18+ Only Death Awaits

31st of Last Seed:

Dusk was settling upon the Rift, the sky now hidden behind a vast coverage of dark clouds with only few crevices amongst them, allowing moonlight to creep through. Seraphina sat atop Riftens battlements, a light breeze flowing through her red tangled hair as she overlooked the planes before her.


She often found herself here, looking out longingly into the lands that surpassed the Hold she now resentfully called home. She never warmed to the idea of being coddled inside a walled settlement and forever wished that she could live her life out in the wild as she once did back in Valenwood. This however, was no longer of possibility, as fear had now melded its way into her heart for what lurked beyond.


Skyrim was no longer a true home to any of its people, with only a small fraction of which was now deemed safe to roam, the rest only living on in memory of those who once lived there.


The warning that was given almost 10 years ago to the day, had permanently been embedded into her mind, with very few moments of which she did not think of it. She had always feared the return of the dead and as the day of reckoning crept ever closer, she knew that something must be done to prevent the fate prophecy foretold. She had tried reasoning with the people of her outpost, but was often seen as insane for even considering leaving the safety of Riften.


Seraphina however, had made it her sole purpose to discover how to avert the darkness that would soon consume them all; and she had no intentions of not carrying through with it.


At day break she rode towards outpost 2 in hope that a hold now run by those sworn to protect, would hold more resilience in their hearts to journey on into lands unknown. She did not wish to hold an audience with their people so left a flyer with the guardsmen and then left without delay for outpost 3. Although she held high hopes that the people of outpost 2 would heed her call, she could say little of that for the inhabitants of outpost 3.


She had known many practioners of magic in her time and there was very few she had been fond with. She had come to realise that many users of magic were inherently selfish, especially those of telvanni descent who were notoriously so. The inhabitants of outpost 3 rarely made contact with anyone who was not one of their own and they often refused aid to outsiders. As she drew closer and closer to their keep she readied her bow incase of any altercations, even though she knew she would stand little chance against an ice bolt to the face.


As she neared the gates she noticed a young female dumner stood in front as though awaiting her arrival. Seraphina dismounted, but before she could even contemplate what to do next she observed the dumner had already fabricated a small flame in her palm. This was undoubtedly as a warning that as an outsider she was not welcome there. Seraphina complied, placing the flyer on the ground and secured it in place with an arrow from her quiver. She then remounted and without a second glance went on her way back to outpost 1, where she would await any aid that she could only hope was to come.

Hale saw the rider, though never saw him. At least, he didn't think she had. He figured he would find out in a few days time in any case, for Hale Loneshadow was finally leaving Outpost Three after four frigid years. The mages whom he lived with were for the most part just as icy as the region's weather; some even downright hostile in their bids for yet more power and knowledge. Hale had learned to play the Outpost's games with the guidance of some friends made within the old College walls.

He had spent his time here brooding, meditating, practicing - both arts magical and martial - and planning. Planning ways to retake the country from these demons and dead beings that now haunted its beautiful landscape, its once-sturdy cities and towns and villages. Yet those mages here would apparently rather keep to their candle-lit rooms, ensconced in their candle-lit rooms, studying esoteric texts in an obsessive bid to find a solution to this evil issue.

Of course there were answers in those texts, but not Hale's. He had read and poured over each and every text, scroll, and scrap of parchment in the Outpost already over the past years. The time for action was needed, at least for his conscience. So, the morning after that striking rider had deposited her note in front of Brelyna, Hale packed his gear, readied his beloved horse Eagle-Runs, and made to silently ride out of what was formerly the once the town of Winterhold.

Besides, he was going stir-crazy. He was up to taking any excuse to get outside of the Outpost's walls, from patrolling, to search-and-rescue/destroy missions, and even accompanying a group of either incredibly brave or foolish adepts in a quick archaeological dig for some magic-heavy icon or statue.

"That rider yesterday afternoon...you catch her name by chance?" he asked of Brelyna, once again standing sentinel on the bridge.

"Nope. Just doing my duty, Loneshadow. She wasn't getting within ten feet of me. You should try doing your duty once in awhile here, lord," the veteran Dunmer mage replied with clear

"You should see how subtlety fits on you once in awhile, Maryon. And you can come to me regarding 'duty' once yours consists of more than a slab of magical stone...ah, stay alive anyway Maryon. You and the rest of the sticks-up-their-arses. The times are about to get even more fecked."

Although rivals, Brelyna Maryon and Hale Loneshadow had a mutual respect for each other - which had blossomed into a mutually-beneficial lust-centered relationship which, of course, bombastically failed and as such soured the two against each other. Still, like Hale, Brelyna wished well of him on his journey.

