“A troll pen?” Dev repeated, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Why on Nirn would you want to sleep next to a troll pen of all things?”
As the two entered Riften, the Imperial couldn’t help but feel a tad more relaxed. Not completely, as she had met the damned vampire inside Riften, but more so than she had before. Especially with Tarlok still nearby.
“Hm? Oh, um… I don’t want to be any more trouble to you, or make you think I can’t take care of myself,” she said, shaking her head and smiling. After a moment, she bit her lower lip and glanced back over at the man. “But… I wouldn’t mind the company?”
“Not by choice, I can tell you that much,” Tarlok laughed and shook his head. “Sleeping quarters at the fort are right next to the pens.”
He had to admit, he felt slightly disappointed at first, as it seemed she was trying to nicely decline his offer. When that turned out not to be the case, he offered her a smile. “Alright then, lead the way,” he said and motioned for her to take the lead with a brief gesture of his hand.
“I never thought you were incapable of taking care of yourself, and you haven’t been any trouble for me,” he said after a moment’s silence, and glanced over at her. “Just wanted you to know.”
Notes on Dimhollow Crypt Vol. 3 As written by Adalvald
Divines be praised! Here at last is the breakthrough I have been seeking. All the dangers I have escaped, the traps I have eluded and the foul draugr I have avoided have brought me at last to this.
In my previous volume of notes and observations regarding Dimhollow Crypt's possible connections to the Ancient Vampire clans of Skyrim's history, I wrote of a great chamber, far larger than anything else I've yet seen here in the crypt.
Alas, a few wandering draugr forced me to retreat to the earlier passages of the crypt, thus depriving me of an opportunity to study this huge cavern.
Well, praise be to Stendarr, for as I write this, I have just spent nearly a full day exploring that very cavern.
It was a risk that proved more than worth it, because what I found in that chamber nearly defies description.
Central to this huge cavern is an island of stone in a subterranean lake. Upon this island is something I can only describe as an elaborate ceremonial construction surrounded by stone columns linked by arches.
There is no mistaking the stark contrast in architecture here; no ancient Nords make this stonework. Here, too, were more of the gargoyle statues that i first glimpsed in earlier passageways.
There is no draugr burial site in Skyrim that contains these statues, save Dimhollow Crypt.
Indeed, I am now certain that the strange construct in this main chamber was built long after the crypt, and by wholly different masters. These must be the same builders who placed the gargoyles through the crypt, perhaps to frighten away the curious.
All signs seem to indicate that the masons who crafted these strange arches were servants of some ancient master who favored necromancy or vampirism.
The style and craftsmanship in the stonework are not only distinct in terms of design, seeming to speak of an entirely different culture than that of the old Nord peoples, but also in skill with which they were fashioned.
The cutting and shaping of the stone, for example, suggests more sophisticated tools than the crypt's original architects would have possessed.
Although I feel a sense of exhilaration that my theories have at last been confirmed beyond any shadow of a doubt, I am also disappointed at the lack of answers. How long ago were these new features added to the crypt? And by whom? And for what purpose?
On one point, I have no doubts. I must return to the Hall of the Vigilant and share these findings with my brothers and sisters. When they see what I've discovered with their own eyes, they will no longer scoff at my theories or mock my endeavors.
And when that is done, I will return to my work. For now, Dimhollow Crypt might be a mystery, but by Stendarr I will see that mystery solved.
Among those of us to whom Lord Hircine bestowed his most precious gift of Lycanthropy, there are legends that he also set into the world specific artifacts of his power. They date to a period when men could neither write, nor speak, nor barely think, but the powers of blood of the beast were yet flowing strong among the selected.
The first: a carved skull, of the wolf itself. Used by those ancient shamans in the blood ceremonies that created our lineage, it is said to grant a great presence to those who prostrate themselves before it, such that those who witness their forms cower in a terror unknown except to those who have glimpsed the face of Hircine himself.
