Cycle of the Serpent

Fort Hraggstad, once an outpost meant to fortify the roads against bandits and their throngs, had been reduced to an outcropping of stone clinging to the cliffsides of Haafingar Hold with bone-frail fingers. The roads, congealed with mud and snow to create a slush that pervaded the pathways towards the fortress, sucked at the bottom of the trios boots like the tendrils of Hermorah beneath the seas maddening waves.

Wyndrelis drew in a breath and crept silently behind his companions. The mountain air, familiar and thin, eased itself into his lungs. His home town had been deep into the mountains of Cheydinhal county, where the lush green gave way to thick stone and craggy cliffs, northern flowers of Skyrim familiar in their shapes. He sent a quick glance to Athenath, who seemed to be struggling against the trudge up the paths from their huffed murmurs and subtle puckering of their chin, the smallest indicator of a pout, much to the stifled amusement of the Dunmer. Then, he made the slow shift of his eyes to Emeros, the grave intensity of his amber gaze outmatched by the slow, cautious pace he took in his stride. The Bosmer knew the sort of work they were getting into, whose hands they were dirtying theirs for. And by his posture and his subdued scowl, his aim was to get this over with and pretend the work was not for Tullius, but for his companions, and solely them.

The sun rose like a draugr from a coffin, the waves of the sea anxious paces along the cliffs and marshy shorelines. Quick meals had in the inn and supplies packed, the three elves barely shed a word as they got ready. The journey would take roughly half the day, at least. Wyndrelis observed the grave looks on his friends faces and wondered how they would fare when they approached the fort. None of them thought themselves ready to do this, truth be told. He certainly didn't. But choice wasn't a luxury they could afford. And when Emeros outlined the quickest route to and from the fort, Wyndrelis merely peered down at the paper and gave approving nods, while Athenath tucked their tambourine inside the chest at the end of the bed, along with any other items the elves may want to leave behind for now.

They'd begun the hike up the ancient pathways early that morning, when uneasy clouds ghosted the growing blue of the skies. The waters tossed up the carcasses of albatross birds shot down by practicing Imperial archers, and the mudcrabs fed off the rotted remains. The stretch of road the group had elected to take wound them along slick and well-worn stone paths, each flinching at the sound of wildlife out of sight, keenly aware of the attention of any living creatures in this part of Haafingar. They were far and away from any help, no guards to save them should they be cornered by a pack of wolves on the mountainside. The forests thickened with pines, swaying on their rakish centers in ways that made Wyndrelis uneasy. The mage pushed his glasses up his nose, his breath creating clouds of fog that warmed his face as he walked through them, white irises skimming the landscape. Emeros clutched the map, nails digging into its papery surface.

The Dunmer fanned his fingers between lengths of his raven-dark hair, pushing the feathery strands against the winds that tousled it around the back of his neck, tickling the skin. He cursed quietly, but knew it was no use. Here, the wind was a perpetual thing, only cut by the rail-thin trees pushing up through the snow like needles through an incision.

He grimaced. Scrunched his nose.

The thought evaporated the moment he processed it, the sound of Emeros' harsh whisper, a command for the group to get down, hunching against the back of a larger tree. Athenath followed quickly in suit, clutching the sword Jarl Balgruuf had given him, identical to the ones they all carried.

"Bandits," Emeros murmured, his hawk-keen eyes glancing between the pair, and in the noons sun, Wyndrelis could see his pupils widen, dilating to draw in the sight of the enemies marching the parapets and the stone-walled courtyard, a hunter on the prowl. "We'll have to either draw them out or take the fight to them, but take them by surprise, at the very least."

"How many?" Athenath questioned in a whisper, their own dark eyes darting between his friends, tying his hair rapidly back into a red ribbon and hissing something under his breath. Emeros listened intently, ears perking up, but after a moment, he scowled and shook his head.

"I can't tell."

"There's somewhere between four and nine."

The other two shot their gazed to Wyndrelis, surprise lingering at the edges of their features. The Dunmer, plain-faced, stood there, examining the walls and how many times a certain set of armor walked past, versus how much hammering he heard at a forge, voices, distinct, taking in the information as quickly as he could.

"How in the bloody hell did you know that?" Emeros whispered, brow raising. Wyndrelis shrugged. How could he explain what could not be put into words? How could he show them what he saw, how he took in information at a voracious pace, his mind trained to remember every small detail, every piece fitting together like wood blocks of a puzzle? He shook his head.

"It doesn't matter."

