Chapter 1. Of Mages and Priests

Tharer Rotheloth, Master of the Tribunal Temple in Molag Mar, sat behind his desk and folded his hands in front of him. Staring over the tips of his fingers, he cautiously studied the stranger that stood before him.

"Enlighten me, Altmer. Who are you, and what brings you here?"

"I am Astarill of Shimerene, of House Tanarael. And I wish to join your cause," the stranger stated. His words were fluent and precise, yet thick with a distinctive Altmerish accent.

The Temple Master hesitated. Something about the stranger's eyes was bothering him. Most High Elves had brilliant emerald or amber eyes, but these eyes were dull and pale. They seemed bleached by the sun, almost, resembling a light grey sooner than deep green or brown. And although the Altmer's stance and manner of speech showed nothing but courtesy, his eyes regarded the Temple Master coldly, like a vulture's.

"What are your motives for joining the Temple, good man?" Master Rotheloth continued smoothly.

"A search for knowledge," Astarill answered, and added when he realized this was not what the priest wanted to hear, "... and dedication to my Gods."

The Temple Master cocked an eyebrow and paused for a brief moment before he stood up from his chair and turned his gaze to something that lay beyond the scope of the stranger's vision. He made a quick gesture with his hand.

"Yes, Master?"

Startled, Astarill turned around to identify the owner of the voice. Behind him now stood a young Dunmer man, approximately the same age as himself. The man smiled a crooked grin, quite evidently amused by the momentary look of confusion on the Altmer's face. He wore a suit of finely crafted chitin armor, and on his back he carried a massive warhammer that seemed out of place on anyone but a barbarian warlord.

Tharer Rotherloth approached the Dark Elf and laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned to the Altmer with a reserved smile.

"This is Seltn Othras, one of our most respected disciples. Before you were allowed into my office, he was as kind as to inform me that you, Astarill Tanarael of Shimerene, belong to House Telvanni."

Astarill took another look at the Dunmer man in chitin armor. He seemed vaguely familiar, like someone he might have passed once at the Gateway Inn.

"You realize that it is highly unusual for members of the Telvanni to join the Temple?" the Temple Master continued.

"So I have noticed," Astarill replied, not quite sure where this was going. He recalled the hostility with which the Temple Master in Sadrith Mora had treated him.

"The only other Telvanni currently involved with the Temple, is Seltn here. You must forgive us our suspicion, but the Wizards have never respected our cause. They spread heresy and paganism among their people. You must also realize that members of our Temple did not join for their personal gain, but only to serve the Gods with unyielding devotion."

"I would be honoured to perform any task the Gods lay on me," Astarill said, "I ask only their wisdom in return."

The Temple Master was silent for a while and exchanged a glance with the young man at his side.

"Very well," he said eventually, "I will accept you into our Order. You shall perform your duties, and I shall share what knowledge I have. Come back tomorrow morning to discuss further details. Seltn, show Novice Astarill out, if you will?"

"Most certainly, Master," Seltn replied in a sly and raspy voice.

The young Dunmer opened the door, smiling politely, and beckoned the High Elf to step through. Astarill studied the man as he passed. He had bloodred eyes, deeper than those of most Dunmer, matching the colour of his crimson hair perfectly. A severe scar ran across his throat. And unlike the other priests, this man was not dressed in robes.

"You needn't worry about Master Rotheloth. He is a wise and righteous man," Seltn assured the Altmer, after closing the door behind him. "He's had some bad experiences with the Telvanni. But then again, haven't we all?" he added, smiling.

"Then how come you are one of his 'most respected disciples'?" Astarill asked, failing to disguise the sarcasm that had crept into his words.

"I was born into House Telvanni," the redhaired Dunmer began to explain, "But I never followed my family's footsteps. I have devoted my life to other things than the arcane arts."

"And in what way do you serve the Temple, then?" Astarill inquired, nodding at the warhammer on the man's back.

Seltn followed the Altmer's gaze, and pulled the weapon free, holding it up in both hands.
"I see you wonder at Veloth's Judgement. It is the Temple's most precious relic. It has served many men of my profession before me, and now it serves me. As my predecessors likewise, I hunt and execute the enemies of the Temple. I am an Inquisitor, or witchhunter, as the common folk like to refer to it."

"Ah."

Astarill recalled the stories he had heard one night at the Gateway Inn. The ruins of Anudnabia, a known den of Daedra worshippers, had been cleansed -brutally- by one carrying Veloth's Judgement. A man known as 'The Splinterer'. There was nothing left of Sheogorath's altar afterwards, it was said. And since that day, the entrance to the ruin had been blocked, never to be opened again.

"So you are him, the Splinterer, whose name instills fear in every unholy creature," he said levelly.

"So you have heard of me," Seltn smiled another one of his amused, crooked grins. "But I have heard much about you as well, Astarill of Shimerene. You have a splendid reputation within the House, I've gathered. Your skill is said to be unmatched. Hah! Some even claim that you saved yourself out of a tomb of vicious vampires by turning their minions against them... like a necromancer."

The last word hovered in the air before it got engulfed by a heavy silence. Astarill moved forward to open the gate, but the Dunmer moved quicker and grabbed the handle, positioning himself between the Altmer and the way out. A piercing red glare met a pale green one.

Astarill withdrew and straightened himself. "I wish I had been half as lucky or skilled as those stories portray me to be," he said, and forced a smile. "Perhaps then I wouldn't have needed so much time to recover afterwards."

Seltn returned the smile. "It seems we are both subject to the people's gossip, my brother," he said as he opened the gate. "I trust you'll have a pleasant evening."

Nodding politely, Astarill left the Temple grounds, feeling a pair of brooding red eyes pierce the back of his neck.

Chapter 2. Rain’s Hand 12th 3E 419

The sun had barely begun to rise above the eastern hills. The weak rays peeked over the jagged crests, illuminating them with a soft, red glow. The town at the foot of the hills was still cradled in darkness. Its streets were empty and quiet, and the air was cold and damp from the previous night.

It was the time of day Astarill found most fascinating, as life would again emerge triumphant from the deadly claws of night. Each morning he rose with the first rays of the sun to revel in the silence and purity of dawn, and to avoid the noisy merchants, chit-chatting townsfolk and the rude guards that otherwise roamed the streets. He would not allow this evident display of the universal laws and forces to be corrupted. At least not by any lesser hands than his own.

The only audible sound coming from town this early, was the faint sizzle of water slowly heating up in the huge copper kettles of the Public Baths. The simple rectangular building stood at the end of town, partly built on the hills to facilitate the transport of the heated water from the kettles to the pools. Although the doors officially remained closed until the water was boiling and the halls were warmed, old Gryth Ornyhn -the owner- made sure he left the backdoor unlocked for Astarill to enter. The Altmer preferred his baths cold and short, and he preferred to take them early. In return for the owner’s service, Astarill provided him with a selfmade ointment to ease the pain of the old man’s aching back.