The second: a thigh bone, carved as the skull, but from some animal unknown. Used as some form of medicinal wand in the more ancient brotherhood, it was said to grant a kind of heightened awareness, both in sight and smell, such that the prey could never flee too far from our senses.
The third: a simple drum, its mundane appearance meaning it is most likely lost to the mists of long ago time. As our fathers would beat time to summon their brethren from the fields, so too would our forebears in the blood call their allies to them with its pounding.
Through these totems, we channel and focus our energies of the beast. While werewolves give up the powers of magic known to men, we can tap into a more direct natural energy at times, and through these totems, discover the abilities that first tamed the world before wrought civilization sullied it.
Lycanthropic Legends of Skyrim
by Lentulus Inventius
Order of the Horn
I had heard the same rumors as everyone else—that the province of Skyrim was awash in various forms of Lycanthropy. I had studied werewolves for some time, and was keen to see if these rumors of werebears were actually substantiated. I elected to pursue these studies in the warmer summer months in deference to my fragile constitution.
One quickly finds that common villagers are of practically no use in this land. Whereas in Cyrodiil, even the youngest child can tell you the true fauna that inhabit its environs, here I find alleged "wise men" recounting tales of unicorns and flying horses directly alongside their stories of werebears, so I don't put any stock in the rumors. They certainly have their traditions for warding off werebears (certain plants and ceremonies), but nobody can attest to even having seen one first-hand, much less possess any sort of artifact. Everyone has a cousin or a friend who saw one once, but when pressed, these stories fall apart.
I don't wish to completely discount these stories, but I also must conclude that they may have spun out of some wild retelling of a particularly vicious, but mundane, bear. Legends can take a life of their own, particularly when there are grains of truth, as here we have the very real threat of werewolves. I worry that by spreading stories of a potentially false (or at least rare) beast, people may begin to discount the threat that real beasts pose. But if Skyrim's people choose to lead a backwards life, shrieking at shadows and clouds, I will not stop them.
The werewolves of this land are a curious sort. At least the legends of them. Given the Nord flair for bravado, I had expected to see werewolf pelts lining walls in the cities, werewolf heads on pikes, that sort of gaudy show. Instead, few people in civilized society ever mentioned them, and my questions were usually met with nervous stares.
Thinking that perhaps the common folk were simply more cowardly than I had been lead to believe by my Nordic acquaintances in Cyrodiil, I sought out those known for actual bravery. The supposedly fearless warrior band of Whiterun, the Companions, lost all color when I broached the subject, and asked me to leave. I had thought better of them, and was disappointed at how quickly brave men and women can be intimidated by stories.
Pressing into the wilderness, away from any sort of settlement, I would often find hunters, willing to recount stories of their kills. It was finally through one of them (a certain Karsten Hammer-Back) that I heard my first (and unfortunately only) verifiable stories of werewolves in the province, accompanied by pelts and claws to prove the killing. Just as I was thrilling to finding some actual evidence of the local beasts, he got a wild, conspiratorial look in his eyes and began spinning tales of some band of werewolf hunters and their exploits in hunting down the creatures. I left him to mop his drool and continued my journeys.
In the end, I regret that my trip to Skyrim did not prove more productive. If it is indeed true that their breeds of lycanthropes are distinct from and more powerful than our local ones, they could prove to be powerful allies in our conflict against the influx of werevultures in Valenwood. If they have grown as great and terrible as my friend Gaelian asserts, they could soon threaten the interior of Tamriel. When the summer next crests, I plan to travel there for a better accounting of the winged cretins, so that I may make more fitting report to the council. (x)
Far too many books such as this one begin with some sort of justification. Some reason for study is concocted, in the hopes that the writer's obsession will be seen in a more noble light. I make no such pretensions. No werewolf killed my family, none ever threatened me personally, nor even an acquaintance of mine. My obsession is borne out of simple curiosity, with a strong dose of hatred for the unnatural. Is it possible to hate something without having been done harm by it? I am no philosopher, and thus here ends my introduction. On with my studies. I have endeavored, over the course of several decades, to perform a complete study of the physical nature of the creatures we call werewolves. I overlook entirely the origins of this plague, whether it is acquired voluntarily or inflicted, and how one might be cured. Such matters are filled with too much guesswork and rambling second-hand inanities from farmhands.
