Dwemer

Quest 4: Two Sides Of The Septim 🪙

Estimated Reading Time: 17 Minutes | Word Count: 4,820

Loading Screen… The city of Old Fort is built entirely inside a mountain, with a wall fortification on the perimeter. Safe from the harms of the region of Dwemeria, where rogue Dwemer machines roam around the yellow brick road…

Soundtrack of Cyberim: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4zSiOs4keAmfpo6mnJMd1v?si=8b35b7dd4bc64316

Reading MusicSpotify

Load Last Save (Krest, Imperial, Quest 3): https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/d/p/4400000000003629081

Cyberim - Quest 3: Baguette-Stick | FandomQuest 3: Baguette-Stick 🍞 Estimated Reading…elderscrolls.fandom.com

~ § ó § ò § ~

“Read the tag then wake him up. I’m too tired to deal with this bullshit.”

“Could be worse. You could be reading the insane, idiotic ramblings of Mikhael Karkuxor,” said the distinctive voice of Ancano.

Krest felt a breeze and shivered, curling into himself, sandwiching his hands between his thighs. The wind chittered in hollow tones, whispering nihilistic nothings.

“Krest, do you have any contacts? Other Praetorians?” Rikke was shaking him. “If he can’t take the prisoner, we’ll need someone else too.”

Nah, it’s only me, the memory became lucid. Fuck the rest of them. They all betrayed me.

He felt a presence crouch down upon him. "Wake up, sleeping beauty. We’re on a timer.” Krest got up, pushing fingers through his hair, yawning. “Why’d you faint?” Ancano lend a hand and yanked him up. The Thalmor’s friendliness was not expected, and Krest stared at him awhile.

The chamber they were currently resting outside of was full of pale crates, roped barrels, battered wooden boxes and a few benches. It had a high ceiling and was rather spacious. Metallic bars cemented to the front of the expanse, nordic guards patrolling the hallway him, Rikke, and Ancano were in. Krest reconnoitered at the assembly loaded of several bandits, viking raiders, and other criminals.

He rubbed his aching skull.

Ancano leaned against the bars of fine metallurgy. “Our man is tucked in the corner.”

"An exhibitionist,” drawled Rikke with a smirk. “We’ve deemed him the fallen angel for now, since he fell from the sky. Though he looks more like a brute and less an angel.”

Ancano pinched the bridge of his nose. "Get him to Nordenbjorg. I’ll inform my superiors after that.”

Krest tapped the Nord legate’s shoulder, indicating the cell lock. She held her hand to the scanner, unlocking it for him.

“Wait.” Ancano stood up, shutting the gate. “I need to inform you of Skyrim a bit more before I send you off by yourself into the wilderness.” The elf steepled his fingers. “We’re in Old Fort, a massive indoor city in the Jerall Mountains above Dwemeria. Dwemeria is one of Skyrim's five holds.”

"This is the southernmost kingdom, bordering Cyrodill, to the south. It is called Dwemeria due to the high influence of Dwemer ruins here, not to mention the fact that their automatons scour over this hold, making it unsafe to leave the walls of Old Fort." Rikke crossed her arms in agreement. “Also, beware the hostile Orc and Trolloc tribes that scour the land in Malacath’s name. They have Goblins, Rieklings, and Wargs as companions.”

"Skyrim is divided between five holdings, each with only one massive walled or otherwise enclosed city to prevent monsters from getting in. People who stray outside the walls usually die and so there are no minor settlements you’ll find. Old Fort is the city of Dwemeria, the southern holding which also ties into the west. The Hearthlands are in the center, with Hrothgar, the city on the Throat of the World. Haafinheim, the crystal kingdom, which lies to the north-northwest and its capital is Nordenbjörg. The Old-Hold, a giant iceberg kingdom attached to the land is the north-easternmost and its crowning jewel is Ocearan, the underwater city. To the southeast we have the giant golden forest called New Mereth, the capital city there is a colossal tree imported from Valenwood as a seedling, thousands of years ago called Jattewood," Ancano finally finished. “You’ll have to be careful in Nordenbjorg, it’s not part of the Empire. An informant will meet you outside the main gates, you can trust her.”

What a geography lesson. Krest shoved his hands in his pockets. His dark insets glowed blue as he resorbed inward to access datafiles pertinent to the province. He found one, logged by another Praetorian who died out in the snow wastes years ago. An Altmer called Bretagne Verashesher.

Frozen and cold, monsters roaming the land on the hunt for anyone outside the walls of the five cities. Bandits, thieves, vermin, vikings and worse lurking around, and corrupt politicians, priests, and jarls inside the walls. Not to mention home to arguably the biggest prison in the world where they only send the worst of the worst, Old Fort. And now they are saying they have spotted a few dragons resurfacing on the horizon. There's a reason it has the lowest population in all of the tamrielic provinces. Around one million.

“So, who do the Thalmor think the prisoner is?” Rikke’s eyes arched towards Ancano.

Ancano shuddered as if death itself had just touched him. "The Devil himself.”

Krest scowled, confused.

Rikke drowsed audibly, "perhaps it’s a Divine. They’re weaker on Nirn. Without worship they're powerless, and metaphorically nonexistent, forgotten. Maybe the other Divines banished him. Which begs the question why are they called gods then?" She rubbed her chin. “If they’re flawed and vulnerable. More like heightened beings.”

"Want my theory?" A line furrowed down Ancano's haut cheekbones.

No. Krest was leveling a flat stare at the pair until they noticed.

Rikke caught his glance and quickly reverted the subject, “oh, sorry. — Patrolman, get the prisoner.” She snapped her fingers.

A muscly Nord outfitted in chainmail and pelts opened the cell flap and traced his way to the back. “You there, I want you by the bars, you're being moved. Any funny business and I’ll gut you like a fish.”

Ancano's trapezius rose and fell, a line drawing itself upward upon his handsome visage. “He’s quite the interesting looking fellow.” The solidus curved into a full-fledged grin.

Krest swallowed the thick stream of saliva entangled in his throat. A shady figure took a few cautious steps towards the barred doorway, making sure to sidestep along the mist to avoid the glares of the other prisoners. — From here Krest could discern there were more than just the average mountain native, but also some Naga bandits and Ohmes criminals, surprisingly enough. Krest saw it then, the dual pair of snake-stripped violet. A Nord man, he wore some adornment of Imperial-Dragon Armor without the helmet. He had a short Septim-style undercut like Jarl Tullius and a dark goatee that blended with the rest of his face. He was a few inches taller and more muscular than Krest. He seemed a stereotypical hero from the songbooks of old. The type that courted many women, slain many men and monsters, and downed much mead. Very masculine and powerful.

“You sure he won’t gut you like a fish?” Ancano jested at the guard.

“Shut your mouth, elf.”

Good thing he’s a prisoner then, Krest rolled his eyes, noting the chain-links around the man’s wrists. If I’m not careful this man might overpower me.

Rikke took hold of the prisoner’s arm and led him down the passage to their right, into more shadows and out of sight from the congregation. Ancano and Krest lazily followed her.

“Still think you can handle him?” Ancano questioned in a jibe. “Maybe you two will get along, since you’re both mute.”

The powerfully built northerner seemed to fall in line with Rikke’s instructions. There wasn’t any hint of unknown power he was withholding. Krest itched at his temple. They padded past different oubliettes than he’d originally seen, much junkier and unclean.