Emeros hesitated, glancing back at the cloud-grey fort. "I don't like those odds."

"Well, we're fucked, then, 'cause we need that pardon." Athenath snarled in a hush, rolling their eyes. Emeros' chuckle came out as a half-amused puff of hair from his nose and a shake of his head, his grave face marred by the curious arch of his brow.

"You have a one-path mind, don't you?"

"We can discuss this later." Wyndrelis cut through the conversation, folding magicka into his palms with ease, the purple tinges of light quickly forming a mace. He inhaled and allowed himself to funnel his energy into it, the phantom-like weapon seething for something to hit against. Conjuration had always been his best school of magic, and it served him well.

Wyndrelis was, by all accounts, not a violent person. He avoided conflict, he kept to himself, he shuffled along walls and hid in the shadows and counted his breaths to avoid saying anything he may regret that may inflame someone's temper like a festering wound. He only stood up when the sight of his head in a crowd would blend together with more, he only spoke up when he knew there were no other options, and rarely accusatory. Seldom he would save his own skin, and even less so, the skin of others. But Athenath was right. They needed that pardon.

"Emeros, take down the one at the gate. And the one above it. Athenath," he turned to the Altmer, who crouched in the snow with their back to the tree, his hands clasped around the hilt of his sword, "don't hold it like that. You'll hurt yourself and then you won't be able to defend against anything."

Athenath, slowly, shifted their wrists and tightened his grip. The slight tremor of his hands caught Wyndrelis off-guard, but he shook the image from his mind and focused again on the fort.

"Are we ready?"

Emeros nocked an arrow, freshly wet with poison. The gauntlets Athenath had tossed his way during their excursion into Bleak Falls Barrow warmed his hands. "Ready."

The first to fall. The first to bleed.

Wyndrelis watched the arrow make its mark squarely in the jugular of the nearest bandit. Clean. Quick. A hunter's trained kill. He watched another fall, this time an arrow to the chest. This time, not so quick, and another did them in. Emeros slid forward in the snow and up the incline, finding the path and his footing along it. Wyndrelis followed, Athenath rushing behind, swinging their blade at the first bandit to get near enough to him to try an attack.

One. Two. Three, now. Wyndrelis kept count. The sick crack of a skull against his summoned mace added four to the tally. Another cadaver. He slipped along the mud, then Athenath wrenched a fist into the back of his armor, the same armor they'd snagged off the bandits above Riverwood, in those icy depths. They'd left the armor Jarl Balgruuf gifted them back in the Winking Skeever. They were no guards, after all, and they were a long way from Whiterun.

As soon as he was on his feet properly again, the brunt of a shield crashed into him, knocking him to the ground. Wyndrelis barely had enough time to get his wits about him when he flopped over onto his back, the bandit above about to slam one enormous boot into his chest when Emeros drew his dagger, the ivory handle stark white against the dull grey forts stone, driving it hard into the neck of their foe. Dark, warm blood sunk down the neck of the bandit, face colorless as he fell. The Bosmer clasped Wyndrelis' hand and pulled him from the mud before he continued his own onslaught, firing arrows into the bandits scrambling along the high walls of the fort.

Five.

He hissed in pain and ran a Restoration spell through his shoulder, the muscles loosening, the tension melting away, magicka running down his veins like High Rock chocolate under a hot sun, the kind he'd shared long ago with someone whose name lay in ash. He shut the memory off as quickly as he could, looking up, watching Athenath toe backwards along the walkway of Fort Hraggstad as a bandit inched closer, closer, every step like victory preclaimed.

"Come on, little elf," called the bandit, "you're good as dead, now."

Athenath inched back, stray curls forcing themselves into his vision. He did not reply, breaths coming out in shaky, harrowing gasps from the clouds Wyndrelis saw leave their mouth. The Altmer clutched their blade with trembling hands, eyes wide.

Wyndrelis' chest tightened. Something had gone wrong in the battle, and the Altmer found themself on the losing end.

Emeros noticed before he did, as the moment the Dunmer spun to find the stairs, he'd flown halfway across the courtyard and up the walkway, curling his fist into the bandit's cheekbone. Athenath shoved himself forward and drove his sword deep into the armored stomach of the human, freed from whatever fear had rooted him in place. He looked away until the thrashing ended. Then, eyes still closed, the Altmer rested a food on the hipbone of the corpse and pulled their sword out, blood and frost enchantments slithering along its surface.

"Gods," Athenath spat, Emeros looking down at the Dunmer, brow knit in concern.

Six.

Wyndrelis waited.