Subject A
Captured: in Morrowind, while in beast form
Makeup: Male, Breton in his true form
Notes: Subject shows an unusually high degree of control over his transformations.
Experiment 1 -- Subject's bodily proportions were thoroughly measured before, during, and after the transformation. As expected, the proportions were identical while in true form, but some minor swelling of the head was observed immediately after the return.
Changes observed during transformation:
23% increase in shoulder width
17% narrowing of hips
47% lengthening of arms
7% increase in finger length (not accounting for claws)
As for the legs -- the lengthening of the foot to several times its normal length seems to account for the otherwise negligible changes in the thigh region.
Experiment 2-- Subject was coerced into changing as rapidly and as frequently as possible, at various times and at various levels of duress. {C Transformation times and effects were not viewed to change notably. Subject expired, concluding tests.
Subject B
Captured:in Cyrodiil, already imprisoned by local authorities, in true form
Makeup: Female, Nord in her true form
Notes: Subject's large size in both true and transformed forms makes an excellent fit for vivisection.
I believe I may have been the first to witness a werewolf transformation ply its effects on the internal workings of a creature. The heart is the first thing to swell, long before the lungs or bones shift to accommodate it. This may account for the intense chest pains that some of the afflicted report directly before their changes.
More interesting were the changes observed in the muscles of the legs. I had expected a strengthening, as the beasts are known for great power and speed, but they also seemed to change color into a dusky brown. This could also be attributed to blood loss from the procedures.
Before the subject expired, I worked applying some known "remedies" for the disease directly to internal organs. Wolfsbane petals applied to the bones seemed to render them brittle, and the ribcage nearly collapsed at the touch. The juice of ripened belladonna berries was pressed directly into the veins, and they could be seen to shrivel behind the flow as it moved through the system. Upon reaching the heart, the major vessels pulled away completely, and subject expired within minutes.
[excerpts]
... In the West, a shadowy fraternity of vampire hunters is believed to be primarily composed of formerly afflicted vampires who have been cured of the disease. According to legend, the Vampire Hunters refuse to reveal the cure to the disease for fear that it may encourage depraved thrill seekers from deliberately infecting themselves.
In the East, the Western tradition of Vampire Hunters is unknown. Vampirism is known to be incurable, and even if it were curable, a cured vampire would be an abomination to be destroyed. Since the disease is infallibly cured if treated within three days, failure to treat oneself after an encounter with a vampire would be considered a deliberate attempt to contract the disease, and a mark of monstrous depravity....
... In Temple doctrine, one ancient tradition holds that, among his many other crimes, Molag Bal, the Father of Monsters, spawned the first vampire upon the corpse of a defeated foe. Several different versions of this story exist, with the foe variously identified as a Daedra Lord, a Temple Saint, or a powerful beast creature. This account of the origin of vampirism is peculiar to Morrowind, appearing nowhere else in Imperial lore. Unfortunately, scholarly inquiry upon this topic is discouraged by the Temple, which controls access to the only substantial collection of historical and cultural records in Morrowind....
... Though the Dunmer believe the disease is incurable, a Buoyant Armigers of former years named Galur Rithari insisted that he was cured of vampirism. Initially imprisoned by the Temple for heresy, he later recanted, was released, and served his final years as a librarian in the Hall of Wisdom in Vivec. It is interesting that previous to his imprisonment for heresy, Rithari had been posted to the Buoyant Armiger garrison at Bal Ur, a pilgrimage site known as the “birthplace of Molag Bal.” (x)
[excerpts]
...The violent antipathy of Morrowind culture toward necromancy ensures that vampires are virtually unknown in Morrowind...