In one of the smaller halls at the back of the building, the sound of splashing water echoed from the smooth marble walls. The hall was dark. One torch flickered feverishly in its battle against the gloom. It would take another hour before the sun's rays would infiltrate the building from the high and narrow windows.

Carefully, Astarill lowered himself into the chilly water and began to soap himself. Apart from the fact that he cherished silence and solitude, there was another advantage to bathing this early. He hated to expose himself, both socially and physically. He was tall and slender, and embarrassingly lean in his own opinion, yet at the same time his facial features bore a coarseness that betrayed his impure heritage. During his travels, his muscles had hardened and his body had grown wiry, though instead of improving his appearance, it had only added an awkward twist to his exterior. He preferred to avoid being seen.

He took a deep breath and immersed himself entirely, washing the foam away. Numb and shivering, he climbed out of the pool and quickly wrapped himself in a towel. He dried himself and sat down on a bench, massaging some warmth back into his limbs.

He reached for a brown pair of cotton pants and pulled them on. He took his satchel and produced a silver comb laid with small smoke-coloured gems. He held it up into the torch light and stared at it intently for a brief moment. His eyes seemed to glaze, as if lost in thought, as he stroked the engraved heraldic sign representing a clenched fist. He let out a sigh, just when the old Dunmer owner with his crooked knees and his bent back entered.

“Good morning, son,” Gryth said pleasantly, his voice bearing remarkable resemblance to a creaking door, but smiling nevertheless. “How does the day greet you?”

“Fine, Gryth, thank you,” Astarill replied. “How’s the back?” he asked, putting the comb down and pulling on a loose-fitting white blouse.

“Ah, much better, son. Much better. Thanks to your ointment. But I fear it won’t hold out very long, regardless,” the old Dunmer said, taking up the used towel and the remainder of the chunk of soap.

“You say that every day, Gryth, but I have yet to see you stop running this business.”

Astarill pulled his boots on, and quickly combed his hair.

“And I tell you it is your optimism and wild imagination all youngsters have. Just you wait until you’ve reached my age, son. You will understand what I mean,” Gryth grinned.

Astarill only smiled vaguely in response, pulling on a brown robe. The Dunmer, or the Cursed Ones, had a much shorter life span than the High Elves. According to the legends, it was part of their divine punishment. The young Altmer was quite certain that he had already reached the old man's age. Pondering on that thought, he fastened his belt and attached his sword and pouches.

“Just take an old man’s advise, son. Never open up a business, because it will ruin your back! And your knees too, if you’re not careful.” Gryth smiled broadly and laid a hand on the Altmer's shoulder as they walked towards the exit.

“Then I shall heed your words, old man,” Astarill joked, before he wished the owner a pleasant day, and walked out into the quiet streets of Sadrith Mora.

Good-humoured, he decided not to go straight back to the Gateway Inn, where he had taken up residence ever since he had arrived in Vvardenfell. Instead, he decided to take a small detour. He strolled down the deserted streets, taking pleasure in the soft rustle of leaves in the wind and the light melodies of early song birds. He lifted his face up, squinting his eyes against the sun, welcoming the warmth after a cold bath.

The road began to wind downhill, indicating he had reached the end of town. He turned to the east and climbed the small path that lead from the local cornerclub to the coast. He walked towards the edge of the cliffs and was greeted by a strong wind that nearly succeeded in knocking him off his feet. Far beneath him, waves clashed with the rocks. He turned his gaze to the horizon. The view was dominated by the dark contours of a Daedric ruin. Its black spires peeked high above the surrounding cliffs.

“Anudnabia...” he muttered to himself.

He stood in silence for a moment, shivering as the chilly sea wind blew through his wet hair. Apparently having made up his mind, he nodded to himself and turned back to the town. He made his way to the Gateway Inn in a hurry, while the streets slowly started to come to life. Guards on night shift retreated from their posts and returned to Tel Naga, greeting guards that just started their patrols. Shop owners unlocked their doors and started to clean their display windows, while housewives began their daily chores.

As the Altmer entered the Gateway Inn, the smell of freshly baked bread and fried kwama eggs welcomed him. The warmth that emitted from the fireplace in the corner beckoned him to his usual table. He sat himself down with his back to the flames, in order to let his long, platinum blond hair dry quicker.

Another advantage of rising early, was the absence of noisy patrons. Most of them were still asleep, and the dining room was empty. A few tables away from Astarill, several empty plates and cups stood, indicating that the servants, who rose even earlier than he himself, had had breakfast and had begun their working day. From the kitchen, Astarill could deduce the sound of the publican preparing breakfast for the other patrons, who would rise within the hour.

Making himself comfortable, Astarill took the cylinder-shaped case that was attached to his belt, and removed the lid. He took out the notes he had made on books which were too heavy to carry with him all the time, but contained indispensable information. He leafed through the parchments absently. Many of them contained notes on ingredients for specific potions. Others were self-drawn maps of different parts of Vvardenfell. After a while, he found the parchment he was looking for: his notes on Daedric ruins.

“The usual, I suppose?” a kind voice asked suddenly.

Astarill looked up from his study to see an elderly Dunmer woman, who once must have been beautiful in her younger years. She carried a tray with a plate of warm bread, a kwama-egg omelet and a cup of steaming hot heather tea.

“Ah, wonderful,” he said, putting his notes aside. “Thank you, Sivithi.”

The publican smiled broadly. The pleased look upon the Altmer's face when his breakfast was placed before him, was more than enough thanks for the old woman.

“Enjoy your meal,” she said warmly, and moved over to the table where the servants had had breakfast. “At least I know you’ll appreciate it. I don’t get so much as thanks from Angaredhel,” she continued, placing the empty plates and cups on her tray. The lines on her face seemed to deepen when she mentioned the name of the Prefect of Sadrith Mora, her husband.

Simultaneously, Astarill's face hardened. He choked down the remark that came to his mind, telling exactly what he thought of Lord Angaredhel and his childish xenophobia. Most Dark Elves looked down upon outlanders -some of them even looked down upon their own- but the Prefect topped everything.

Sivithi put the tray with the servant’s dishes away. “I still have to thank you for your stoneflower tea recipe,” she said. “You were right, it tastes horrible, but my headaches are gone completely. And I sleep a lot better too.”

With his mouth full of bread and kwama omelett, Astarill could only nod in response, holding a fork in one hand and his notes in the other.

“So what will you be doing today?” Sivithi continued pleasantly, “Do you have duties to perform for the Temple or do you have errands to run for the Wizards?”

“Both,” Astarill replied after swallowing his bread and taking a sip of tea, “But those can wait. I’m going to investigate the ruins of Anudnabia.”
Chapter 3. The Ruins of Anudnabia

On a clear day, the Ruins of Anudnabia could be seen from the top of Wolverine Hall. It didn’t surprise Astarill that the Temple Master of Sadrith Mora had ordered ‘The Splinterer’ to cleanse the Daedric ruin of evil and to block it for all time, it being so close to civilization. It didn’t surprise Astarill either that the Telvanni had never before tried to do anything about the den of Daedra at their doorstep. They probably thought it a nice research project.

