The sky above Vvardenfell was a encompassing sky of grey-gold, not a herald of dawn or dusk, but a constant, choking pallor vomited forth by the scarred maw of Red Mountain. The air itself was a gritty, acrid taste upon Dralas’s tongue, a constant reminder of the land’s suffering. He reined in his grumbling kagouti mount, its leathery hide shifting beneath him, bringing them to a halt on the desolate roadside of the West Gash. Gnisis was not his destination, nor any of the meagre settlements that clung like barnacles to the island's fringes. His path lay further north, towards a forgotten speck on the map named Khuul, a mere huddle of huts, a fishing hovel, and a rickety dock, frequented by the wary Ashlander tribes. His mission was a perilous one, a desperate gamble to unearth proof of an ancient Daedric forge, held perhaps by a renegade Ashlander. He was well-prepared, or so he told himself, but Vvardenfell had a cruel way of mocking such assurances.
However, as the unmistakable, skeletal silhouette of an abandoned Daedric temple clawed its way into view from the ash-haze, a cold dread settled in his gut. This place, he realised with a jolt, was far from deserted. And its current occupants were certainly not the Ashlanders he sought. This was Ashalmawia, a name he dimly recalled from his hastily scrawled map. Vvardenfell was still a foreign land to him, its very air alien. He was no native, barely familiar even with the labyrinthine streets of Vivec City. Dralas hailed from Stonefall, a distant memory from before the shadow of Apocrypha had claimed him, but that, as he knew too well, was a tale best left untold for now.
However, as the unmistakable, skeletal silhouette of an abandoned Daedric temple clawed its way into view from the ash-haze, a cold dread settled in his gut. This place, he realised with a jolt, was far from deserted. And its current occupants were certainly not the Ashlanders he sought. This was Ashalmawia, a name he dimly recalled from his hastily scrawled map. Vvardenfell was still a foreign land to him, its very air alien. He was no native, barely familiar even with the labyrinthine streets of Vivec City. Dralas hailed from Stonefall, a distant memory from before the shadow of Apocrypha had claimed him, but that, as he knew too well, was a tale best left untold for now.
The air in Vvardenfell clung heavy and humid, a suffocating blanket woven from ash and the cloying scent of necromancy. Ra, a shadow amongst shadows, had slipped into the Worm Cult’s lair with a chilling ease that felt almost 'too' simple, a premonition of the horrors yet to unfold. His borrowed robes, coarse and smelling faintly of stale blood and fear, were his ticket past the gates of damnation. He moved like a wraith, a whisper of desert wind through the volcanic stone, hugging the temple's crumbling flank. Only one guard stood sentinel, a hulking brute whose mind seemed as dull as his rusty blade, more concerned with the grimy crescent moons beneath his fingernails than the living phantom gliding past him. "Filthy," the guard grumbled, flicking a speck of dirt into the oppressive air, utterly oblivious to the death that had just sauntered by.
His purpose was a cold, hard knot in his gut: purification by blood. The temple's inner sanctum first. His poisoned blades, honed to a razor's whisper, were his instruments. A swift, silent thrust here, a throat opened wide in a gurgling kiss there, as he drifted through the shadowed corridors. They never saw him coming, these wretched cultists; one moment, chanting their vile incantations, the next, a sudden, searing cold blooming in their chests, their last breath a ragged sigh of poisoned air. Those clustered together, huddled over their blasphemous texts or sacrificing some poor, whimpering creature, presented a knotty challenge, a grotesque tableau of bodies to navigate. But Ra, an outcast Redguard, was a master of the dance of death, and no challenge was insurmountable when the stakes were the souls of the innocent.
The temple itself was a gaping maw swallowed by the earth, its unholy rituals conducted in the deep, echoing chambers beneath the surface. No screams, no desperate pleas, no clang of steel would ever breach the silence of the ash-choked land above. The ground itself, it seemed, was an accomplice, burying their sins and their dying gasps. What was in the lower depths could wait for another day. His focus was to take out cultists.
When his grim work was done, the air hung with the metallic tang of fresh blood and the stench of fear, Ra retraced his steps. But the disguise, once his shield, was now a betrayer. Splatters of crimson, dark and glistening, clung to his robes like macabre jewels, proof of the carnage he had wrought. The outside guards, not quite as dull-witted as their fallen comrade, spotted the tell-tale stains. A low growl rumbled through the air, a challenge, a promise of retribution. "Look! A traitor!" one bellowed, his voice raw with fury. Shit! There was no avoiding this fight.
His purpose was a cold, hard knot in his gut: purification by blood. The temple's inner sanctum first. His poisoned blades, honed to a razor's whisper, were his instruments. A swift, silent thrust here, a throat opened wide in a gurgling kiss there, as he drifted through the shadowed corridors. They never saw him coming, these wretched cultists; one moment, chanting their vile incantations, the next, a sudden, searing cold blooming in their chests, their last breath a ragged sigh of poisoned air. Those clustered together, huddled over their blasphemous texts or sacrificing some poor, whimpering creature, presented a knotty challenge, a grotesque tableau of bodies to navigate. But Ra, an outcast Redguard, was a master of the dance of death, and no challenge was insurmountable when the stakes were the souls of the innocent.