...The Temple does not acknowledge the existence of Western vampire hunting orders. Nonetheless, interviews with Temple officials persuade me that the Dunmer of Morrowind are experienced and knowledgeable in the handling of these menaces. On the other hand, they freely admit that even a large community of vampires might easily escape detection in the remote wastelands, or in the subterranean labyrinths of abandoned strongholds and wizard towers....
...The "ash vampire" of Ashlander legend is not undead. Sorceries and blessings affecting the undead reportedly have no effect on these creatures. No specimen has ever been examined, and no references have ever linked these legends with the known clans of Tamrielic vampires....
...Vvardenfell's three known bloodlines differ greatly in their approach to prey. The Quarra bloodline features exceptional strength and endurance, and attacks in a state of ecstatic frenzy. Aundae vampires are potent spellcasters, seeking to hypnotize victims before feeding, while the swift and agile Berne clan vampires prefer stealth and ambush, first poisoning the victim with a bite, then withdrawing to a safe distance, returning to feed only when the prey has weakened...
...It is supposed that vampirism is contracted from wounds received from a vampire. Since few victims survive vampiric attacks or feedings, the process of contracting the disease is little understood. Some have suggested that victims may willingly submit themselves to the will of a vampire, but no real evidence of this exists....
...During the incubation phase, lasting up to 72 hours, the vampirism disease exhibits no symptoms, and may be cured by general spellcraft or cult blessings. However, during incubation, some victims have reported sleep disturbances and troubling dreams. After symptoms are exhibited, however, the disease is incurable and irreversible.... (x)
To you whom We have seen
Stalking at night by eyes keen
Transcendant of savages
Sating thirst sans avarice
Your coffers stay stuffed
By social graces robust
None know your nature;
save Us
None share your fate;
save Us
None welcome you as kin;
save Us
On Our Order:
Know first that we are no simple tribe of savages, tearing throats with the orgiastic abandon of our scattered, tribal brethren. Ours is a civil fraternity, to which we are bound - every one - by our dual hunger for flesh and influence. By the virtue of Imperial structure and bureaucracy, Cyrodiil has become our stronghold in the third era, and we suffer no savage rivals within our boundaries, reveal ourselves to none, and manipulate the hand of society to mete out our agendas.
On Our Dual Patrons:
To Kin-father Molag Bal, who brought forth the Bloodmatron Lamae to spite Arkay, we owe our existence, as do all vampires, though not all honor Him. For him we revel in the feast, and acknowledge the gift adrift in our veins.
To patron Clavicus Vile, beacon o’er our affairs, we owe our successes and social stature. Our bond with Vile makes us unique among our kind, for his guidance steels our savage craving with reason and savvy. For him we live amidst mankind, and twist them to our will from offices of power.
On Our Rivals:
Most barbaric tribes think themselves powerful by the gift of Bal’s blood alone, and squander the gift. There are those, however, who show signs of enlightenments, and earn our attention - those such as the Glenmoril Wyrd, who live within the walls of Breton cities, or the Whet-Fang sodality of Black Marsh, who use magicka to keep captives catatonic and harvest from them the red nectar. These foes may one day threaten to impugn our sovereignty within the boundaries of Cyrodiil, thus compelling our vigilance. Should any encroach upon our dominion, our wrath must be swift and total.
On Our Conduct:
To preserve our ideals and way of life, two primary edicts shall be observed. Above all, reveal thyself and our Order to no other, for discretion is the greatest of our virtues. Do not feed where you may be found out, or on those who may suspect your passing. Avoid daylight by lifestyle; dispel common belief in our kind, and maintain supple appearance through satisfaction of the thirst. Second, devote your pursuits to the procurement of influence, political and otherwise. Our strength is not in physical numbers, but in skillful manipulation of society. Always be mindful of our Patrons, and preserve the Order. Devote yourself to these ideals always, and the Order shall count you amongst our own. (x)
The moons and stars were hidden from sight, making that particular quiet night especially dark. The town guard had to carry torches to make their rounds; but the man who came to call at my chapel carried no light with him. I came to learn that Movarth Piquine could see in the dark almost as well as the light - an excellent talent, considering his interests were exclusively nocturnal.