And so did he.

Nearing the eastern coast, Astarill paused and grabbed hold of his amulet. Slowly, his being began to blend into the background. The trinket was composed of a polished grey soulgem, appearing much like cairngorm, which had been crafted from minerals found only in the mountains of the Summerset Isles. He had enchanted it himself during his youth, when he was still attending the Guild of Mages as a mere boy who had not yet seen his hundredth spring. His experience with Illusion spells and the art of Enchantment had been only rudimentary, and the amulet was flawed in a way that he needed to hold on to it for it to work. As soon as his hand would leave the transparent grey stone, the spell would wear off instantly. Yet the trinket served its purpose and Astarill had not seen reason to replace it. At least it granted him the opportunity to explore his surroundings without running the risk of being seen by something nasty.

He studied the rocky coast beneath him intently, searching for a possible entrance and a way to get there without too much trouble. The ruins were scattered on small islands off the coast. Many parts of the old shrine lay below the water surface, however. Astarill guessed that once the formidable building would have stood high and proud, looking out onto the sea, but that with time, the cliffs had subsided and slid down into the sea, taking the Daedric shrine with them.

After a while, Astarill had convinced himself that the most likely place to find the entrance was in the large, middle tower, situated on one of the small islands. To reach the middle tower, he could take the direct way by swimming, or the long way by walking and only getting a pair of wet feet. He chose the latter option.

He proceeded his way down the coast with caution. Sometimes climbing down with his one free hand, sometimes sliding down clumsily, causing small avalanches of loose gravel until he reached the sandy waterside where stalks of marshmerrow grew in abundance. Stepping into the shadows of the ominous dark walls of the ruin, Astarill walked from island to island through the shallow, brackish water, eventually reaching the middle tower as planned.

Huge steps led from the base of the tower high up to the plateau, where Astarill guessed the entrance would be. Looking up, Astarill came to a sudden halt. At the top of the stairway, a Frost Atronach stood. At first, it had seemed as if the creature had seen through the amulet’s enchantment, but after a while Astarill saw it was staring straight through him into the water behind.

A devious grin appeared on the Altmer's face as he let go of his amulet. His being became visible in an instant. It took a few moments before the creature’s senses had registered him, but when they did, its glowing blue eyes started to blaze and it let out a terrible roar. Astarill braced himself for the impact of the attack that was about to come. The golem pointed a finger at the figure down below and a ray of ice cold destructive magic speeded towards the elf with a sizzling sound. The force of the magical blow sent Astarill staggering backward, but his grin only broadened. He could feel the attack weaken him physically, but at the same time sent a surge of raw, pulsing energy running through his veins. He felt his own powers rise and intricate patterns of difficult spells flashed through his memory.

Seeing its attack had no effect on its opponent, the golem roared once more and started to run down the stairway. Astarill extended the palm of his left hand and purple chains of magical energy appeared around the Atronach, suddenly constricting the creature, forcing it to hover above the stairs. The creature screamed, trying to move, but without result. Slowly, and with a wicked grin, Astarill folded his left hand into a fist, causing the chains to cut deeper and deeper into the creature’s hide, until suddenly, in a tremendous blow of energy, the Atronach had disappeared.

Astarill was about to continue on his way, when there was a loud shriek behind him. Before he could turn around, a slash of claws ripped through his robes and back. The blow knocked the Altmer flat against the cold stones of the stairs. Without a moment’s thought, he screamed out the words of the first spell that came to his mind. A devastating blast of fire radiated from the elf, knocking his unseen attacker back. Pulling himself up to turn around, Astarill saw the Clannfear shaking its massive, armoured head in attempt to recover. Before the creature could attack again, Astarill directed another ball of fire at it. The creature fell to the ground with a tortured moan.

Astarill sank back against the stairs, taking a few moments to get his breath back. His robes were torn. He could feel warm blood trickle down his back and his head had started to ache from concentrating hard on directing his spells so suddenly, without taking the proper time to clear his head and prepare his mind. He looked down at the Clannfear. It was still breathing erratically, but Astarill knew that it had not much longer to live. He reached out and pressed his hand on a scaly shoulder. A warm, purple glow encompassed his hand as he took the last of the tormented creature's life force and absorbed it into his own, feeling his wounds close.

Taking a deep breath, Astarill stood up and drew his sword while he began to climb the stairs. As always, whenever his mind would fail him, his body took over automatically. Though he was definitely no warrior, he had obediently followed his sword lessons as a child, like every nobleman in Shimerene, and he knew how to wield a blade properly. It had saved his life several times, and he felt secure knowing he could fall back on it.

Reaching the original main entrance to the ruin, he could see that it indeed was sealed for eternity. Large boulders blocked the door. It would take a huge effort, either by hand or by magic to remove them. Besides this physical barrier, Astarill thought he sensed a magical radiation of sorts, coming from the door. If he took the time to study it, he could probably identify it, but he thought it a safe assumption that it was some sort of a shielding spell. Dispelling it would proof difficult and would take too much time.

So, he thought to himself, I will need to find myself another way. But where will I start searching?

Architecture of Daedric ruins was far from being as straightforward as that of the Dwemer ruins he had seen. Dwarves had been a practical race of scholars who despised the mystical and glorified the logical. Their buildings were always constructed according to a particular set of rules, and once you knew them, each ruin would seem the same. There would always be a trap or a secret door to test the enemy’s wit. Books had been written on the various forms of these traps and concealed doors, including a description on how to recognize them and how to get past them. Astarill had notes on those.

Daedric ruins were an entirely different matter, however. Each one was different. And if you were as unlucky as to stumble upon one which was dedicated to Sheogorath, The Mad God, you might find yourself in a deadly, maddening maze.

This is indeed a shrine to Sheogorath, Astarill thought, then smiled. So there must be loads of secret entrances and corridors. He tried to recollect every scrap of knowledge on Daedric ruin architecture. His face turned grim. And traps, he realized. Built by mad cultists, so they're either ineffective or extremely hazardous.

Shaking off that idea, Astarill forced himself to think. Where would I put a secret entrance? At the back of the Shrine. Or somewhere around the middle of the construction, so that the centre could be reached easily. That makes sense, so I will certainly not find it there. It must be close to the official entrance…

Astarill studied the walls, hoping to find clues in the architecture of the tower. He started to follow a pattern of swirling carvings starting on the ceiling, running across the walls, suddenly diving over the balustrade all the way down to the base of the tower, which lay below the water surface.

Naturally, Astarill thought with a sigh.

-

Gasping for breath, Astarill hoisted himself out of the water. His spell of water breathing had not been sufficient to reach the end of the narrow, winding corridor that had flooded instantly at the opening of the secret entrance. Breathing heavily, Astarill sat on the stairs at the end of the room which led to a door. He studied the place. It looked like some sort of old, irrelevant storage room, now completely flooded.

Astarill stood up and stared at the door. He didn’t notice any evidence of a trap mechanism, and he tried the handle. It opened easily, but when Astarill stepped through, he was just in time to grab the doorpost and hurl himself back inside the room. Before him, the ground had opened, revealing a pit with rusty, iron spikes.