“A majority of Skyrim’s prisoners are sent here,” added Ancano as they lingered.

Ascending stairs, carving their way through the landing. At last, they made it to the shabby old wooden door to the Warden's Office.

"Wait out here.” Rikke smacked aside the worn, old door. “I’ll be a while.” She took the exile of paradise with her.

“There aren’t any trains running to Nordenbjorg unfortunately, so you’ll have to walk,” Ancano pointed out dutifully when Krest eyed the crowd of people at the lower level waiting for a steam engine.

Krest ignored him and walked down the stone steps, sitting down on a bench, and observing the workings of Skyrim’s underground railroad. A group of mostly blond-haired Nords loitered around, waiting on the trains to Bruma and Kreath; the northernmost cities of Cyrodiil. The tunneled area formed of many cubits across had a grey make with Nordic inscriptions etched on the walls.

“Man, it’s so cold,” a Nord mentioned to his associate who looked plainly disinterested.

A Dwarven sphere rolled past, holding up its arm to accept people’s tickets before the arrival of the locomotive.

An echoing rumbled down the parapeted tunnel. The passengers stood back as their chariot neared though one young woman stood precariously close to the edge. Krest had the urge to stand up and pull her back. She’ll be fine, don’t try and be a hero. You’ll just make a fool of yourself, and she’ll just think you’re an idiot.

The train shot into the station and in the span of a single second, blood and guts flew into the air as the marvel of machinery slowed to a halt. Screams bouncing off the domed train station. The girl who’d been teetering near the corner gone. Krest wiped a speck of blood from his cheek, staring fixed on the point the woman had jumped.

“Khudkhushi,” a Redguard mourned, his Anu’s apple bobbing noticeably.

“By Talos, not this again. These train suicides are becoming a shority.” One man threw his hands in the air as the others around him appeared disgruntled.

Krest ogled the droplet of the lady’s blood on his finger, lost in the desperate redness of it. What he didn’t understand most wasn’t why she did it, but rather why he was envious of her?

A few minutes later he slumped back up to where Ancano was waiting as a crew of mechanics and Dwarven robots hustled past him to clean up the remains.

“They’re apathetic because of how common it is,” Ancano answered his unspoken question.

Krest heard some voices and the shuffling of papers in Rikke’s chambers, the scanning of beepers inside the lodging. She stepped out soon enough and handed the burly prisoner back to him, an electrical collar was on the man’s throat. She gave Krest a switch which he pocketed.

“I’m going to go confirm something with Elenwen.” Ancano exited out back into the hallway as Krest took a right into the train station and Rikke retreated to her quarters.

Krest and his quarry made their descent, cracking open the vaulted door and pouring out into a sea of blizzards…

Blue frosted hillsides with a glowing mountain lake full of glittering crescents and fire water. Hail and winds strong enough to knock him over assaulted the whitened peaks of southern Skyrim. The grey sky split with the orange-pinkish seams that shone over them, providing a singular ray of heat.

Krest’s teeth chattered as he rubbed his arms against his fur armor. The inmate didn’t so much as twitch. So, this is the guy who Akatosh banished from heaven. Krest thought of being back in the Niben under the scorching heat of the sun, tightening his cloak around his shoulders.

A clanking noise and grating metal sounded behind them. They spun around and saw the door to Old Fort crack open, Ancano slithering out. “On second thought, I’ve been given orders to join you. Can’t take any risks now!”

Krest’s heartbeat cooled a bit as he backed away. He stole a glance at the massive structure of the mountain-lodged fortress of Old Fort, eyelids widening the more he tried to frame it in one shot. -- Old Fort appeared to be ancient, however it still stood strong with thick towering walls that reached to the grey skies and challenged the sierras in girth. It seemed to be constructed from irregular though enormous porphyry blocks fitted together without seam or mortar. It was impregnable. The whole thing was fitted into the mountain behind it, proving that the interior of the purely indoor metropolitan was guarded by Mother Nature, Kynareth herself.

“To see a world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wildflower. Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour,” recited Ancano. “Kairos.”

It looks too unreal to be made by men. He kept gazing up its scarlet rises until he keeled over into the powdery snow.

Ancano pulled him up by the collar. Krest shook him off. "We need to leave before we freeze,” the High Elf clicked, trudging his way through the snow, picking up his feet and stomping them in as he went. Krest pushed the prisoner ahead of him, keeping a wary eye fixed on the convict.

He could make out the image of Falmer tribes leagues away descending the mountainside in haste, thrashing sleet everywhere. Melts of snow falling like tsunamis. No Orcs or Dwarven machinery though, so that’s good – I guess.

"Think we’ll run into a dragon?” Ancano chuckled but the sun prisoner’s head perked up at that joke.

Krest sloshed through the ice sheets to catch up to him, shoving the muscly Nord to not dawdle. Bustling down the snowy hills into the frosted crags and frozen, winding fjords resembling cracks in the net beneath them. Krest shuddered in the open snowed-in countryside. Gelid icicles hung likened to bats off pink-leaved trees that danced in the unforgiving hell, ill rooted shrubbery from an antediluvian age taunted him as it whipped in the steamy, foggy wind. He spotted a river that was completely frozen. It’s only Last Seed and everything here is already looking like it's the middle of winter. They kept peddling down the rock outlined path, canvassed betwixt a ravine in which the icy river was trapped. Frozen corpses sitting on ridges under nature made arches of the pink trees. I’ve never seen leaves this colour.

The mountains ahead shrunk, morphing into snowy hillocks and then into a frosty pine woodland with gold and brass structures gleaming in the snowfall, dotting the landscape amongst a yellow brick road that trailed through the forest that smiled at them wickedly.

"If we don't stop, we can make it prior to nightfall.” The bulbous end of the elf’s nose was red before his expression shifted. "Wait a moment... we'll ski there!"

Krest pursed his lips, sharing a look with the Fallen Angel. The man’s violet eyes with viper pupils unnerved him still.

“These Nords, they fashion wood into flat sticks and use them to ride down mountainous slopes. I've learnt how to as well when I visited Bruma."

Krest pointedly glanced around the fields of paleness, curious if Ancano had been smoking the good stuff back in the prisons.

Ancano sat down into the gelidity, demonstrating his robes' snow-proof abilities. “I’ll summon them. We’re not too far.”

Krest forced the prisoner to sit, standing aside him.

"How about being mute, you two? Describe in detail what that’s like?” The Thalmor grinned.

Krest stared into a ravine which reminded him of the train tracks and the woman who’d jumped.

They waited there for a few minutes, Krest wished he were back inside the warm citadel. He continued to waste away there, feeling the icy chill take away chunks of him as his teeth chittered nonstop, even the fur cape could do so much in this wintery climate. He glimpsed at Ancano, who sat there with his arms hugging his chest, looking every bit as unhappy and uncomfortable as Krest felt. The prisoner seemed unaffected; a weird aura resonating off him. Something weird about this guy, I just don’t know what. Then he snagged something in the corner of his eye -- a snowman. An icy figure, three large balls of snow stacked on one another with sticks for arms and a carrot nose and scarf. It was smiling a crude smile.

Krest carefully approached the monument of the mountain. How’d this get out here?

He squinted through the falling flakes. Something thrusted him to the slushy floor. A few scrawny digits grabbed his throat. The snowman was alive.