One of my acolytes brought him to me, and from the look of him, I at first thought he was in need of healing. He was pale to the point of opalescence with a face that looked like it had once been very handsome before some unspeakable suffering. The dark circles under his eyes bespoke exhaustion, but the eyes themselves were alert, intense, almost insane.
He quickly dismissed my notion that he himself was ill, though he did want to discuss a specific disease.
"Vampirism," he said, and then paused at my quizzical look. "I was told that you were someone I should seek out for help understanding it."
"Who told you that?" I asked with a smile.
"Tissina Gray."
I immediately remembered her. A brave, beautiful knight who had needed my assistance separating fact from fiction on the subject of the vampire. It had been two years, and I had never heard whether my advice had proved effective.
"You've spoken to her? How is her ladyship?" I asked.
"Dead," Movarth replied coldly, and then, responding to my shock, he added to perhaps soften the blow. "She said your advice was invaluable, at least for the one vampire. When last I talked to her, she was tracking another. It killed her."
"Then the advice I gave her was not enough," I sighed. "Why do you think it would be enough for you?"
"I was a teacher once myself, years ago," he said. "Not in a university. A trainer in the Fighters Guild. But I know that if a student doesn't ask the right questions, the teacher cannot be responsible for his failure. I intend to ask you the right questions."
And that he did. For hours, he asked questions and I answered what I could, but he never volunteered any information about himself. He never smiled. He only studied me with those intense eyes of his, committing every word I said to memory.
Finally, I turned the questioning around. "You said you were a trainer at the Fighters Guild. Are you on an assignment for them?"
"No," he said curtly, and finally I could detect some weariness in those feverish eyes of his. "I would like to continue this tomorrow night, if I could. I need to get some sleep and absorb this."
"You sleep during the day," I smiled.
To my surprise, he returned the smile, though it was more of a grimace. "When tracking your prey, you adapt their habits."
The next day, he did return with more questions, these ones very specific. He wanted to know about the vampires of eastern Skyrim. I told him about the most powerful tribe, the Volkihar Clan, paranoid and cruel, whose very breath could freeze their victims' blood in the veins. I explained to him how they lived beneath the ice of remote and haunted lakes, never venturing into the world of men except to feed.
Movarth Piquine listened carefully, and asked more questions into the night, until at last he was ready to leave.
"I will not see you for a few days," he said. "But I will return, and tell you how helpful your information has been."
True to his word, the man returned to my chapel shortly after midnight four days later. There was a fresh scar on his cheek, but he was smiling that grim but satisfied smile of his.
"Your advice helped me very much," he said. "But you should know that the Volkihar have an additional ability you didn't mention. They can reach through the ice of their lakes without breaking it. It was quite a nasty surprise, being grabbed from below without any warning."
"How remarkable," I said with a laugh. "And terrifying. You're lucky you survived."
"I don't believe in luck. I believe in knowledge and training. Your information helped me, and my skill at melee combat sealed the bloodsucker's fate. I've never believed in weaponry of any kind. Too many unknowns. Even the best swordsmith has created a flawed blade, but you know what your body is capable of. I know I can land a thousand blows without losing my balance, provided I get the first strike."
"The first strike?" I murmured. "So you must never be surprised."
"That is why I came to you," said Movarth. "You know more than anyone alive about these monsters, in all their cursed varieties across the land. Now you must tell me about the vampires of northern Valenwood."
I did as he asked, and once again, his questions taxed my knowledge. There were many tribes to cover. The Bonsamu who were indistinguishable from Bosmer except when seen by candlelight. The Keerilth who could disintegrate into mist. The Yekef who swallowed men whole. The dread Telboth who preyed on children, eventually taking their place in the family, waiting patiently for years before murdering them all in their unnatural hunger.