Cautiously, Astarill stepped over the pit. As he continued his investigation, drawing nearer and nearer to the centre of the ruin, the Shrine of Sheogorath, he encountered many more traps, some of which had already been triggered a long time ago, probably by the priests of the Temple. The priests had left a clear mark on the ruin. Altars had been destroyed, and in one room, the bodies of dozens of cultists lay on a pyre that had once been set on fire but had been unable to completely burn the bodies due to the lack of abundant oxygen in the ruin. Several times, Astarill encountered a stray Daedra, none of which was hard to deal with.

Eventually, he reached the inner shrine of Sheogorath. The statue of the Mad God had been pulled down, judging from the ropes that lay around the large boulders that remained. The altar had been completely shattered. Pedestals on which relics or offerings should have been displayed were broken, except for one. On the other side of the shrine, behind the base of the statue, there was a niche in the wall. Within that niche stood a pedestal, undamaged. On top of that pedestal, a brilliant white orb was displayed.

What could it be? Astarill thought, A relic? An artifact? And why didn’t the Temple destroy or remove it? There was only one plausible explanation. It is too dangerous... The Temple left it here to remain sealed forever.

Astarill studied the niche and the walls intently. The pedestal was trapped, that he could clearly deduce from the pattern of holes and protuberances on the floor and walls. He couldn’t be sure what exactly would be the trigger and what would happen after it actually got triggered, though.

Caught up in his musings, Astarill never saw the shadow appearing on the balustrades that once had been surrounding the statue of Sheogorath.

There was a rustle, followed by a soft thud. Astarill swung around, only to be greeted by the point of a sabre hovering patiently in front of his nose. The Altmer swallowed and followed the blade to the hand that was holding it.

“Hold it right there, Altmer. I’ll take it from here,” a feminine voice spoke.
Chapter 4. The Orb of Madness

The voice cut through the air with the chilly sharpness of an icicle.

Astarill fought to regain his composure. He managed to keep his expression indifferent and nonchalant, but his facial muscles felt painfully rigid as he did so. Taking a deep breath, he forced to ease himself and to study what he was up against.

Aside from the wickedly sharp looking sabre the cloaked woman was pointing at him, a strangely shaped bulge in her cloak near her left thigh warned him of the possible presence of a crossbow. It would not surprise him if there would be a collection of concealed knives hidden somewhere on her person as well. She wore a kind of darkened, flexible leather armour that was custom to members of the Morag Tong.

“Before you run off with an age-old relic of unknown properties,” he began, “Might I inquire who you are and what the bloody hell you were planning on doing with it?” He filled his voice with loathing, while he tried to back away from the blade inconspicuously.

“Ah, but of course!” the woman spoke, sheathing her sabre. “How very rude of me, I should have introduced myself. I do apologize.”

She lowered the hood of her cloak to her shoulders. The first thing Astarill noticed, was her deviously crooked, mocking grin. Long and wavy hair -a deep, dark red as only the Dark Elves could have- framed a fine face with sharp features. Cold, blood red eyes watched his every move, calculating his intentions and anticipating his actions, or so it seemed. He was quite sure he had never seen eyes more heartless, except perhaps in the mirror.

His attention was drawn to the small drops of water that dripped soundlessly down from her cloak to the floor. He looked up again and now noticed that her hair looked somewhat damp and soggy.

She must have followed me somehow, he concluded, Came in the same way I did. Cursed rogue...

“To answer your question, Altmer, I am here on behalf of Mistress Dratha. She has taken an interest in that little gimmick over there. She will be pleased to hear that I beat Aryon's apprentice to it,” she said, sneering. “You are Aryon's, right? He is the only one who would take on an outlander. Oh, and before I forget, thank you ever so much for clearing the ruins of roaming demons. I would have hated to get my hands dirty.”

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not here on Aryon's behalf,” Astarill replied, narrowing his pale, green eyes. “But pray tell, why would I surrender 'that little gimmick over there', as you so ignorantly put it, to someone who was counting on me to dispatch of all lurking creatures? What makes you stop me from dispatching you as well?”

Another crooked smile appeared around the lips of the young woman. “Don't flatter yourself, Altmer. I am more than capable of dealing with those otherworldly beasts myself. I simply enjoyed watching your efforts. But I do have to thank you for finding the entrance. It would have taken me at least five minutes longer. You saved me some precious time.”

“You're welcome,” Astarill muttered angrily, and then said, “So tell me, madam, how were you planning on removing the item from its pedestal. I do hope you’ve noticed it’s trapped?”

“Indeed I have,” the woman said, “But I am not going to remove it, we are.”

Astarill snorted. “I beg your pardon?”

“This trap can only be bypassed with the efforts of two people. Or didn’t you know that?”

“I did not, but I would have eventually, as I would not have tried to take the item myself.”

The woman cocked an eyebrow, and Astarill answered her unspoken question:
“I would have bound the soul of one of those burned corpses back to its mortal shell and let it do it for me. But thank you very much for the advise. I shall certainly heed it when I have dealt with you.”

“Dealt with me?” the woman asked, “I’m curious! Do tell me how you were planning on doing that?”

Astarill snapped his fingers and a faint, greenish flame appeared around his forefinger. In a quick, sudden movement, he directed his finger at the Dunmer, and a ray of green energy shot towards his target. In his confidence, he had not expected the woman to do what she did next. With lightning speed reflexes, she produced the same green glow in her hand, catching the ray of energy and throwing it back at him. Astarill caught it just in time and extinguished it in his hand.

“You were going to paralyze me?” the woman grinned, “Truly, I had expected more of you.”

“You don't look like a mage,” Astarill stated, ignoring her mockery, “How is it you were able to counterspell my attack?”

“I might not be a mage, but I am quite skilled in the schools of both Illusion and Alteration, so you might want to remember that before you throw any more at me. However,” she began, taking a step forward, “I don’t believe you really want to kill me. If you did, you would have done to me what you did to that golem outside. Unless… those fights with the Daedra have weakened you and tapped too much of your powers...”

“All right, I see where this is going,” Astarill said, “You want to strike a deal, is that it?”

“Indeed it is, very clever. You help me get the that glowing thing safely of its pedestal, and I’ll let you live. How’s that?”

“No, I’m dreadfully sorry. I can’t go through with that. I did get here first, so I feel entitled to a bit more privilege than that.”

“Fair enough… You help me get the item, let me take it to Dratha, and then I’ll steal it back for you.”

Astarill started to laugh. “Oh, absolutely not. Whatever reason did I give you to cause you to believe I am that stupid? No, you help me get the item, you let me study it for a week, and then you may take it to Dratha. I have no interest in its material value.”

The woman gave this a thought. “Make that four days and you’ve got a deal, on the condition that you share with me everything you've discovered about the item.”

“As you wish,” he said with exaggeration, bowing and allowing her to pass. “After you.”

“Thank you most graciously,” she replied with a crooked grin, approaching the pedestal. “You may call me Elenore, by the way. And you are?”