It began choking him with all its might and he attempted to punch it, but his weakly-formed fist just went into the snowman and made a dent that did nothing. Then it caught ablaze. Panic marred its features as it melted into a glop of ivory sludge, soaking Krest.

He shrieked as the coolness drenched him like a thousand knives.

Ancano jerked him up by the hem of his robes. "Don't make me babysit you; I am not your mother."

Krest coughed, shaking the snowflakes off him. The prisoner was sending high, piercing shrieks of laughter in the background. It clawed at Krest’s gut; the mused wails of a mute were always nerve-ending.

The noble-faced mer cast a warming charm upon him to block out the water. "A possessed snowman. Some Daedra whose souls are lost wind-up enchanting them and thus, you get these twisted deformities of Phynaster." Ancano spared a glare at the old carrot of the deceased ice-demon that came curdling over to them.

Krest rubbed his throat, still vividly recalling the way the Daedra squeezed his neck with its talons. Had it been Lady Aela’s strong, calloused hands around his throat, choking him to a pulp, he wouldn’t have minded at all. Krest bit down on his lip to suppress a grin at that.

The Fallen Hero pointed at a figure in the distance, up the slope. A guard on a pair of skis was shooting towards them, carrying an elongated casing.

“Aah, thank you, kind sir.” Ancano took the bracket of four skis from him. The Nord in his chainmail and T-shaped helmet scowled in return and hiked back up. Ancano inclined his head and bent down to drag the pair of skis from under the patrol officer's metal-coupling. He used the strap to fasten his shoes on. "Hand me the poles and get the prisoner behind me, you follow us.”

Krest jerked the muscular Nord detainee behind Ancano before glomming the poles down from the metal encasement, handing them over to the elf. He placed each of his feet on one of the skis directly behind Ancano, wrapping his fists onto his spikes. -- Then they were off, coursing down the iced-up terrain. The sun prisoner holding onto Ancano ahead of him. He skid closely behind them.

After about half an hour, the hills digressed into low mounds. The flow of rising and falling frozen panoramas was hypnotizing. He couldn’t help but daydream.

He imagined the sounds of a trumpet and viola. Sloth and vigor mixed. — Some sort of melodic orchestral, playing a gordian but somewhat out of tune, it was high, the median instruments lifting the multi-story notes, holding it secure, and then low. The quiet chapters were on their own, progressing savagely. Not as one though. They were floating all around. The orchestral dropped and became slow, allowing him to sway back and forth. The end of rose-scented ringlets, tightening his chest. It was the music that Nibenese and Redguard-gypsy bands played in the industrial town squares of Chorrol. Tall, dark buildings very different to the shipping cranes and sunny import-ladened docks of the Imperial Isles.

He flipped in the air, toppling over in the blankets of judecca.

Krest lay barefaced in the vapor. Just let me die. The freezing snow burned against his cheeks.

A pair of frosty, metal hooks grabbed him and launched him towards the far reaches of the encroaching pines. Krest hit the ground, his body aching painfully. He hazed up, nose bleeding and blood spiked through his temples. It trickled down his mouth and chin, staining the pure white snow. The same cold hook grasped him by the neck, he felt himself be lifted up off the neige. The sound of steamrolling then his back being pinned against a nearby pine tree. The scythe clasped his throat harder, but he couldn't feel anymore. A Dwarven sphere was holding him. It pulled back a metal fist with its free hand and pummeled it into him. He tried to lift his hand, but the automation just smacked it away, its ugly, metallic likeness peering into him.

The live piece of dwarven artillery snatched its hand back into its socket, a gleaming brass blade replacing it.

Krest glanced down with one eye and saw he was still clasping the ski-tilt. In one second the blade ripped through it, saving his abdomen. Krest’s forearm split open, and a dwarven knife-edge stabbed into the neck of the bronze robot. His left hook clattered its remains beneath the ice, ripping the skin clean off his knuckles. The snow was dyed black with the automaton’s oil.

Something rammed into him. Crashing him into the oil spill. Krest’s body scarring the snow below him.

The pages of destiny spiraled open a little and he caught glimpses of one more thing; irony, this one awry. He was going to die.

Krest coughed and crawled, his head ringing. Something was moving ahead. He pushed his hair away from his line of sight. The locks fell back over his face anyway. Ysgramor’s Timberland was eerily silent, hollow, and appearing empty, like an abandoned house.

Krest saw the violet-eyed prisoner, eyeing him with a twisted, creepy grin. Its catlike pupils dilating. He was holding Ancano’s head. The collar and cuffs restraining him gone.

Krest’s scowl threatened to split his face as he wrenched himself onto his legs, swaying unsteadily, and leaping into the tree like Dagon. The prisoner sped up and broke it, forcing him to land. Krest back kicked and missed. A fist slammed him straight down.

He made a split-second decision as he fell.

Krest’s legs wrapped hard around his enemy’s skull and he brought him down with him, screaming simultaneously.

Fists pounded on either side of Krest’s head. His boot broke straight up the Nord’s nose. A hand choked Krest’s throat ironclad as he shrieked and screeched, birds erupting from trees while he convulsed wildly.

His sword-arm stabbed straight through the Nord’s forearm, and he retched free.

I was born into this world looking for a fight. Krest clenched his fists so tight that his nails dug into his palms. And I haven’t lost one yet. The Nord cocked back a punch and it collided with Krest’s raised elbows, ripping off some of Krest’s skin. Krest grabbed the man’s collar and brought him down to meet his other fist, sending the man motioning upwards. Before he knew it, Krest’s other fist was shattering his teeth as the Nord crashed into the dirt he whence came. Krest foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog as the prisoner spat blood to his side and shakily stood back up.

The prisoner grabbed Krest by both his elbows, rendering him immobile. Krest saw a serpent swimming in his adversary’s purple gaze as the inmate headbutted him hard. Krest backstepped, trying to reorient himself as the dizziness pervaded him.

I refuse. I won’t die by you, you stupid nordic animal.

Krest swung around as the Nord ran at him like a bull. He saw multiples of the sun man as his eyesight dizzied.

DIE, SWINE! He cackled.

Krest cocked back his mantis-blade, ready to drive it into the Nord’s skull. His adversary twisted. A cold fist shot into Krest’s face, sending him.

The air left his lungs as he broke through ice into a freezing pond. He sank below the chest-crushing depths, blackness blotting out his vision. He’d lost the fight. So quickly he barely registered it.

Krest clawed out of the water, half-standing on the dark bank. The Fallen Angel was nowhere to be seen, vanished. He must’ve sent him twenty feet or more. Too bad that didn’t kill me. A weird midget turtle-man chomped onto his elbow. Krest shook as more of them jumped onto him, throwing them off him as his wrists bled. Kappas. He shivered onto the landscape, sprinting deeper and deeper into the sparsely wooded groves transitioning to thicker clusters of frozen forestry. He could swear he saw a few pair of eyes glistening behind the trunks and twisty roots, enlisting him to draw his cloak tighter over himself. They occasionally dipped into a winding chasm or hidden valley, a few vales with alien flora along with gold and mithril deposits. Still bleeding, he knew that night would soon fall upon the woods. A bright sliver of light startled him. Krest looked up to see the golden rays of refrigerated sun consuming the overhead of trees. Glimpsing downcast and dove deeper into the dark forest. A warm stitching of sinew healed his wrists and aches.