Once again, he bade me farewell, promising to return in a few weeks, and once again, he returned as he said, just after midnight. This time, Movarth had no fresh scars, but he again had new information.
"You were wrong about the Keerilth being unable to vaporize when pushed underwater," he said, patting my shoulder fondly. "Fortunately, they cannot travel far in their mist form, and I was able to track it down."
"It must have surprised it fearfully. Your field knowledge is becoming impressive," I said. "I should have had an acolyte like you decades ago."
"Now, tell me," he said. "Of the vampires of Cyrodiil."
I told him what I could. There was but one tribe in Cyrodiil, a powerful clan who had ousted all other competitors, much like the Imperials themselves had done. Their true name was unknown, lost in history, but they were experts at concealment. If they kept themselves well-fed, they were indistinguishable from living persons. They were cultured, more civilized than the vampires of the provinces, preferring to feed on victims while they were asleep, unaware.
"They will be difficult to surprise," Movarth frowned. "But I will seek one out, and tell you what I learn. And then you will tell me of the vampires of High Rock, and Hammerfell, and Elsweyr, and Black Marsh, and Morrowind, and the Summerset Isles, yes?"
I nodded, knowing then that this was a man on an eternal quest. He wouldn't be satisfied with but the barest hint of how things were. He needed to know it all.
He did not return for a month, and on the night that he did, I could see his frustration and despair, though there were no lights burning in my chapel.
"I failed," he said, as I lit a candle. "You were right. I could not find a single one."
I brought the light up to my face and smiled. He was surprised, even stunned by the pallor of my flesh, the dark hunger in my ageless eyes, and the teeth. Oh, yes, I think the teeth definitely surprised the man who could not afford to be surprised.
"I haven't fed in seventy-two hours," I explained, as I fell on him. He did not land the first blow or the last. (x)
“Oh, they live in Riften. It’s why I came here instead of somewhere…” Dev paused, searching for a way to describe the city that wasn’t insulting. Finding none, she continued, “..that smells less of wet shit. No offense, of course, if you call the place your home. It’s just… it’s not pleasant on the nose.”
Tarlok laughed, loudly. “If you think this is bad, you should try sleeping next to a troll pen,” he laughed and looked over at her.
As they walked through the gates into Riften, Tarlok eyed her over once more before he cleared his throat. “You want me to walk you home, or would you rather we split up here?” he asked with slightly raised eyebrows, quietly hoping she’d agree to the first option.
“First time I ever saw a vamp was about fifteen years ago. I was sent with two other guys to get someone outta a house they weren’t payin’ to stay in,” Thaer began, leaning back in his chair to get more comfortable, balancing on the back two legs of the chair as he did.
“We got there late afternoon, an’ no one’s wantin’ to answer the door. Finally, some sickly lookin’ Breton opens up, eyes bloodshot, face paler’n death. We figured he had been hittin’ the skooma an’ booze or somethin’. Nah – he was a damn vampire. He got all sort’a pissed off when we told him he had to leave, an’ he attacked us. But it was three on one an’ vampire or not, he didn’t stand a chance.”
The mer leaned the chair back on all four legs before shrugging his shoulders.
“We were prolly lucky. Had we gone at night, I doubt we would’a gotten outta there without some sorta injuries. So I ain’t ever hunted ‘em on purpose, no… but I ain’t opposed to learnin’.”
Tarlok listened intently and nodded or took a gulp of ale every once in a while, knowing all too well how desperate vampires often reacted. He had to agree with Thaer; Luck did seem to play a moderate part of their success.
“Aye, going at night might have gotten some of you killed,” he agreed with a brief nod.
“Most important thing to remember when hunting vampires is that they are excellent hunters, and even better at night. Most of them spend the day hiding from the sun, so that’s the best time to go looking for them,” Tarlok explained as he leaned forward, placing the bottle on the table and propping his elbows on the edge.