“Astarill,” he said, watching the woman as she examined the walls around the glowing orb.

She stared at the symbols on the walls intently, and then drew her sabre. With the far end of the blade, she pressed several stones on the floor. Nothing happened.

“Right,” she said, matter-of-factly, “This is what we'll do...”

Astarill followed the young woman's instructions closely. They had managed to remove four of the strange looking, spiky protuberances from the walls of the niche around the pedestal. Each spike on the left wall had to be removed at the exact same time with the corresponding one on the right wall. Only two more spikes remained in the floor on the each side of the marble pedestal.

“Now, you step on the one on the left, and I’ll step on the one to the right,” Elenore pointed out. “The pedestal will sink into the ground, so we must be careful to grab this thing before it rolls off or something.”

“All right, but before you try to take it, use this,” Astarill said and handed her a piece of cloth large enough to enfold the glowing orb. “I don’t think it's wise to touch it with your bare hands. You never know what it does.”

“How clever. Ready?”

He gave a curt nod.

They both pressed the stone spikes with their feet, and as soon as the marble pedestal started to shake and sink into the ground, Elenore grabbed the orb and folded it in the old rag.

Before either of them could speak, it seemed the entire ruin started to shake violently. A loud, grumbling noise resounded. Small pieces of stone broke loose from the walls and the ceiling. Even the massive boulders of Sheogorath’s broken statue started to shift somewhat on the shaking floor.

“What’s happening?” Astarill had to shout to be heard over the noise, “I thought you said you knew how these traps worked!”

A look of confusion crossed the woman's face as she stared up at the ceiling. “I do,” she began, regaining her composure, “But this one must have been linked. Disarming one means triggering another...”

“Splendid!”

“I don't know what will happen, but it's likely to be quite hazardous to our health. Get out now!”

Astarill nodded and dashed for the exit of the Inner Shrine shielding his head against the falling debris. Reaching the doorway, he turned to see whether the woman had followed him. Instead, he saw her struggling to put the orb in a satchel, while at the same time trying to stay up on her feet on the shaking floor.

When she made sure the orb was secure within the leather bag, she ran toward him, nimbly dodging the falling rocks, that were now increasing in size. Before she could have reached the doorway, however, the ground beneath her feet gave way. Big blocks of stone broke loose and fell into a seemingly endless void. Awkwardly trying to balance and move to solid ground, she made a jump for the door. She missed only by a few inches, crashing down to the ground. One hand feverishly held on to the satchel, while with the other, she reached out for Astarill. Before he could take her hand, a crack appeared between the doorpost and the floor of the Inner Shrine.

Elenore stared down and watched as the stone block beneath her slowly crumbled right before her eyes.

“No you don't,” Astarill growled more to himself than anyone else, and dived forward. He grabbed onto her hand just in time, feeling his ribs crash as they connected with the floor. The last remnants of the floor of the Inner Shrine collapsed and fell down into the void. Elenore crashed against the wall, gritting her teeth and clutching the Altmer's hand. Astarill flinched with pain, and managed to grab the doorpost with his other hand.

“Hang on,” he managed to utter.

It would be days later when it would strike him that all the while Elenore's life had been hanging by a mere thread -or rather his arm- her eyes had never shown any fear. Her blood red eyes remained as cold as the ruin's marble walls.

Feeling each muscle in his body protest painfully, Astarill pulled himself and the woman up on solid ground.

Elenore got to her feet, still clutching the satchel in one hand as if her life depended on it.
“Thank you,” she said, “You know I wouldn’t have done the same for you.”

He stared at her blankly, wondering how she managed to keep her voice that calm and steady after almost falling to her death. He for one still felt his muscles twitch and shake from the sudden effort and the burst of adrenaline it had caused. He was still surprised about the strength he had been able to muster.

“Rest assured,” he said eventually, “I wouldn’t have either. You had the orb.”

She nodded absently and shot one last glance at the abyss that had been the Inner Shrine of Sheogorath only minutes ago, before the two elves retreated in silence.
Chapter 5. Rain’s Hand 13th 3E 419

Astarill woke the next morning at the sound of a soft knock on his room door. He opened his eyes and immediately shut them again, hoping the headache would go away as fast as it had set in. Unfortunately, he had no such luck and the pain only grew worse when he tried to get out of bed. He moaned something unintelligible and sat up carefully. He looked around and noticed he had removed his torn robes and had thrown them on a chair. He hadn't bothered to undress any further before getting into bed. On his desk the mysterious artifact lay, still folded in rags. Its pulsing, magical light shone through the cloth. Next to the orb, an empty bottle of shein lay on its side.

That would explain the headache, he recalled.

He had been too tired to make himself a salve to ease his aching muscles when he had returned to his room, so he had knocked back several goblets of comberry wine in order to drive the pain away.

Another, slightly more urgent knock came from the door.

Astarill got up after considerable effort and stumbled to the door. The pain in his stiff muscles was almost unbearable when he reached for the handle and opened the door just far enough for him to see who had been knocking.

Sivithi stood before him with a worried look on her face.
“Are you quite all right? Usually you would have been downstairs already, and…” she began, until she saw his face. “By the Gods! You look horrible! What happened to you?”

“I can assure you it isn’t as bad as it seems. I’m fine, just a little sore,” Astarill tried to say out loud, but the words that left his lips were mere mutterings.

“Things didn’t go that well at the ruin, then?” the publican asked . The long blond hair of the Altmer that was usually tied in a tidy tail, now framed his face in a messy, unkempt manner. His blouse was dirty and hung slantwise around his frame. Wearily, his pale eyes stared out into the world.

“An unexpected trap, and a rather unlucky fall. That’s all,” Astarill assured the elderly woman.

“I'll tell you what,” Sivithi said, “I'll go downstairs, make you some breakfast and meanwhile you can change into some clean clothes. When I return with your food, you can give me your clothes and I’ll wash and repair them for you.”

Astarill nodded his agreement, and closed the door to go and change. He opened his closet and took out another pair of paints and a fresh blouse. He realized that a warm bath would do him some good for a change. He quickly disregarded that idea though, wincing at the thought of having to mingle with the loud, noisy common folk that would probably roam the place by now.

After getting dressed, Astarill searched for his boots. The soles were covered in mud, but at that moment he couldn't care less and he pulled them on anyway. He threw his robe on the same pile as his dirty clothes and he sat down on his chair, leaving a trail of muddy footprints from the closet to his desk.

He opened a drawer and took out a small chest and several pouches. He reached for his mortar and added a handful of stoneflower petals to it. He took a root of a trama shrub and some bittergreen leaves and cut them in small pieces. He added the pieces to the mortar together with some shreds of dried marshmerrow leaves to improve the taste of the mixture. He meshed the ingredients together, and transferred the paste to a bowl. Finally, he added some water from the pitcher on his desk. There was no finer medicine against headaches, memory loss or simply lack of concentration.

