable. Three Justiciars she trusted with battlefield command, three hundred Thalmor elite, another three hundred Legionnaires "borrowed" from Tullius' garrison at Hraggstad, and nearly a thousand bandits and rcenaries chard to do their bidding and beco at shields.
It was surprisingly easy to gather for there was no shortage of able-bodied n and won in Skyrim, even if they served as nothing more than fodder.
But their skirmishes with the vampires had been… instructive. She had learned who they truly were, the Court of Volkihar. These were not the mindless feral beasts of Skyrim's wilderness, but pure-blooded predators who laughed in the face of sunlight. Even at noon, the Volkihar only weakened, they did not burn.
She had tested every tactic. Forcing them into the open, baiting them with false retreats, raining fire and sunburst spells on their position. They adapted faster than any mortal foe.
And the death hounds… those infernal creatures could sniff out even the faintest shimr of magicka, rendering invisibility and muffling spells useless, thus taking away any chance of a sneak attack or ambush.
Thus, they were preparing another attack. Elenwen studied the map of the surrounding area in the privacy of her own tent, protected by the best Thalmor had to offer. The air inside was warm from the brazier, thick with the scent of ink and wax.
She won't be participating in the attack itself, leaving the battlefield command to the Justiciars. She's content to remain within the strategy council.
It was only when she dipped her quill to make a final note when she finally noticed how…quiet everything seed to be. She could still hear the sounds of the camp at large. The murmuring of soldiers, asured footfalls of the guards, the distant clang of blacksmiths.
Though they sounded…muted, for lack of a better word. It was another second later that everything fell silent. Just the soft crackle of the brazier left to fill the silence.
A slow, unnatural chill seeped into the tent. A thin curl of mist slithered through the entrance, coiling like a serpent before spreading across the floor. Her hand hovered over the hilt of her longsword and she tried to call for her guards, but no voice ca out of her mouth.
A shadow moved in the corner of her eye. She turned, and froze at the sight of the man now standing within the tent behind her.
Tall. Regal. Beautiful in a way that was not mortal. His skin was pale as moonlight, eyes a searing, inhuman crimson. Silken black hair frad high cheekbones, and at his side hung two weapons of exquisite, alien craftsmanship. A longsword with a bat-winged hilt, and a jagged, green-glowing mace that released an eerie, lowly hum.
Sowhere, deep in the pit of her mind, alarms scread. But her thoughts grew hazy, warm, pliable. The fear dulled. She found herself… trusting him.
"So you are the First Emissary?" His voice was a low, commanding baritone that coiled around her like velvet chains. He began to pace, studying Elenwen's features.
What was she doing again?
"I have watched the rise of the Thalmor with great interest. From a provincial faction in the Sumrset Isles… to an empire-spanning power in Tamriel. The Third Aldri Dominion. How intriguing."
Her mind wavered. That part of her that was Elenwen fought to the surface. She was not so doe-eyed mortal to be toyed with. She was the First Emissary of the Aldri Dominion.
Her fingers twitched once more toward her longsword. She wrenched her thoughts back under control, feeling a flicker of satisfaction at the montary surprise in his eyes. She opened her mouth to scream.
No sound ca.
And then she realized with mounting horror, she couldn't move at all.
Every bit of her body—from the top of her head to the tip of toes—was frozen still.
He smiled faintly. "Impressive. I have rarely t mortals who could even begin to resist my charm. A pity it matters little." His eyes glinted with amusent and hunger. "Still, I must thank you. So many soldiers, gathered here at my doorstep… they will make fine additions to my army of thralls."
The camp outside erupted in screams. Steel clanged. The guttural howls of death hounds echoed across the slope.
He stepped closer. She felt the unnatural chill of his presence, the faint stir of his breath against her skin.
And then pain, sudden and searing, as fangs pierced her neck.
Her last conscious thought was a curse to the Divines for letting it co to this.
…
End of Act 2
…
AN: There we go, the finale of Act 2, ending it with the death of Elenwen and Harkon being the Vampire Lord he's supposed to be.
This act encompassed so many things, from Gerron, Kiera, and Serana's training and preparation to the introductions of the remaining factions. The Blades, the Thalmor, the College of Winterhold, the Mythic Dawn, the Vigilants, the Dawnguard, the Thieves' Guild, the Dark Brotherhood, the Stormcloaks, the Empire, the Dragons, etc etc.
There's so many things happening in this fic it's quite hard to balance, but I love it regardless.
I thought this would be a great place to end the Act, where the next one can begin straight towards the Peace Summit itself.
The next one will be pretty damn big where the major conflict of the fic will happen, and a majority of the faction will converge and unite as war finally escalates.
For that, I'm gonna take a week long break. I'm quite happy with the direction this fic is taking, but I'm gonna leave it to stir in the pot for a while to gain so traction while I refocus a bit on my Fairy Tail fic.
I hope you've enjoyed the story so far, it's been a damn blast making this one. Cheers lads.
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