“And all that shit about garlic and supposedly holy water is bullshit. If you’re going after a vampire you’ll want to arm yourself with silver and fire, and spells that will affect the undead if you’re into magic.”
As brighter grows light, darker becomes shadow. So it passed that the Daedra Molag Bal looked on Arkay and thought the Aedra prideful of his dominion o’er the death of man and mer, and it was sooth.
Bal, whose sphere is the wanton oppression and entrapment of mortal souls, sought to thwart Arkay, who knew that not man, nor mer, nor beastfolk of all Nirn could escape eventual death. The Aedra was doubtless of his sphere, and so Molag Bal set upon Nirn to best death.
Tamriel was still young, and filled with danger and wondrous magick when Bal walked in the aspect of a man and took a virgin, Lamae Beolfag, from the Nedic Peoples. Savage and loveless, Bal profaned her body, and her screams became the Shrieking Winds, which still haunt certain winding fjords of Skyrim. Shedding a lone droplet of blood on her brow, Bal left Nirn, having sown his wrath.
Violated and comatose, Lamae was found by nomads, and cared for. A fortnight hence, the nomad wyrd-woman enshrouded Lamae in pall for she had passed into death. In their way, the nomads built a bonfire to immolate the husk. That night, Lamae rose from her funeral pyre, and set upon the coven, still aflame. She ripped the throats of the women, ate the eyes of the children, and raped their men as cruelly as Bal had ravished her.
And so; Lamae, (who is known to us as blood-matron) imprecated her foul aspect upon the folk of Tamriel, and begat a brood of countless abominations, from which came the vampires, most cunning of the night-horrors. And so was the scourge of undeath wrought upon Tamriel, cruelly mocking Arkay’s rhythm of life and death through all the coming eras of the et'Ada, and for all his sadness, Arkay knew this could not be undone. (x)
“Course, I’ve passed by it a few times, but never went inside,” Thaer replied, rising a brow as if asking what the big deal was. The Bosmer managed to take a few bites as the stranger continued, but paused when he heard the word vampire.
Thaer looked the man over again, and took note of his armor. The Dawnguard, huh? So this wasn’t just some random guy who wanted to rough up a few thugs for bothering him. This was the real deal. Something… worthwhile.
“Name’s Thaer,” he said, reaching over and holding out a hand for the man to shake. “When do we head out?”
Tarlok half expected the Bosmer to laugh at him and tell him to go bother somebody else, so when Thaer seemed genuinely interested the Halforc offered him a slight look of surprise.
He shook the mer’s hand firmly and introduced himself, “Tarlok.” At the mer’s next question, the Halforc shifted slightly, “As soon as possible, but we have to get there before nightfall,” he replied.
The Halforc seemed to mull something over; he furrowed his brows and whetted his lips, as if getting ready to speak again. “Have you ever hunted vampires before?” he asked.
Thaer had just gently coaxed a half-drunk woman to another table, somewhere far from him so he could enjoy his meal in peace. Unfortunately, by the time he had raised his fork to take a bite, someone else had wandered up to where he sat.
“Do they?” The Bosmer asked, and glanced at Hulda, who shrugged before returning to her work. Thaer set his fork down and let out a sigh. He wasn’t particularly keen on returning to mercenary work, but he could always use the coin and there was no harm in listening.
“What is yer mission, then?”
Tarlok took a few gulps of his own ale before he sat it down on the table and leaned back on the chair. “Ever heard of Broken Fang Cave, here in Whiterun hold?” he asked, avoiding the Bosmer’s question for now. “The Dawnguard has reason to believe it’s a vampire lair, and they want it cleared out,” he paused and looked over at the Bosmer, “and that’s where you come in. I need somebody to watch my back in there, and make sure that none of the vampires get out.”
“I will pay you handsomely for the efforts, of course,” the halforc added a moment later, in an attempt to sweeten the deal.