He walked around a trove of wildflowers rooted in the snowy soil, thinking hard, adrenaline pumping. What do I tell them now? And what about the monsters? Maybe rubbing some herbs like frankincense or lavender might repel them. Myrrh too.

He spotted a centaur and bolgan having a brawl an hour later as he came out of the first section of woodland. Lake Ilinalta lay here under the canopy of the Bleak Falls Mountain, the coastline lined with thick, pink trees that had dark trunks and logs. Lamias, kitsunes, and scrawny, lanky rat-men discussed in hushed corners as a large frog-man fished, dipping his webbed-flippers into the cool blue lake. The frozen and primeval city of Altanium sat in the center of the lake on a small island. Once a bastion for the Snow Elves before the Ancient Nords froze it, rendering it inaccessible. Krest could still see the remains of Snow Elves captured in ice as he trekked along the coast. The old settlement was quite literally just a massive block of ice in the middle of the loch now.

Those savages of Ysgramor or Harrald must’ve used some sort of Thu’um to freeze those elves alive.

“The Stillborn Divine rises, and the Eight Cowards tremble,” whiskered a rat man as he nibbled on a piece of cheese. “I saw him here earlier. He has returned to his home. To Skyrim.”

“The elves called this place Mereth once. Was it not their home also?” A Lilmothit countered.

“The ancestral spirits of wandering ehlnofey were born here.”

The fox folk cupped his snout. “Debatable, Nishu-Eru Addak. Elves were old elhnofey. You could argue this whole world belongs to them. Besides, their chief deity, Akatosh is honorable and caring. Can your Stillborn Divine say the same?”

“Akatosh is for the weak, meek, and feeble. Lorkhan is for real men who conquer and take what they want,” the rat snickered. “How does a fox such as yourself refuse to understand this, Olessandr? Shor favors foxes.”

“I respect no man who fears the Evil One, Konahrik,” the Kitsune named Olessandr continued, “Akatosh fears no such drake, for he is the Father of drakes as Lorkhan is the father of snakes.” He glanced at the lamias twirling about.

Krest leveled a death stare at the rodent. How was that prisoner so strong? He must be a god. There’s no other explanation. He pulled out the buzzer Rikke had given him to use on the escaped prisoner and tossed it into the inland sea.

“It is the meek who shall inherit the earth. Not the tyrants such as Lorkhan and Pelinal,” the Lilmothit added as a Tsaesci and Avian slithered and flew by respectively.

Krest entered another fray of woods, these ones greener, and arrived upon a glade halfway in that had a dwarven structure, a brass head of a centurion on top of a grey platform with a broken lever.

“Hym hym hymmm, hym hymm, Hym hym hymmm, hm hmm hym hm,” Krest hummed as he skipped a bit into the nature made park.

He was somewhere in the northern reaches of the jarldom of Dwemeria now, having strayed far from the gold road. Dark shadows scoured the great forest basin and highlands with stranded glaciers interspersed. A few frozen-over lakes embedded into the ground as well. He was able to see the peaks of the Dragon's Teeth Mountain still, though the crowding trees covered the rest. Some squirrels climbed the trees, cheeks stuffed with acorns as he laid down into a field of multicolored flowers, some wilted, some blooming. His exhaustion draining him to sleep.

The feelings and memories boiled over the surface. The unrequited turnings and stripped away goals and desires. A past he wouldn’t care to recall now. One that never cared.

An apathetic, cruel, and callous one that should go die. He situated himself comfortably amongst the swaying blossoms.

A few tears slid down his nose and jowl onto the yellow chrysanthemum nearest him.

~ § ó § ò § ~

A/N: Sorry for the delay, but we should be back on track now.

Next Quest: The Crystal Kingdom

Quest 3: Baguette-Stick 🍞

Estimated Reading Time: 20 Minutes | Word Count: 6,000

Loading Screen… Skyrim is divided into Five Kingdoms. Each city-state contains one massive self-contained/governed city. Citizens rarely venture outside the walls due to various monsters patrolling the outlands. Who exactly unleashed these creatures unto the frozen wastes is unknown, though many point to the mythical dragon known as Konahrik the Evil One…

Soundtrack of Cyberim: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4zSiOs4keAmfpo6mnJMd1v?si=uWmbF73cSMCgbvheym09rw

CyberimSpotify

Load Last Save (Krest, Imperial, Quest 2): https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/d/p/4400000000003625458

Cyberim - Quest 2: Robot Boy | FandomQuest 2: Robot Boy 🦾 Estimated Reading Time: 12…elderscrolls.fandom.com

~ § ó § ò § ~

Krest stood there for a few seconds; eyes wide open. The lock of the gate rung behind him, and he closed his eyes, meditating to quell his drumming heartbeat, the feeling of his eyelashes brushing on his cheekbones. The gigantism of the province and surrounding mountainsides was… unexpected. Milk thistle parading the hilltops with giant pink trees. The boulders stacked on one another like a temple built from playing cards. Trees walking, rooting, and uprooting themselves, pouring into the canyons, inlaid with exotic snowy shrubbery being the only other memorandum. The road was paved gold, Dwemer-made. This was the Kingdom of Dwemeria, one of five holdings or fiefdoms in the Norse country. The sun was climbing the sky and had settled into a pink glow, the canvas it sat in a morning-rosy shade of cherry. Bluish long grass poked through snow, dwarven totems and ancient Nordic monoliths garnered hither and thither. Reindeer-bunnies were prancing around nearby on his way down, passing spoiled battlements and worn structures from a bygone epoch. Remnants of Oblivion Gates. He glided down the hillside, towards a group of fairies wasting away outside of a stone fortification, plumaged in blankets of ice and bronze posts and fences. The familiar shuffling whispers of a nirnroot reverberating in his eardrums. Krest paced for what felt like an hour, stalking through an abandoned abbey and stretches of empty, surreally silent woodlands. Streams cornered him on all sides as the leaves of the trees slowly shifted from pink to forest green. Falling pine-needles overhead and blooming chrysanthemums nearby.

Well… Skyrim is quieter than Cyrodiil.

“Aye there, laddie, don’t suppose you’d help an old Gnome such as me-self out of pickle, would ya?”

Krest saw a Gnome, small dwarf-like men with sweeping beards, colourful outfits, and pointy hats. This one in particular was holding a fat piece of bretic bread. — Krest fluttered his lashes in confusion.

“Ah, I’ll take that as a yes.” The Nordic midget joined his hands. “There’s an Ice-Courser in a cave way up yonder. Ya’ know those ice-men who skate real fast over da land? Don’t suppose ya could deliver this baguette ta him, could ya? I’d reward ya with a few gold septims.”

Krest blinked blankly before kicking the garden-pest into the bank. The Gnome thrashed under a pile of washed-out frozen water, his small pack flapping wide and spraying its contents onto the cold ground. One item snared Krest’s eye — a book; ebony, with the silver dragon symbol of the Empire emblazoned upon it. Krest picked it up and dusted the flakes off it, turning the pages.

The Book of the Dragonborn

Could it be?