The temple itself was a gaping maw swallowed by the earth, its unholy rituals conducted in the deep, echoing chambers beneath the surface. No screams, no desperate pleas, no clang of steel would ever breach the silence of the ash-choked land above. The ground itself, it seemed, was an accomplice, burying their sins and their dying gasps. What was in the lower depths could wait for another day. His focus was to take out cultists.
When his grim work was done, the air hung with the metallic tang of fresh blood and the stench of fear, Ra retraced his steps. But the disguise, once his shield, was now a betrayer. Splatters of crimson, dark and glistening, clung to his robes like macabre jewels, proof of the carnage he had wrought. The outside guards, not quite as dull-witted as their fallen comrade, spotted the tell-tale stains. A low growl rumbled through the air, a challenge, a promise of retribution. "Look! A traitor!" one bellowed, his voice raw with fury. Shit! There was no avoiding this fight.
A cacophony of shouts and the clang of steel tore through the tranquil air, reaching Dralas even from afar. He recognised the hateful discord: the Worm Cult. They had returned to the old temple, again. He cursed them under his breath, a sharp, guttural snarl. Had the wretched fools no sense of self-preservation? Or did they simply crave the brutal lessons the Chimera Guild, whose very shadow now stretched long and menacingly from their nearby stronghold, was so adept at delivering?
He spurred his kagouti, a beast of muscle and fury, urging it to a frantic gallop. The ground blurred beneath them as they thundered towards the commotion. Dralas dismounted with a practiced, almost violent grace, his hand already on the hilt of his blade. If some brave soul stood against the cultists, he would join the fray without a second's hesitation, a whirlwind of steel and righteous fury. If not, if he was to be the sole instrument of their reckoning, then so be it. A grim smile touched his lips; there was always a certain, dark pleasure in a dance with the Worm Cult, or indeed, any of the Daedric faithful. Today, it seemed, promised a grand performance.
He spurred his kagouti, a beast of muscle and fury, urging it to a frantic gallop. The ground blurred beneath them as they thundered towards the commotion. Dralas dismounted with a practiced, almost violent grace, his hand already on the hilt of his blade. If some brave soul stood against the cultists, he would join the fray without a second's hesitation, a whirlwind of steel and righteous fury. If not, if he was to be the sole instrument of their reckoning, then so be it. A grim smile touched his lips; there was always a certain, dark pleasure in a dance with the Worm Cult, or indeed, any of the Daedric faithful. Today, it seemed, promised a grand performance.
Shanlee Madec had wanted to make the journey once more on her own, before she took her aunt by marriage, Moranne Gurvale, with her to show her the new guild hall on Vvardenfell. After they met when he had brought her to visit the new hall, Dralas Addarari had said that most of the guild members were Dunmer. She understood why the guild moved its operations to the new base here, even though she preferred the more temperate or even colder areas of Tamriel.
She wore a scarf over her nose and mouth, like a partial mask, to help filter the dense, humid, powdery air. Shanlee rode Sweetbreeze, her handsome, ebony steed with a cloud-white mane and tail, who was sturdy and swift even when bearing her weight and that of another rider. Her mare seemed to sneeze frequently, and her great bear companion, Ursa, was not having a better time of it as she snorted and growled, annoyed by the air and its bitter smell.
Her destination, Ald Velothi, was in view now, and she approached it rapidly with Ursa close behind. It soon became very clear, however, that at the eyesore ruins nearby, something was amiss. She decided to quickly cross the suspended wooden bridge and enter the safety of the guild house’s courtyard to leave Sweetbreeze there.
Shanlee dismounted in the span of two heartbeats and softly bade her ebony steed to forgive her for not properly unsaddling and stabling her first before she turned to follow a bounding Ursa who had caught the nasty scent of a hated enemy and whom the great, ferocious bear would joyously tear into pieces. Though her two human legs could not reach the speed her ursine companion could, Shanlee drew two poisonous arrows from her quiver, eager to let them fly when she recognized the stench of worm cult members through her link with Ursa.
She wore a scarf over her nose and mouth, like a partial mask, to help filter the dense, humid, powdery air. Shanlee rode Sweetbreeze, her handsome, ebony steed with a cloud-white mane and tail, who was sturdy and swift even when bearing her weight and that of another rider. Her mare seemed to sneeze frequently, and her great bear companion, Ursa, was not having a better time of it as she snorted and growled, annoyed by the air and its bitter smell.
Her destination, Ald Velothi, was in view now, and she approached it rapidly with Ursa close behind. It soon became very clear, however, that at the eyesore ruins nearby, something was amiss. She decided to quickly cross the suspended wooden bridge and enter the safety of the guild house’s courtyard to leave Sweetbreeze there.
Shanlee dismounted in the span of two heartbeats and softly bade her ebony steed to forgive her for not properly unsaddling and stabling her first before she turned to follow a bounding Ursa who had caught the nasty scent of a hated enemy and whom the great, ferocious bear would joyously tear into pieces. Though her two human legs could not reach the speed her ursine companion could, Shanlee drew two poisonous arrows from her quiver, eager to let them fly when she recognized the stench of worm cult members through her link with Ursa.
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