The Dawnguard had sent him to clear out a cave in Whiterun hold they had heard would be infested with vampires. They were right. After initial inspection, Tarlok had decided he would need help in guarding the entrance to make sure none of the vampires within got out once he went in.
He had asked around town for a mercenary, preferably an archer, and most had pointed him in the direction of the Drunken Huntsman or the Bannered Mare. At the Huntsman he had been turned down, the owner saying they didn’t do jobs like that anymore, and with that Tarlok bid the mer farewell and left the building.
Tarlok entered the Bannered Mare, looking around as he approached Hulda and leaned on the counter as he asked the lady a few questions. The woman laughed an dpointed him in the direction of a lonely Bosmer in one of the corners, and Tarlok ordered two ale and thanked the woman.
“People in town seem to think you can help me with a mission of mine,” the Halforc said once he was closer to Thaer’s table and offered him one of the ales before he sat down.
Shit.
She really needed to learn to keep her mouth shut. Especially when she was both irritated and frustrated at situations beyond her control.
“I had some trouble back home,” Dev replied with a shrug, as if it was no big deal. “It was a big misunderstanding. I came to Skyrim to visit my cousin, get some fresh air. Start over and all that. So far, my vacation hasn’t gone quite as planned.”
Tarlok looked at her with a bit of concern etched onto his face and furrowed his brows. At her next remark the half-orc let out a short laugh, “I’d be concerned if it had,” he told her.
He wanted to ask what sot of trouble she had experienced, but figured it was none of his business, and if she had wanted him to know she would have told him. “You said you came here to visit your cousin. Where do they live?” he asked and looked over at her.
“So do well-fed vampires tend to avoid cities, then? Or are they… I mean, they can’t live among normal people, can they?” Even as he said it, Olo realized just how incredibly dumb he sounded. Of course they were likely capable of living around everyone else. That was a good way to survive - just make it seem like you were normal. “I mean… I assume they would have some difficulty merging with mortals.”
As the Agent continued, the guard made a mental note to look into a silver weapon of sorts. Perhaps just a dagger for now, just in case. At the sight of another person, Olo tensed, but handed off his torch and awaited a signal, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
When it seemed to be just a false alarm, Olo was a mix between relieved and disappointed. On the one hand, he didn’t actually want to face a vampire. On the other, he felt like he needed to prove himself - and the other guards - competent at their job.
Olo was looking towards the cemetery when he noticed an extra pair of footsteps joining theirs. He quickly turned to look towards the source, and his eyes widened at the sight of a figure in a tattered guard’s uniform. Not wanting to jump to conclusions, however, and trusting Tarlok would have his back should things turn sour, Olo took a step forward.
“Most well-fed vampires do live in close proximity to humans, sometimes closer than you’d think. Most vampires living in the cities are old and have learned how to stay off the radar,” Tarlok told him. “The older they are, the harder it is to tell what they are, because they hardly react to sunlight and can just walk about willy nilly whenever they fucking please.”
As the figure approached them Tarlok was sniffing the air and had to muffle a low growl from escaping him but remained rooted in place just behind Olo. The man in the guard’s uniform was so fixed on Olo he didn’t notice Tarlok until he was almost within arm’s length of the Imperial, and by then it was already too late.
By the time Tarlok could react, the creature had lunged towards Olo and grabbed him by the sash of his armor, seeing him as a meal and a possible bartering chip. Tarlok reached out and grabbed the vampire by the wrist, squeezing and twisting it harder and harder until it let go of the Imperial with a angry hiss. "Hiss on this,” The half-orc growled and smashed a fist into its gut causing it to double over before he yanked the helmet off so Olo could see what they looked like before he pinned both its arms behind its back with one hand and wrapped his other arm around its neck in a crushing headlock. Int he scuffle, he had dropped the torch which was now laying on the ground close to Olo’s feet.
“Bring the torch over, and you’ll see what I told you about” Tarlok said, feeling the feral straining against him but to no avail and the werebear growled a threat into its ear that seemed to make it ease its squirming.