At that moment, Sivithi returned with a tray of his usual breakfast. As she put the tray down on the desk, the smell of fried kwama eggs made Astarill’s stomach rumble, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since he had left for Anudnabia. That probably had something to do with the fact that the shein had kicked in so hard, he realized.

“Could you do me a favour?” Astarill asked, as he handed the publican his clothes. “Could you put this bowl on the stove for me?”

“Of course,” Sivithi said. “Shall I take it back up again as soon as it starts to boil?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Just let it simmer for a while. I’ll get it later.”

When the publican had left with his clothes and his bowl, Astarill ate his breakfast thoughtfully, never taking his eyes of the orb. Before he could try to activate the artifact, he would first have to do some research on it. He considered his options.

He could travel to the Temple of Molag Mar to search for any archives on the cleansing of Anudnabia. He could even ask ‘the Splinterer’ Seltn Othras himself, though that would probably draw too much attention. And the attention of the Temple's foremost Inquisitor was something he wanted to avoid at all costs.

On the other hand, Master Aryon's library could also contain some valuable clues to the nature and origin of the orb. Either way, he had to finish his chores first. He couldn’t just go back to any one of his Masters demanding access to the libraries without having done his duties first.

He remembered that he had been ordered to retrieve a stolen crate full of cure disease potions from a group of bandits that supposedly hid somewhere along Azura’s Coast, southwest of Sadrith Mora. The crate would be to heavy and big for him to carry alone, so he would have to ask the local Temple Master for a rowing boat and two suitable novices to go with him. Perhaps, if things would go as planned, he would even have time to return to Molag Mar to study the archives that same day. His chores for Master Aryon would have to wait for tomorrow.

-

Three figures moored their rowing boat on a small strip of beach. The two novices that had been placed at Astarill’s disposal were two young Dunmer boys. They looked out of place in their large, priestly robes. The oldest of the two, Omyn, was a thin, lanky boy with a gullible look on his face, holding his wooden staff as though he was going to plough the field instead of bludgeoning his enemies. The other, Hrillis, was a bit shorter, but seemed more intelligent than his friend, carrying a wooden cudgel with confidence.

Astarill ordered the two boys to hide the boat out of sight, while he himself climbed the hill to get a good view on the bandit hideout. It seemed quiet enough. The crate of potions had been stolen at night, so if these bandits only raided after dark, they would probably be asleep at the moment, with perhaps only one or two of them on watch. Astarill prayed this would be the case. He didn’t put much faith in the abilities of the novices.

Gesturing the two young Dark Elves to position themselves on the hill, Astarill approached the cave on his own. A crude door made from driftwood covered the entrance. He put his hand on the door handle, and too late he felt a strange resistance. As the door swung open, the thin thread, that had been tautly attached to the handle on the other side, loosened and the sound of a bell could be heard throughout the entire cavern.

“Splendid...” Astarill muttered under his breath, wearily rolling his eyes. Hearing the sound of footsteps approaching rapidly, he gestured the two boys to step a little closer.

Astarill prepared himself, recalling mysterious patterns and words of intricate incantations, just when two Dunmer bandits emerged from the cave. They were wearing grubby clothes and several pieces of an incomplete set of leather armour. One wielded a club, the other one an axe.

“Hold it right there, you stuck-up outlander n’wah!” the axe-wielding one said. He looked at the High Elf, then at the two young novices behind the Altmer, and started smiling. “Ah, you’re from the Temple, right? Come to reclaim the potions, right? Well come and get them!”

With a roar, both bandits attacked. Astarill paralyzed the one with the axe with a single touch of his finger, while drawing his sword to parry the blow from the one wielding a club. At his command, the two novices hurried forward to attack the paralyzed Dunmer, as long as he was still harmless. Astarill continued to parry the blows from the other bandit with his sword in his right hand, and at the same time spoke the words of a spell which made a blue glow appear in his left. Bellowing the final word to complete the incantation, Astarill caught the bandit off guard and pressed his hand on the Dunmer’s chest, transferring icy energy straight through the bandit's chest into his heart. With an agonizing scream, the bandit sank to his knees. A thin layer of frost appeared on his lips as the spell iced his body from the inside. His eyes glazed and his limbs stiffened. He collapsed to the ground like a solid statue.

Astarill swung around just in time to see the axe wielding bandit recover from his paralyzation.

“Move!” he ordered the two novices.

Enraged, the bandit raised his axe above his head with both hands. He ignored the two boys who hastily leaped out of his way, and charged at the High Elf with a scream. Seeing a clear opening, Astarill extended his sword and planted it straight into the bandit’s stomach, before the Dunmer could have ever landed his axe.

“There’s bound to be more of them,” Astarill said matter-of-factly, as he pulled his sword free from the limp body that lay before him. “Stay behind me and only attack opponents either in the back or when they’re harmless.”

Behind him, he heard a indignant snort from Hrillis.

“Is there a problem?” Astarill inquired, an eyebrow cocked and sternly looking down upon the both bold and naïve look on the boy’s face.

“Well, it doesn’t seem very honourable, does it, serra?” Hrillis said, while Omyn nodded gravely in agreement. “Doesn’t the great Lord Vivec teach us to display courtesy, even to our greatest enemy?”

Astarill laughed sardonically. “There’s nothing honourable in dying by the hands of a mediocre bandit,” he said. “Show them courtesy and they’ll bash your brains in return. Now be quiet and do as I tell you.”

Sighing, Astarill continued on his way. He realized he would have to keep a close eye on Hrillis, or the boy could get them all into unnecessary trouble. He had been afraid of that from the beginning since the Temple Master had introduced the two novices to him. Hrillis regarded the world with little respect and too much confidence. And Omyn would undoubtedly follow his friend’s lead. Astarill had a slight misgiving that the Temple Master had chosen Hrillis on purpose, hoping to teach the boy a much needed lesson.

Proceeding deeper down into the cave, the three eventually reached an open space. A small fire was burning, surrounded by two stools. Two wooden cups stood on the floor, one still filled with liquid. A bottle of matze stood next to it. There were a few crates and barrels, which, upon inspection, contained nothing of interest other than bread and pickled meat. The thread, that had been attached to the door handle and fastened along the cavern walls, was attached to the bell that hung on a wooden pole not far from the fire. On the other side of the room, there was another door made of driftwood.

Astarill quietly approached and listened at the door. He grinned, took a few steps back and extended both hands. Muttering harsh, otherworldly words under his breath, a pulsing orange glow encompassed his hands. With a devastating blast, a burst of flames shot from his hands, instantly disintegrating the door and blazing into the room that lay beyond.

When the smoke had cleared, the burned body of an Imperial lay near the door, and two gravely wounded Dunmer stared at the doorway in fear. They recovered remarkably quick from the attack and one of them knocked back something that looked like a potion of healing. Swords raised, the two bandits charged the Altmer.

The pounding of his heart against the temples of his head was a painful promise of an upcoming headache, and Astarill drew his sword. He parried the first blow with ease, but the second Dunmer was too quick and lashed out with his sword. Right before the weapon scraped his shoulder, Astarill thought he saw a strange and faint glimmer on the sword's edge.