He listened to the hiss and whistle of the winds, the waving of the pines in the breeze, the snow tufting off the surface of the stone and powdering his figure in the muddy courtyard. He dismissed his spectral mace, looking at his friends on the stone walkway above him. The winds blew harsh through the swaying pines, and he swore he heard one begin to crack.

Holding up his hand, he cast Detect Life.

Emeros and Athenath glowed. He looked around, scrutinizing every corner of the courtyard and hoping for no signs, and when none came, he let out a shaking sigh of relief.

"Come down, let me treat your wounds before we go further."

"What further?" Athenath shot back, half-stumble of their words caught against their teeth, "I thought we were done."

Wyndrelis shook his head, jabbing his thumb to the doorway that no doubt led further into the fort. "This way. Now, come down."

Wounds treated, all that was left was to clear the fort itself. The trio gave a long, solemn look to the door.

If they didn't go in, then the job was incomplete. If the job was incomplete, and soldiers came to the fort and were attacked, then they could be arrested for lying to Tullius and wind up on that block in Solitude themselves. If they told him that they thought it was cleared, he would not be inclined to believe them. After all, they were on the prison cart to Helgen. He had his rights to suspicion.

Wyndrelis clasped a hand around his corporeal mace, made of steel and taken from that pyre of an outpost. It wasn't ideal, he couldn't funnel his energy into it to make it stronger like he could a conjured weapon, but it was better than using up his magicka in the event that the trio were surrounded by any bandits they encountered.

Which, of course, he was sure that they would at least find one or two.

"Ready?" Athenath whispered. Wyndrelis looked to Emeros, who nocked another arrow.

"Open the door slowly and as quietly as you can." Emeros watched as the Altmer shuffled to the side, kneeling down to press their hand to the door, each tiny inch of it cracking open like adrenaline in the three elves' veins.

Wyndrelis stood to the side of the stone building, heart hammering in his chest. He'd never been a fighter. He was a mage, a scholar. This was in complete opposition to how he liked to handle his problems. But if he hoped to traverse Skyrim safely, then he couldn't drop his guard for a single moment.

Emeros spotted the figure of another bandit, and his arrow found purchase in the man's skull. He motioned for the others to follow him, the trio creeping low and careful to the ground in the stone dark.

Another fell, up the stairs. And the moment a third bandit became alerted to the commotion, Emeros took them down, Wyndrelis clutching his mace. The dark encroached on them, summoning all the death-pallor dread in the mage's body, nothing capable of shielding him from the terror that boiled in his heart. He kept his form steady, his breath even, but the chill from the outside could not be eliminated by the burning hearth on the lower level.

All it took for his fears to be validated was the door swinging open on the level beneath them, and someone spotting the bodies. The call for everyone to search the fort, for someone to find whoever had done this, and the sound of a pair of footsteps rushing in the trios direction.

Chaos erupted, the three elves hopping from the lower level and sprinting out the door, rabbits in flight from the jaws of a sabre cat, the cold shattering against them as they flung themselves down the stairs of the other door, a prison of sorts, and through its winding depths.

The twisting, the turning, the thunder of feet against stairs, the shouts of people calling for their intruders to meet the end here, to fall to their weapons, to give up the fight here in this wretched place- Wyndrelis sprinted behind his friends, Emeros looking back- for what? Keep running, Wyndrelis mentally hissed as he followed. The churning the rolling the dark shadows meant to cloak them doing nothing, nothing, gods damn it all, they had been cornered. Gods damn it all, he wanted to do something, anything, petrified, the stench of rot coming to him through the prison's iron bars, his back now to one cell containing the half-rotten remains of some poor soul he was soon to join.

Dead end. Dead end. It was a gods damned dead end.

His spine met cold metal through his armor. Athenath to one side. Emeros to another. Outnumbered, how could they take down this many and expect to survive? Their soon-to-be-murderers scurried faster to them, and even as the trio tightened their grips on their weapons, the reality of their situation clarified in the sounds of stone meeting leather boots. They had come here so that they could live in peace, not to die by another's blade.

Wyndrelis inhaled deeply.

He exhaled.

His heart thundered in his chest and his eyes cast frenzied, fervent glances around the room. He met Athenath's round, panick-stricken eyes. Emeros' own narrow, stone-cold gaze, dread in his stomach as he tried to figure out just how much time they had until the group was either eliminated or would face one of their hardest battles yet. The courtyard had offered open space. Better odds.

This offered nothing but a grave.

The mage drew in a breath.