He paged through it, continuing his stroll to his destination to the melancholic grumblings of the Gnome who was grasping himself out. — The tome went into detail about archaic Alessian emperors and their blood-pact with Akatosh, Father-Time. Apparently, once an era or so Akatosh blessed a chosen woman or man with the soul, blood, and powers of a Dragon, in times of great strife. The known Dragonborn were: Miraak Wyrmtongue of the Pre-Historic Era who defeated Alduin, Alessia Perrif of the First Era who stood up to her elven oppressors, Reman Cyrodiil also known as Reymon Ebonarm of the Second Era who started the Dragonguard, Talos Stormcrown of the Third Era who united Tamriel. The Dragonborn of the Fourth Era, according to the book, was supposed to be the final one, destined to defeat the Shezarrine at the end of all time.

The prophecy read: When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world. When the Brass Tower walks, and Time is reshaped. When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles. When the Dragon-Blooded Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower fails. When the Snow Tower lies sundered, divided, bleeding… The Shezarrine is banished from Heaven, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn.

What if… what if I’m the Last Dragonborn and I just don’t know it yet? An inkling of solace, of specialty, of mattering resonated with him. He quite fancied the idea of being so significant. After all, why shouldn’t it be me? The feeling of confidence flooded him, and he stood straighter, strutting with a newfound bravado. His childish aspirations returning.

There were dried clay high-rises on the elongated strands of bluish frosted-over grass and a crumbling Nordic mortar close by. He wandered along the curving orchards and antique vineyards. Brambles and virgules of thick trees, golden apples hanging off them, the smell puissant. A thoroughfare sloshed down a manmade stream up top, transporting chopped forestry to the city of Old Fort, tucked away further ahead inside the mountain. A few birds chirping and singing in the branches, moles scurrying with the rat-men. The smaller trees had purple bobbles of grapes that hung from the tall plants like ringlets of hair. — Krest trailed for what felt like eons through the various thickening plantations and curvature of the rising Northern Jeralls. The ‘Rat-men’ that watched from the trees had twitchy noses, snickering down on wedges of cheese. Tall and gangly they were. He saw crests nestled with vivid-blue mountain lakes and rockslides cemented from aureate. Though finally, Krest saw the city entrance lodged into the mountain. Walking toward the primary gate to the bastion, snowy plants waving and whipping his way, as if nature itself was trying to prevent him from entering.

Dataflow returned as the net signals increased. Extenuating the waves out-of-bounds must be difficult for Imperial data-miners to say the least.

Rain turned hail slowly pattered the ground. The city was inside the mountains, thus protected from harsh weather and monsters alike. Krest shivered, wrapping his cloak tightly around himself as the vault door arose. The aqueduct above connected into the city. The timber entering Old Fort and being sorted to the indoor lumbermills where no doubt lumberjacks would convert them into paper and building blocks.

Nords stood inside a steel chamber. Shaped like a jail. A broken snow-elven wayshrine on the left-hand side. A cozy cobbled dungeon with various shield-checks, celled doorways, a few goat-horned candles acting as braziers to light up the dark area and a golden statute of Dibella by a table near the exit into the actual enclosure. Aside from him there were others attempting to get into the haven. A family of three and a group of priestesses, all of which were drenched or iced over from the elements of the outdoor alps. A group of Khajiit caravanners and Redguard gypsies doused in ice water. One of the catmen was using a flute to charm a snake in an upbeat and catchy tune.

The green scaled grooves ridged in the python’s rind, coiling and floating upwards to the music. Its eyes poisonous and forked tongue licking its lips. Snakehead rocking back and forth, swaying side-to-side. Gyrating on the floor.

He snapped out of the trance, shaking his head before blowing his nose on his sleeve.

"Don’t dawdle, ladies," called who Krest assumed was the Head Priestess of the Dibellan order judging by the droops of grey hair that stuck out her hood.

“Mother Hamal, I don’t understand why Dibella requested Saadia to tell us to move sanctuaries?” The youngest disciple said, crossing her arms in clear annoyance.

"Sybil Saadia wouldn’t lie, Fjotra," answered Hamal as they lined up more formerly within the queue.

"I heard Saadia fled her home of Hammerfell when she was young. Who's to say she's not betraying us too." The youngest priestess, Fjotra leant on one hip.

"Shut your trap.” Hamal’s frown fell further. Her robes had an image of a nymph with flowers for hands upon it.

Krest rubbed his eyes as a few friendly mudcrabs scuttled by the black bend. Why are they moving locations? He followed the procession up to the archway entrance where two guards stood watch. They wore Viking-style helmets wrapped in furs with crude axes and round shields with the city sigil of a lamb imprinted on them.

"Before entering we need your names, please," stated the Nord guard noisily. "No exceptions. We've been informed of some criminals on the loose." He glared pointedly at the Khajiit. “No Orcs and Bandits allowed.”

Poor Orcs. Apparently Old Fort was not only a city but also a supermax asylum for Tamriel’s worst prisoners.

The family of three all stated their names and entered, shadowed by the babble of holy women. Krest stridden, showing the wire makeup in his part-metallic, part-flesh arms.

"Praetorian? But you’re just a boy…” The guardsmen penned something down on his clipboard and parchment. “Write your name and number.” The Nord handed Krest the form, sniffling under his handlebar mustache. Krest briefly pondered whether the facial hair might be fake or not.

Armilius, Krest, #616, he wrote.

"Check in and find a room if you’re tired.” The Nord's disturbing muttonchops and moustache flickered. “Once we’ve verified your information, you can have the detainee.”

As Krest ambled into the metropolitan, dodging a few more patrols, he saw several huntsmen, all Nords, ahead of him, carrying game they had killed whilst chatting excitedly amongst themselves.

"Did either of you see that great big beast fly out of the sun?" One of them hauling an elk asked. He had a great bear pelt draped over his shoulders and a garb made from the skin of dead animals. “You know, a week back?”

"Yea, that was so bizarre mayn, thought I musta been drunk fur uh moment," the other whose beard was braided with beads reacted. “They sey the mayn it expelled is here in tha city, since it landed on the foregrounds outside! Newspapers haven’t shut up about it, even the Thalmor down in Summerset are restless concerning it.”

The city of Old Fort bore an oak and mossy-brown finish and was very much of Deep-Elven and Ehlnofeic make. An indoor paradise comprised of bronze halls, waterfalls cascading through the decor. There was a vaulted, translucent ceiling. Empty synagogues of Talos with rows of benches, partitioned by aisles, vicars incanting several rites and sprinkling holy water in places. Their royal vestments sweeping the floors. Waterways into parts unknown flowing beneath the shaggy scrawls of finer echelons of society. Imperial soldiers marching through with red banners.

Krest strolled out into the all-but abandoned four-square that came into view ahead of him. A terraced fall that dropped into a bright pool below. Synthetic farms of grain and vegetation tiered in corners, fragrances of saffron inhaling into his lungs. Krest could see three other doors, presumably lockboxes of their own on each corner of the four-squared room at the corresponding ends of the balustrade. Deeper down a mining and oil depot drilled into undiscovered sections of the ever-hollowing summit. Short impish Nords, nicknamed ‘Dwarves’ (Gnomes) went in and came out with carts of silver and an abundance of other ores. Named after the Elven Dwarves of Old. They were basically just a subrace of Nords who were stockier and shorter with thicker beards, sort of like how halflings were just short Bretons.

"Welcome." Krest shifted and saw a Dwarven robot in a granite billet behind a barred opening. "The inn is that way.” It pointed back where Krest came from. He noted there was no door in and out of its prison, meaning the robot was an inmate serving time.