Poison! he thought, and at that moment, the blow to his shoulder was followed by a bitter, creeping pain that slowly began to spread its way through his veins.

Astarill cursed under his breath and parried another blow from the poisonous sword just in time, though giving the other Dunmer the opportunity to lash at his thigh. Wincing in pain, Astarill was driven back by the two bandits. The poison in his veins made his movements slow and soon he wouldn’t be able to parry the attacks any longer. He had to take out the weakest one first, he knew, although that would mean opening up to the one with the poisoned blade. He decided to take that fact for granted and bolted forward in a sudden movement, pushing the bandit with the poisoned sword out of his way and lashing out wildly at the other one. Backed by sheer luck and the element of surprise, his reckless attack worked out as planned. His frantic blow crushed the sword arm of the weakest bandit, giving him the opportunity to finish his opponent off with a clean strike to the neck.

At that moment, he would have expected the other bandit to attack him from behind and the words of a Shield spell left his lips. Instead, he heard a bold, yet slightly misplaced battle cry coming from Hrillis, who charged the bandit with his cudgel raised. Omyn followed bravely.

“Damn!” Astarill cursed out loud, watching the horrible smile that appeared on the remaining bandit's face. With utmost ease, the bandit slashed at Omyn, knocking the boy to the ground with a smack. Laughing at the distraught face of Hrillis, the bandit deliberately turned his back on the boy an approached the Altmer again.

“Thank you,” the Dunmer mocked, sword raised. “That was a wonderful piece of entertainment!”

“Thank you for giving me the time to prepare,” Astarill retorted with a sly smile.

The bandit narrowed his eyes, watching the movements of his opponent closely, yet the Altmer simply stood there. With extreme care, the Dark Elf approached.

Astarill awaited his chance patiently. When the bandit raised his sword to land a blow, the Altmer caught the blade of the weapon in his hand. The bandit's eyes widened in surprise, as the sword's edge should have sliced through his opponent's hand with ease. His first reaction was to pull the blade free, yet the Altmer held on to it with grim determination. A reddish glow appeared around the hand of the High Elf and quickly spread to the blade. The bandit stared at it in wonder before he let out a startled scream and dropped the blade. It had turned red hot. A blast of bright light and the sound of crackling lightning were the last things the bandit ever perceived.

Astarill stared at his hand. A deep gash crossed his palm, although the spell should have protected him. He decided that his spell had been less effective as a result of the poison and its effect on his concentration. He reached for one of the pouches on his belt in which he kept certain herbs that could cure poison. He meshed a few leaves between his fingers and applied the crude paste to the wound on his shoulder.

While waiting for the herbs to take some effect, he approached Hrillis, who was kneeling beside his friend. He was lifting Omyn's head in order to pour a potion of healing into his mouth.

“That won’t do him any good if you don’t cure the poison first,” Astarill said and knelt down on the other side. He handed Hrillis the pouch with curing herbs. “Apply these to his wounds, like this,” he explained, pointing at his shoulder. “Then you can give him that potion. When he regains consciousness, tell him to chew on one of those leaves. That'll ensure that all the traces of poison will be neutralized.”

Hrillis nodded silently and did as he was told.

Astarill entered the next room. There was a staircase that led to another door, but before he could take his first step on the stairs, the door flung open. An Imperial clad in steel armour and a Dark Elf woman in leather appeared in the doorway. The woman looked furious, while the man leaned casually against the doorpost with a confident smirk on his face.

“You killed my men, you’ll pay for this!” the woman spat with evident hatred and drew a sword, but the Imperial laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Come come, dear, let’s not haste things,” he said. “Let’s hear what the Altmer wants.”
With his hands in front of him as a gesture of good will, the Imperial took a few steps down the stairs. Then, with an evil glimmer in his eyes and in one smooth, sudden movement, he directed a ball of fire down at the Altmer.

Astarill did nothing. He welcomed the attack, letting out a grunt as the magical energy hit him. He stumbled back due to the force of the impact. He felt his flesh burn. There was intense pain, yet at the same time, the fire that hit him was absorbed. Power seemed to course through his veins at maddening speed, granting him strength.

“So he's got a few tricks,” the Imperial said, drawing his sword. “Let's see if he can avoid this!” At a word of command, the blade of the sword began to blaze with fire.

Both bandits charged down the stairs. Completely out of habit, Astarill raised a magical shield that would hold off the first few blows if only long enough for him to make his preparations. He shut his eyes and fought to keep his mind focussed, while weapons landed their devastating blows harmlessly. His mind dug deep in his vast knowledge of Conjuration spells. Arcane patterns flashed through his memory. The weavings of time and space unfolded before him with a grandeur that rivalled the universe itself.

Are you there, old friend?

He felt a familiar presence and sought to connect with it.

Suddenly, the shield gave way. Astarill's eyes snapped open. The steel-clad bandit smiled slyly and slashed at the Altmer with deadly precision. Astarill dodged clumsily and stumbled away from the weapon's reach until his back hit a wall.

“Fight like a man, mage,” the Imperial dared, “Defend yourself!”

“I won't,” Astarill replied, trying to catch his breath, “But he will.”

There was a dreadful, sepulchral roar that send shivers up the spines of everyone who was able to hear it. The foul stench of rotting flesh now registered to the bandits' senses. The woman was the first to turn around. Her face grew pale at the sickening sight before her. A horrendously large and deformed bonewalker stared down at the two bandits through one rotting, festering eye. The other eye seemed to have been eaten away.

“Where in hell did that come from?!” the Imperial exclaimed.

“How fitting of you to ask,” Astarill smiled, but the bandits never heard him.

With a forceful wave of the Altmer's hand, the bonewalker launched its ghastly, putrefying attack.

-

When he returned, Astarill witnessed Omyn coming back to consciousness. The boy was disorientated, and as soon as he sat up, he gagged and bowed forward to vomit. Hrillis could do nothing more than sit and stare with a dumbfounded look on his face. He regarded his friend with guilt and a tiny hint of disgust. With a blank look on his face, Hrillis stared up at Astarill, who towered over him with his arms crossed and a furious look in his cold eyes.

“Why did you ignore my commands?” the Altmer inquired, “The Temple Master sent you on this task to assist me. Surely he did not mean to appoint me as your nanny?”

The boy looked away as signs of anger crept on his face. “If the Temple Master sent me on this task, he must believe I am ready for this,” he said with a quavering voice, “I don't have to listen to you, I can make my own judgement. To be honest, serra, you didn't look as though you had things under control either.”

“Listen carefully, boy,” Astarill hissed. “And look at me when I speak to you.”

With obvious reluctance, Hrillis forced himself to meet the Altmer's harsh glare.

“I know exactly what you were thinking and I can't blame you for that. I used to be just like you when I was your age. I've made a fair share of mistakes as well, but at least I had the decency to admit them and learn from them. You can't afford to be arrogant. Arrogance is to be earned with skill and experience. And you lack both. You could have gotten us all killed. And for what? Your false view of honour?”