A grave.

Wyndrelis tightened a fist so hard his nails dug into his palm. If only he had that book, if only it hadn't been taken from him the moment he became a prisoner, but he didn't and he wasn't able to get it back yet, he didn't even know where it was, if he did he might be able to get them out of this mess, but no.

No, he knew there were other options. Always other options.

He gave Athenath one last look. Emeros, too. He drew in another breath, slower as the footsteps came closer by the minute, then let it slide out from his mouth. His heart rate, despite his bodies protests, began to ease. Focus. He would have to focus.

He pushed magicka into his palm. The fist glowered a violet hue, the scowl of a work that he'd too-long left dormant. The College of Whispers had given him much. His fondness for the group and their cynosures did not outweigh his experiences, but it had given him something that no one, not the law, not the gods, and not his terror could take from him.

Just as the first blade swung high to bring down upon his skull, the bandit wielding it collapsed back with a groan.

The war axe clattered to the ground.

Wyndrelis curled his fist tighter. The purple, flowing magicka burned brighter against him as the thrall moved against the attacks of the living. He watched as another thrall, made now from the new corpse, perfect for reanimation as it was fresh and strong, swung again, this time at their former compatriots. Whether they were friends or merely together through bonds of their shared profession didn't matter to him as the thralls attacked, taking down everyone that would bring them harm. He fumbled to clasp a hand on Emeros' shoulder, then to Athenath, tugging at their armor.

"We can get out now if we hurry."

The lowering sun rimmed the clouds with gold, the pines swaying above them. Wyndrelis' thralls grew in number down there, until he had a procession of the shambling dead following his shadow from Fort Hraggstad's prison. At the stairs, before any of them could follow to the top, he extended his arm before him and gathered magicka in his palm, dropping the spell and blighting out whatever life had been left inside the corpses. They fell like puppets unstrung before the trio, some in such positions that they slid down the stairs. He scrutinized them for a while, before dismissing the magic and turning to his friends, Athenath's hands over their mouth in surprise.

"Now, I think we should investigate the chests in there. If the General thinks he is getting us to work for free... Well, we can find other ways to supplement our coinpurses," Wyndrelis chuckled. As he was about to make his way to the chests in the upper level of the fort, Emeros caught his attention, his voice a dangerous rumble.

"How long did you intend to hide your... Work?" He gestured to the bodies, brow lowered.

Did he mean to hide it?

In a way, yes. Many were prejudiced against this practice, and in some cases, for good reason. But if there was one thing he retained from his time with the College of Whispers, it was that necromancy - like any other school of magic - had as much potential for harm as it did for good, despite the stigma which gave it the reputation it carried. He gave Emeros a curious look. The Bosmer scowled, his disgust plain in his eyes. Wyndrelis gave him a curious look, arching his brow. Athenath, clearly, gave the idea of loot in the various chests of the fortress much more thought than the display of strange works before him, and made a joke in the violent quiet that they shouldn't be expected to work for free.

A chest, pushed up against the wall, refused to budge for all of Athenath's good attempts.

Wyndrelis stood to one side of the Altmer, back to the wall, leaning as he watched the other's tries at picking the locks. For everything he knew of lockpicking, they were skilled at it, taking their time until frustration inevitably kicked into place. After that point, it was cursing, groaning, and kicking the chest until he calmed down enough to get back to work. Emeros stood opposite of Wyndrelis, offering advice that the Altmer ignored. His eyes never quite left the mage. His shoulders would tighten. His posture would stiffen and he would freeze, before narrowing a glare. Then, he'd look back to the bard and ask if they had gotten it open yet.

"Come on, damn you," Athenath hissed quietly as another lockpick broke inside the lock, falling to the floor. They groaned loudly and threw his hands up, before continuing again. "Damn you, who in their right mind invented a chest with this much-"

With a click, it popped open.

Athenath cheered, words a blur before leaning over the edge. The other two elves moved closer, peering into the wooden container, curiosity entirely overtaking them after watching their friend struggle with the lock for the past few minutes.

Where they had expected to find gold, gems, perhaps even ore or ingots they could sell, sat a white, carved stone. It bore many sides, and shone with an inward light that set Wyndrelis on edge, as if every flicker of its energy was cursing his name. Athenath didn't seem to notice or care about the oddity of the object, pouting at the item before pulling it out. The Altmer cradled it in their arms, already beginning to discuss getting it appraised or finding someone who may know what it even is when the stone's light grew, a voice coming from its center.

"A new hand touches the beacon."