Krest undid a knot in his hair, disclosing black filaments in his temple.

The Unit denunciated, "reload that. Do not tango to the bougie— or the inner-city police and you shall be fine.” The Robot deemed Unit 24601 handed him a key. “Now, delta the fuck out of my face,” it computed before turning its head. “Unless you wish for termination…?”

Krest took it and paid the till, sidestepping a few jail cells.

“Oh, look, an Imperial in a Nord prison. Thou’lt shalt wilt and weep ‘neath the mushroom caps,” the Dunmer whose name was Valen Dreth according to the inscription recited, “tween moss and an elephant’s ear.”

Krest saw another man through a cell, this one in a strait jacket and tied to a chair. "Everything's for sale, my friend! EVERYTHING! If I had a sister, I'd sell her in a second! WELCOME TO BELETHOR'S GENERAL GOODS! WELCOME INDEED!” A sign posted to ‘Belethor’s’ allotment said, Belethor Lionhart, renowned serial killer.

Why am I even alive.

Krest exhaled and limbered past glass windowing into the underwater section of the city full of luminescent liquid. Glowing passages dotted with lit tendrils and magical mushrooms. Mermaids and mermen patrolling the underwater galleries as Krest came out into a clearing after rounding a bend. Children were observing the spectacle, palms plastered against transparent walls. Jellyfish playing hide and seek behind coral forests, tentacles of a giant squid propelling it amongst the weightlessness. Krest peered in as well, intaking as much as humanly possible. Small whales and dolphins contorted through the waters with bloodmoon horkers and herring. A room that swirled like a whirlpool with coral walls. Aka’s Ale flooded all around him, then it spewed out inside an enclosed waterfall, flying down Akatosh knows how many feet until colliding with more of the H2O, waterways that veered left and right until finally it washed up on the banks of a stone space — at least he could dream. A bunguin, penguin-bunny hybrid hopped past in a lifted glissando.

Krest sprawled down the dungeon until he saw two nordic guards stationed at the far end of the hall, conversing in low tones over sparkling candles. The flames cast eerie shadows over the walls and Krest made a descent past some brick and grout and through a small hole in the wall that exited out into some dusty canvas. Not a sound echoed around him… The embers inside the mantle glowed a vivid orange as the world within and without crawled painfully and agonizingly to a forever standstill. Problems stacked on problems stacked on problems within a few pieces of charred tinder. Shutting the door to his prison, grey and isolated, a containment cell in the midst of the galaxy. Only him. Krest sat on his bed, dimly lit gimlets glowing on top of the fireplace, the sounds of rushing sewage below. Orbs of light tinkering about. An abandoned prison.

He shrieked out loud, a high-pitched lark aberrant of himself, liken to a witch. It bounced off the angles of the vestibule, rebounding at his eardrums as uncertainty weaved its way into the crannies of his mind, stitching into the deepest reaches of his neuronal programming.

The laughter stopped abruptly, and he shuddered intensely, crunching in on the cot.

Long dreams swelled up and drizzled. Boondies destroyed with fists until knuckles bled red. Nihilistic mutterings. He forced himself to instead dwell on silky white grassland, a beautiful field inside a tundra and a nebulae of purple night sky. A motherly woman holding him in her arms as he slept. Though no matter how hard he clutched the pillow, that fantasy would never become reality. The latter half of his night, the neon leviathan died. Krest saw primitive villages with hut-shaped buildings, carriages drawn by horses and no trains or technology. He walked down one alley, streams flossing, and faring interlinked to the ground. A brainstem coaxing in and out slowly, waiting to snap. Left eye twitching repeatedly. In the waters, he saw himself, but he wore a horned helmet made of iron… what was he saying?

“Talos bless you. May Konahrik never take you,” said the Nord librarian the morning after as Krest was clamouring his way through the age-old athenaeum.

The shelves full of books swayed like waves, golden linings separating the stacks and each manuscript looking as pristine as the next. Scrolling past an array of titles he’d read already. Krest chewed on his thoughts, filling a glass of water on the side table, downing it, and cracking open a textbook. Feeling the surge of liquid travel down his esophagus. This volume was newly released and updated.

History Summarized (Sixth Edition), By Matthew Motre of the Elder Council

In this short summary, I will attempt to paraphrase the major focal points of history on Nirn as well as extrapolating on the events in the current era.

Dawn Era – The world is created by the gods through big bangs and supernovas. Lorkhan tricks the other Divines into making the material world, forcing them to surrender their power in order to complete the mortal realm. War between Akatosh and his mirror brother, Lorkhan breaks out after Lorkhan rapes and imprisons Akatosh’s wife, Mara. A mysterious dragon known as Konahrik attacks Lorkhan and defeats his army of proto-men. Akatosh and the other gods kill Lorkhan and ascend to the heavens. The progenitor spirits spread across the land.

Merethic Era – Human and elven migrations begin, and the various races are formed.

First Era & Second Era – A turbulent time of archaic medieval practices that number far too many to cover within the scope of this book

Third Era – Tiber Septim aka Talos conquers all of Tamriel, guided by the spirit of Lorkhan. He creates great technological advancement on his quest to find Konahrik the Evil One, that brings the continent of Tamriel into a united modern age before he dies and ascends to godhood, becoming the Ninth Divine. Septim reverse-engineered Dwemer-tech in the Third Era to revolutionize the way the world worked in an abundance and breakthrough in technological and magical advancement, allowing for society to evolve in a more advanced yet nuanced way…

Fourth Era:

4E 1 – End of the Oblivion Crisis and the Septim bloodline.

4E 2 – The Aldmeri Dominion of elves is reformed.

4E 3 – The ruling faction of the Dominion, the Thalmor, are given a seat in the Elder Council by High Chancellor Ocato.

4E 5 – Vivec is killed by the Nerevarine and the Red Mountain in Morrowind erupts.

4E 8 – The Argonians invade Morrowind in retaliation for the enslavement of their people.

4E 10 – The Thalmor begin discouraging Talos worship, sending ministry across Tamriel to start outlawing his appraisal. Tensions between Skyrim and the Empire flare.

4E 17 – Count Titus Mede joins the Elder Council and Tamriel begins to reshape into a Republic.

4E 22 – Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Nordenbjorg executes all Thalmor in his city and secedes Haafinheim hold from the Empire, founding the Sons of Septim movement to rebel against the Thalmor. A man is seen being banished by Akatosh from the heavens to Skyrim.

Later Krest passed by domed inner fields, where machines tilled the grounds stemmed from Dwemer science, smelling of grains, wishing he’d be able to run his hands over the familiar stocks of wheat as he had once in the Gold Coast of his southern homeland. Various dwarven automata trekked across the massive indoor farm, harvesting different colored grains; barley, rye, straw, and depositing it into the appropriate cannisters for collection. Farmers shepherded cows, sheep, pigs, and chickens into stalls as Krest watched from his glass window way up above. Waterfalls throttled and submerged into interior lakes with giant fish and exotic shrubbery acrost. Lotuses and lilypads floated on the surface. Dragonflies zooming around.

But eventually he arrived at the discharge offices, scanning his hand on the chip reader.