"You keep well then, Loneshadow. I'll tell the Archmage of your departure...tomorrow."

"I appreciate this last favor, Brelyna. Take care, and hunker down."

Two nights and three days later, the former Breton nobleman rode into the hive of thieves and villainy that consisted of Outpost One. Well, honest thieves perhaps. And honest criminals? Hale had known a few, but with emphasis on the word few. He found himself wondering if he could trust this mysterious rider who resided in a den of snakes.

Hah! As if. Still, if her goals align with mine...and we can get a few like-minded others...well then, maybe this land isn't damned after all.

Hitching Eagle-Runs inside the stables, Hale ducked inside of the nearest watering hole and grabbed himself a warm mead - all ingredients farmed directly within the Outpost; the Breton had to admit he was impressed and grateful at that. Setting his dagger just a bit higher on his hips and easier to draw, Hale propped up underneath the alehouse's outside porch.

He scanned those individuals and groups of individuals coming and going from much of the settlement at this vantage point. If she poked her nose up here, Hale was not all that confident he could immediately spot her. This worried him momentarily.

Well, Hale figured, seems more like the type to sneak up and introduce herself anyways. She wants us to come, well, I'm here. She can bloody well come to me!

Letting himself relax for the first time in the past few days - for travel was downright murder nowadays - Hale let the warm mead flow through his body. Cocking his hat and brushing his shirt, he kept his eyes on the people and awaited his potential confederate.

Draj Kir stretched luxuriously, yawned, and opened his eyes. It was a quiet morning, save a persistent whimpering by his feet. Scowling, the khajiiti bounty hunter kicked towards the source of the irritating noise and was rewarded with a pained groan. "Shut up!" He growled, sitting up and beginning to pull his boots on. "This one only took one of your hands. Be grateful he did not decide to take your head for trying to lead him into that cave full of dead things." Of course, the posted bounty had stressed that the man be taken alive. A bonus of another fifty septims was offered on top of the initial hundred if the thieving nord was brought back to the outpost alive. Draj Kir would be damned if he missed the opportunity to make a little extra.

To the thiefs' credit, he hadn't tried bargaining with the bounty hunter. He hated when they tried to buy him off like he was some cheap prostitute. It was almost as if they didn't realize that Draj Kir taking a bribe to release them would only bring another, less....lenient hunter in the near future. Plus, he too would become wanted by the authority of the outpost, and he didn't like the idea of having to take his chances out in the wilds. Humans, elves, khajiit and argonians, he could deal with. Even a blood-mad orc or two, but the dead frightened him. Not to the point of fleeing or paralysis, though he was not too proud to admit, seeing the things stumbling towards him had given him cause for hesitation the first few times he'd been forced to deal with them.

Realizing the one handed nord was still laying where Draj Kir had left him. "What, are you waiting for the dead to catch us? On your feet." The bounty hunter hauled the man to his feet and shoved him forwards. The man groaned again, beginning to stumble his way towards the walled outpost.

The pair made their way to the walls of the outposts before the sun had reached its' zenith. The guards glanced at one another, and one called out "caught him after all, eh, Draj?" Behind him, a sour faced guard tossed a small purse of coins to his companion.

"This one thought himself sneaky. He was not" Draj Kir informed the guardsmen as they hauled the gates open to allow passage.

"They're waiting for you at the prison." One man told the khajiit, who nodded, prodding the dejected human along ahead of him. "There's one other thing; some bosmer girl showed up not long ago. Looks like the adventuring kind. Might have some work for you."

Draj Kir nodded his thanks, leaving the guards to close the gate. Several moments later, he had swapped the thief out for a pile of gold, plus bonus and was headed to look for the bosmer adventurer who'd apparently shown up. There was no shortage of elves in the outpost, so Draj Kir was not sure which elf he was supposed to find. He ended up sitting in a bar, waiting for the woman to find him. Of course, if he spent some of his well earned bounty on some fine spirits, so much the better.

Jamiel Acosta strolled down the rough cobbles of the poorly maintained road with a spring to his step that was a rare sight these days. Seeing people on the road in general was fairly rare, the redguard admitted to himself. Living people, anyways. There were always plenty of dead ones, either laying discarded and rotting on the side of the road, or roaming around, looking for fresh victims.

It seemed to be Jamiels' luck that he almost always ended up coming across the former rather than the latter. Of course, that wasn't to say he wasn't always glad to turn the walking ones back into corpses when he came across them. It was a service to the people of Skyrim, to the world, really that he did so.

