“Divines, could someone, anyone, shut her up!” One of the Dawnguard soldiers hissed.
“We can’t knock her out again, it’s too risky!” One of his companions said, his voice wracked with despair. “We’ve already done it three times. One more might kill her.”
There was a pause as all of the kidnappers reminisced on the blessed moments where their captive was unconscious. Those sweet, beautiful moments of silence, free of the grating song that had been ringing in their ears non-stop.
On the ground Athel lay. Beaten, bound, but not defeated. The ropes dug into her wrists, continually introducing Magicka poison in her bloodstream.
Gagged with a rag she may have been, but that didn’t stop her from determinedly driving her captors insane with the only weapon she had left.
No amount of cloth could stop her from humming ‘Ragnar the Red’. Thus, she did so. Over, and over. And over.
One of the Dawnguard soldiers buried his face in his hands.
It had started so innocently, but the damned elf was still going. How long had it been? Weeks? Months? (About 2 and a half days, actually.)
The kidnapping hand’t been too hard. She was drunk. Actually drunk, that time. Disable the magic and the ability to Shout and this so-called “Dragonborn” was defenceless.
Get the elf, drag her to a nearby cave, prepare an ambush, and send word to the vampire, luring it to where they lay in wait. That was a nice, simple, plan. With that, they’d finally have the vampire menace in their custody...
Rapsy, wavering, but still continuing, ‘Ragnar the Red’s tune echoed throughout the cave.
...But Divines, at what cost?