"You’re late,” announced Warden Rikke Tullius. She looked up from her court mandate when he entered. “Remember, this man is to be taken to the correct authorities in Nordenbjörg. I don’t think he’s important enough to send my own troops for, but the Council clearly don’t agree. So, you’re our compromise. Wayshrines are down and Ulfric’s closed his railway to us, so you’ll be traveling on foot. I’d recommend Nifelcairn Way, though mind the Horme.”

Krest nodded, eyelids drooping. Why do they want him in northern Skyrim and not down in the Imperial City? His gaze poured over her office, desk and metal-sealed door with steam pipes interconnected. I wonder if those Dibellan priestesses have anything to do with this.

Rikke briefly scanned her papers. “I’ll take you up to where he’s being kept. After that, he’s your problem. Any fuck-ups are on you.”

Krest’s brow curved like a scimitar.

Rikke led him through the old rectangular orifice into the courtrooms with representatives for the Jarl in place. Mock-fashion of the type of political-bantering that occurred in High Rock and Cyrodiil. They stopped there for a few minutes as Rikke snuck up to speak with the Imperial-commissioned ruler, who was also her husband, judging by the way she stroked his hand, Jarl Tullius.

“What of the city's new zoning ordinances?" Queried Tullius. "Have we arrived at a consensus?"

Krest noticed the central roundtable which was a magnum opus to the dimly lit expanse as the residents incessantly bickered atop the decadent woodwork.

"We proposed a bill to use the new edict to build more farms." A Nord woman copped a hand over her strawberry-auburns.

“Using the limited indoor Dwemer fields for more farms will just encourage more people to move here! Old Fort is capped if you haven’t noticed!” Cried a pompously clothed Kreathman. “We ought to deny any and all immigrants from accessing this fine city.”

“Siddgeir, aren’t you the same one who wanted to encourage our population to birth more children?” The same Nordic countered, drawing a quill over her notes.

“Nord children, Narri.” Smirked the ugly duckling.

Krest sighed as his head tilted towards the raised ceiling.

"What would you propose then?” Narri chipped her lip. “That we build more housing facilities with the extra room? More homes won’t do much if there aren’t working people living in them and contributing to the economy.”

“Precisely why we’ll encourage the residents to procreate more.” Thane Siddgeir smiled smugly. “Wouldn’t you agree, uncle Dengeir?”

The old man who was presumably Dengeir nodded, beard swaying.

Jarl Tullius raised his palm. “Vetoed. We’ll return to this, is Elisif Istlod here?”

A pair of Nord guards stepped out of the courtroom and came back in shortly, a Nord woman adorning regal attire following them in. She has such a kickable face. The royal seated herself in the front. Hushed conversation spilled across the room from the attendants.

“You’re here to testify against Ulfric?” Tullius questioned her.

“Ulfric Stormcloak. People say he could be the Last Dragonborn,” a redhead whispered to his twin.

“Don’t be silly, Borvir, Rundi. Just because he can use the Thu’um doesn’t make him Dragonborn,” a High Elf argued. Councilor Elenwen Saururiil of the Elder Council if he remembered correctly. A Thalmor representative. But why was she here?

Elisif’s crow’s feet wrinkled. “The day Ulfric declared independence from the Empire and banished the Imperial soldiers, before he slaughtered and enslaved the remaining Altmer in the city, my husband, Thane Torygg begged him to see reason, but Ulfric just killed him in cold blood.”

Tullius turned to a heavy, blond-bearded Nord on his right. “Jorleif, how does the defendant plea?”

“Sir, he pleads guilty with the exception of this statement: The Thalmor and their elves wish to ban worship of Talos, and something must be done about it. Nordenbjorg is Skyrim’s largest and most powerful city, controlling it and declaring war on the Thalmor would prevent this,” said Ulfric’s representative, Jorleif Arn.

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Nordenbjorg is hereby charged with inciting violence, human trafficking, and murder.” Tullius scratched his stubble. “There is now an official warrant out for his arrest and removal from office on the Empire’s part. We must make an effort to take back Nordenbjorg, lest we risk the other kingdoms joining his crusade.”

Krest lurked from the shadows, leaning back, and crossing his arms against the nook.

Tullius pinched the bridge of his nose. “The Thalmor have used diplomacy. Can you say the same, Jorleif?”

“Maybe that’s just a ploy… these elves use politics and trickery.”

“Shut up, Jorleif you bloody bearded baboon.” Elenwen held her face in her hands. The two ginger twins in the crowd shared a knowing glance. “I think the more prudent question to ask would be what are the ethics of using such barbaric magic such as the Thu’um in modern day society?”

“The Nords in Nordenbjorg are archaic in their traditions, Elenwen.” Narri’s nose crinkled.

Tullius clapped his hands together. “You’re free to leave, Jorleif, Elisif. Elenwen…”

Why’s he even being prosecuted here? Too many loyalists in the north?

“Estormo, Ancano.” Elenwen nodded to her cohorts who left the room with her to the station. Krest peaked around the corner as he crossed the landing to see what the Thalmor were doing.

They bagged some north men and stuck their heads in nooses, kicking the switch and letting them hang as public display. Their sputters and gags clawed for life until eventually they subsided. Leaving nothing but carcasses. These must be captured Sons of Septim.

Krest eyed the rebels’ swinging corpses with a twinge of jealousy. The cyclic snake was a caduceus around his throat and head, throbbing in rhythm with his headache. His brain twisted and he clenched his jaw as the serpent encircled tighter and tighter, squeezing every remaining drop out until nothing was left expect this prison in the vast empty openness of absolutely nothing.

“Had enough?” Rikke snapped him out of his spinning thoughts. She had made her way back and dragged Krest ahead. “My husband, Ananias Tullius is an Imperial like you, and he’s Jarl of this city. We don’t tolerate Ulfric’s purist thinking. Stormcloak is the soul of that traditionalist rhetoric. It’s his policies why Nordenbjorg still has slaves and Vikings. It’s become a goddamn systemic issue.”

Why not just kill them all then? Krest eyed the hung men now and all his sympathy for them drained like spilt wine. They deserve it.

Do they?

I don’t know.

Krest judged a pair of eggs with no less degree of consternation, his stomach grumbling. He spotted the odd set of cutlery or ceramic speckled about the royal court, utilized mostly by foreigners.

“We’ll grab some grub. Don’t worry.” Rikke’s frown turned upside down.

Half an hour of walking must’ve transpired as they descended and ascended the indoor city to wherever this ‘fallen angel’ was being held.

“Honest to Talos, I have no clue who this man is. There’s been speculation and examination, but it seems he’s mute and not the most cooperative in explaining himself.” She threw him an almond espy.

A wraithlike screeching sounded against the pebbles to their side. Mute? He picked at bits of crusted skin on his thumb.

“Already a few of the prisoners have begun hailing him as Ysmir or some malarkey.” Rikke turned a bend, pouring through narrower flights of stairs.

His neck cocked back at that revelation, frons knitting together. The rhythmic pulse of chemicals flushed from his brain.

They passed queues of soldiers and cyrodiilian tax collectors. The Skyrim guards, however, were truly different from the Colovians stationed here. The Nords would adorn thick furs and animal pelts draped over chainmail with round shields, crude axes, and steel helmets where you had a full view of their visor behind the nose-guard. Most had beards with beaded braids and the sides of their heads shaved. Whereas the Imperial soldiers were clean cut with shaved faces, a gladius, and square riot-shields. Silver armor over a red skirt with red-mohawks on their galeae. It was quite interesting to see the two cultures standing side by side here in southern Skyrim.