Plus, it was damn good fun. Living opponents were rare these days, unless you happened to piss off the wrong person at one of the outposts. Or came across a troop of bandits in the wild. Most would flee after seeing their friend get his head stoved in courtesy of Jamiel's mace. Not the dead though. They just came on and on and on. There were dangers to that, certainly, but fighting an enemy with the coordination of a drunk nord was childs' play to anyone who'd ever fought for real.

His musings came to an end as he saw the outpost of thieves, cutthroats, and liars he'd been summoned two by some pamphlet that had been handed to the guard by some elven woman. The outpost guards let him inside after a quick once-over, and he made his way to the tavern. The road had been long, if somewhat boring, and he had a powerful thirst after such a journey.

Inside, he saw a khajiit man sitting at the bar already, a purse of coins within arms reach, along with a full mug of some drink. Jamiel took the barstool beside him and nodded a greeting "Good day, my khajiiti friend. Would you be one of those summoned to this place?"

Morva Ironscorn was aware of the suspicious looks the guards gave her as she stepped inside the outpost. She was not too happy to inside the place herself. She so much preferred the peace of the wilds and other open spaces. Ever since the dead had come ten years ago, people had become suspicious and murderous than usual. Morva had kept her distance for the past few years, only stopping in at civilization when she absolutely needed to. While she wasn't exactly welcomed by the outposts, they did welcome any news she happened to bring them.

So she'd been fairly surprised when she arrived at one of the outposts, only for the guards their to hand her a folded piece of parchment. Apparently, she had been summoned by a random elven woman, to help deal with the imminent return of the undead. While she normally would have ignored the summons; she was nobodys' lapdog, she was intrigued. A quest to stop the dead from overwhelming Skyrim like they had years ago seemed like a worthy goal.

Passing the guards, she made a beeline for the nearest tavern. She knew that most mercenary and adventuring types liked to congregate in such places. It only made sense for Morva to either join whoever was there, or wait for their arrival. She pushed the door open and looked around. A khajiit seemed the only likely candidate, drinking by himself. She approached until she was standing beside him "I think we may have something in common." She said, slapping the parchment down beside his tankard.

Just outside the walls of Outpost 3 is where Edryk Raviro conducts his research on the undead for the Mage's Guild. Being a respected guest scholar from Morrowind, the Arch-Mage had given him a private study outside the main tower to pursue vital research on the undead without having to be bothered too much. On top of this small spire, Edryk runs tests on a captured draugr in the hopes of combating the inevitable wave of undead.

The draugr is shackled to the ground via a chain linked from its neck and wrists. It shows signs of minor hostility, but not nearly as much as the undead that ravaged Solitude a decade ago. It occasionally growls, but mostly looks around as if it is completely devoid of all thoughts. Edryk is using this testing to determine how the figure in black had commanded an army of near-intelligent undead capable of sacking almost the entirety of Skyrim. He dips his quill into the ink well and reaches for his notes to add onto the rest of the day's findings.

"... Three hours in. Subject continues to show remarkable lack of intelligence, likely more so than your every day draugr. It would seem as though my incantation likely had the opposite effect of what we have been aiming for. Perhaps reciting the canto during the casting of the spell instead of before it will foster my desired result. Will reference this in future findings if need be."

As Edryk is writing however, one of the rookie mages redirects his attention to the bumbling draugr. It's once cold blue eyes are replaced with a warmer yellow hue. On the verge of a breakthrough, the Dunmer orders his helpers to stand back so he can observe. The draugr seems aware of its predicament, feeling the metal bind around its neck and coughing lightly, likely preparing to speak. It then locks eyes with the dunmer who is ready to take note of what is happening.

"Foo~ lishh maage. Will y~ ou will die Liike all-" before it's sentence can finish, its eyes return to their icy cold blue. Seconds later, the body breaks apart and decomposes in a matter of seconds.

"Confound it all." Edryk rubs the bridge of his nose in obvious annoyance. Every time it appears a new discovery is made, the rug seems to be pulled right from under him. Despite knowing he must record what just happened, the Dunmer sighs and closes his ledger of notes. Before getting back to his work, he resigns to making himself a cup of herbal tea to recompose himself. Near the bottom of the spire, a knock on the the door gets Edryk's attention. A runner informs him that he is summoned by the Arch-Mage with a proposition in mind. Little does the Dunmer researcher know is that the Arch-Mage has a certain pamphlet in-hand, and has quite the task lined up for her expert of the undead.