I better ditch this in the north then, I’ll stick out like a sore thumb. Krest glanced at his own kilt. There won’t be any Imperial soldiers to keep me safe up there. He gulped.

Skylines and windows integrated into the mountain wall, scenery of Skyrim across snowy hills and eye-gluing vistas, traversing the various conduits and their curvature. The odor of old ale mixed with berries permeated, rushing waterways that dominated the center. It was faint and gray, streams dashing through with bridges and ladders crossing the small indoor rivers.

A man who looked a cross between a Breton and a Nord sashayed past, tattooed everywhere with a feathery headdress. “Reachmen, natives to the hinterlands of the west. They’ve been sending the more cosmopolitan ones to debate with the court on why their leader, Madanach should be on the throne,” Rikke elaborated. “They have a cropping called Old Hroldan but after Tiber Septim destroyed it, it’s never been the same for them, being forced to live like cavemen and all.”

Two large dogs barked ferociously at Krest, barely held back by their leashes. They held such hatred when they saw him and Krest suspected had their binds not been there, he’d be flatlined.

There was a hollowing circular exit up ahead that veered left, fallowing, skimming a short way at the crystal cove until disembarking at a palisaded room hidden in the side, the holding cells. Filled to the brim with eye-patch adorned assailants, bags of whole grain or saffron that tickled his palm, and water tins of purified make up. Covered with old wooden supports, rock seething through beneath reinforced foundations of the quarters above. Many prisoners, their identities hidden by shadows, stirred away on ominous objects. Groups of figures seated hither and thither with cards on the disorderly arrangement of benches, a few empty skooma bottles littered around to really seal in that clandestine ambiance. Krest and his guide dallied past the standard nordic who the former was slowly growing more accustomed to.

“You want something to eat?” Rikke turned back to look at him. “Get you a real breakfast, none of that dry old paste you brats eat.”

Krest ticked his wrist.

“No worries, we need our elven-ambassador, Ancano to corroborate before release.” Rikke stretched her arms. “Though, the sooner we get him out of here, we won’t have the whole of Summerset on our ass. Then they’ll be Haafinheim’s problem. Which means if you lose him, it’s your ass they’re gonna blame.” The honey-almond palette of Rikke’s eyes grew solemn.

They came to the center of the kitchens, where a makeshift pot was bubbling with a watery-red substance. Bananas from the jungles of Tenmar, Elsweyr visited his nose. Krest licked his lips, tracking the fetal-swirling trails of the crimson stew. It reminded him of the growth pods the High Elves employed to birth their babies according to their eugenic laws. He found himself a deserted corner with ligneous blinds to give him some privacy. Krest slid some fried eggs between a cut baguette and poured himself a coffee. The evocation of the caffeinated drink cleared his nasal cavities.

After forcing the food down his gullet, he rested his head on the countertop, listening to his stomach complain about the rate at which he ate.

“You eat fast for such a little thing.” Rikke grinned into her cup.

I’m not that small. You Nords are just bigger than everyone.

"Sorry it took me longer to get here, I ran into some of netwatch who needed paperwork done that Elenwen neglected.” A High Elf entered the room, clothed in dark gray. This was likely the forementioned Ancano. A noble and poised countenance with raised cheekbones and sharp, pointed ears that spired through his goldilocks. The elf’s skin pale white with a hint of goldish undertone.

"No worries, I arrived not long ago as well.” Rikke sipped her tar like tea. “You wanted to see who was moving our high rider?”

Krest took a long intake, finishing the remainder of coffee, the taste bitter but familiar, flavorful ash knotted his tongue. He dished the plate in the sink.

"Well, it’s the prisoner I’m more interested in. I’m sure you people had this deliverer checked-out.” Ancano swept his gelled blond mop aside.

“Haven’t you done enough of your tests, elf?” Rikke’s armoured shoulders slumped.

The relatively young Altmeri’s visage expanded slightly. “This is going to sound crazy, but I think Akatosh must’ve banished this man from the heavens for a crime he committed. Perhaps he wasn’t truthful pertaining to his identity.”

"That doesn’t tell us who this prisoner is." Krest could practically hear the crease between Rikke’s forehead as she spoke.

"No, it doesn’t I suppose.” Ancano sniffed. “Why would Akatosh banish him though? Perhaps he intended for this man to be persecuted by us mortals?”

“Maybe.” Rikke leaned on her arm, a vein in her bicep emerging. A tangy sugariness folded on his tastebuds as he brushed the crumbs from his lips. "Hmm. Whoever this mysterious stranger is, he must’ve really pissed the Divines off for them to physically expunge him from Aetherius." The woman chafed her teeth together according to the ear-splitting noise that escaped her mouth. "They haven't just flown out of the sun before like that.”

"Perhaps it’s another deity." Ancano raised a finger. “They did banish Lorkhan in the Dawn Era, right?"

"And what? They want some prophesied mortal to defeat him?” Rikke squeezed her temples with one hand. “Like a Dragonborn?”

Krest’s ears twitched. They want the Last Dragonborn to defeat this guy? Is this inmate the Shezarrine then?

“Perhaps. But this is all speculative of course. We should really prep the inmate for transport.” Ancano stepped over to Krest, offering a hand. “I assume you’re the Praetorian? Ancano Charmaine.” Krest shook his palm, drawing a line over his voice box. “Is that like a personal attack or something…?” Ancano frowned.

“I think that’s just his way of saying he’s mute,” Rikke clarified for him.

Shortly thereafter, they proceeded out the mess hall and back up the way towards the holding cells. The three came upon the dusty and barrel strewn area. Krest inspected the crates and battered old casks. Goosebumps split across his skin.

The air felt chilly. Raw. Spite there being no access to outside from here.

The further down they went, the more it blackened into a herma-morian carapace. He heard some whispering coming from the corner of the room. Several small vipers swum in the purple ichor of drainage pipes to his left. The shadowy figure in the recess of the prison was completely concealed save for a pair of glowing violet eyes that stared back. Its pupils like demonic strips.

"That’s him," Rikke pointed out.

More whispering.

The silhouette of the man gulped down whitish, calcified tissue.

Conspiring in dark corners he did.

Susurrations.

Krest dizzied.

Once more did he conspire.

The shadow stopped dancing and peered at him from the gloom, the umbra obscured his appearance.

It all dissolved into the nothingness. Soon only Krest and the shadowy reflection were there, eyes locked on one another, unmoving. The chains that bound it misted into nothing and he stood up carefully, not breaking eye contact with the inmate as he himself backed away into the opposite corner. Soon he was protected by gloom, but his vision stayed locked on his Adversary's gaze which cut through the darkness like moonlight.

HeHeHeHe. HeHeHeHeHEHEHEHE.

System failure. Cannot compute. Stasis mode.

~ § ó § ò § ~

A/N: So, as you can see there are only five holds in this Skyrim. Dwemeria where Old Fort is where Falkreath and the Reach would be. Advice, reviews, thoughts, speculation, all is welcome. The proceeding chapters get easier to read in terms of prose, it’s a little heavy here. The future chapters are also shorter than this crammed mammoth of one.

Next Quest: Two Sides Of The Same Septim