Hrillis couldn't help but wince as the Altmer spat the last word.

“Honour means nothing once you're dead,” Astarill continued, “Although I'm sure your great Lord Vivec would like you to believe otherwise...”

Eyes wide in shock, the boy looked up at him. “Do you defy the Tribunal?”

“I don't deny their existence. I merely question the wisdom and judgement of those who haven't ventured outside the safe walls of their palaces for ages. They preach a romanticized view of this world that doesn't apply to anything outside of their palace walls. They're not the ones that are to die by their words, we are. It's up to us to interpret their words using our own judgement. And your judgement clearly is erroneous.”

“The Temple Master will hear of this,” the boy muttered, though there was little conviction in his words.

A sneer played around the corner of Astarill's lips.
That's it. You know I'm right, little runt.

“Get up,” he ordered without a trace of his former anger. “The crate of potions is in the back room. I need you to help me get it down from the stairs.”

-

Astarill pushed the boat back onto the water, and the two boys carefully lifted the heavy crate with potions. As the boys put the crate down and seated themselves next to the oars across from the Altmer, the small rowing boat almost sank by sheer weight.

“Row to the south,” Astarill ordered. When the novices looked at him questioningly, he explained: “The caravan from which this crate was stolen was due for Molag Mar, we’ll deliver it personally. And I have some business to attend to...”
Chapter 6. Rain’s Hand 14th 3E 419

With a book from Aryon’s library under his arm, Astarill ascended the stairs that led to his room in the Gateway Inn. He took out his key, but when he moved to unlock the door, he noticed it had already been opened.

Astarill cocked an eyebrow. He would never leave the door ajar or even unlocked. He simply kept too many valuable and potentially dangerous items in his room to be careless. He was also quite certain that today wasn’t the day on which the servants would clean the rooms.

On his guard, Astarill pushed gently against the door, opening it far enough for him to get a view of his room. His eyes widened.

“You?!” he exclaimed, “How did you get here?”

Elenore stood up from the chair by the desk with one of her characteristic mocking smirks.
“Pretty much the same way I did when I followed you into Anudnabia unnoticed,” she answered casually, walking towards him. “I have my ways.”

“I’m sure you do,” Astarill said and regarded the red haired woman with suspicion. “What do you want from me? I’ve got two more days to examine the orb, if my calculations are correct.” At that, he quickly glanced past the woman at his desk, to see whether the artifact was still there.

“No need to worry, Altmer. It's still there. I merely stopped by to see how you were getting on with your work.”

“Actually, not that good,” Astarill said, passing the woman to put Aryon’s book down on his desk. He checked the contents of the drawers, and cast a look upon the lock that sealed the large wooden chest that stood at the foot of his bed.

“But now that you’re here,” he continued, “You might be able to help me. I can't help but feel that you have something to do with my problem.”

“And that problem would be…?” Elenore inquired expectantly, crossing her arms.

“Yesterday evening, I was at the Temple of Molag Mar, searching the archives for files on the cleansing of Anudnabia. Could you explain to me why they weren't there?” Astarill asked. His eyes narrowed as he leaned back against his desk, resting a foot on his chair.

“Yes, I can,” Elenore answered matter-of-factly. “A week ago,” she started, “Mistress Dratha ordered me to steal those very same files from the Temple Library of Molag Mar. She was curious to what had taken place in Anudnabia. That way, she found out about a powerful artifact, still lying deep beneath the sealed ruins of Sheogorath’s shrine. Naturally, she ordered me to retrieve it.”

“Naturally,” Astarill echoed with an irritated edge to his voice. “So where are the files now?”

“Somewhere in the tower of Tel Mora. Mistress Dratha has them, of course,” Elenore said, shrugging her shoulders and sitting herself down on his bed.

The unyielding self-restraint and calm Astarill liked to pride himself upon, slowly began to melt away like the southern glaciers of Skyrim during spring.

“So in fact,” he began, “It was actually your fault that I was caught nosing around in restricted Temple files for nothing? That incident could have cost me my rank, or worse. I was lucky, no, you are lucky I was able to talk myself out of it.”

“Technically, that would be the fault of the Mistress, not mine. Again, you disappoint me, Altmer. I had expected more of you,” the crimson-haired woman said, tilting her head to look up at him with a defiant grin. “So much for the Hero of Vos, who supposedly solved the local vampire problem in a most unusual way.”

“You didn't think it necessary to inform of the fact that you had an entire stack of papers with information in the orb and its origin?” he asked sharply.

She shrugged her shoulders once more. “I didn’t think you’d need it,” she replied.

Vexed, he waved his hands in a wild gesture of incomprehension.
“Don't try my patience, madam. It isn't difficult to understand that I need as much information as I can get before I examine the object. Otherwise I might as well go mad due to some unforeseen curse if I were to touch it without the proper precautions. This book I've borrowed from Aryon is not going to be enough.”

The red-haired woman sighed irritably and stood up. “So what am I supposed to do about it? I suppose you now want me to retrieve those files for you?”

“Yes, indeed I do,” Astarill answered levelly.

The look in the eyes of the Dunmer woman turned vicious.
“I am not going to get those files for you,” she stated, “I cannot show my face in Tel Mora without first presenting the artifact to the Mistress.”

“You don’t have to show your face anywhere!” Astarill exclaimed, “Just sneak into town unnoticed, like you’ve sneaked into my room. You had your ways, you said. I’m sure you can get into that tower and steal the files without ever being seen.”

“That was not part of our deal, Altmer,” she reminded him with a menacing edge to her voice, “We agreed that I would let you study the orb for four days and that you would hand it back to me. We never agreed upon anything concerning me having to help you with your silly studies.”

“All right,” he sighed, “Let me make it a bit more clear to you, madam. If you don’t get me those files, I will never surrender the orb to you.”

The seconds that passed in the moment that followed seemed like hours within the deadly silence that settled between the Altmer and the Dunmer. A piercing, bloodred glare met a harsh, pale scowl.

It was Elenore who began to speak first after the moment had disappeared. Her words were soft and deliberate.

“You are in no position to demand things from me, Altmer,” she said. “You have violated our agreement, which grants me the right to end your life, should I so please. Now I know you would like to see me try, so I will not grant you that pleasure. However, I think you would be very interested to know that, as I was waiting for you here, I have taken the liberty to look around a bit. I have noticed quite a collection of books that are illegal to keep in one's possession according to Tribunal law. Very instructive, I must say, I never knew a corpse had so many applications. Now, I happen to be quite close to a high-ranking member of the Temple who would be very interested in your morbid fascinations...”

Astarill narrowed his eyes to slits. “I don’t believe you,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re bluffing. You have no tangible proof against me whatsoever.”

At that, a triumphant sneer tugged at her lips, as she produced a book from somewhere under her cloak. Astarill’s eyes widened in shock as he lashed out like a viper to grab it, but the crimson-haired woman was faster. She drew her sabre and rested the weapon at his throat.

“If I present this book –which fortunately has your initials on it– to the Temple, they will declare you a heretic.” With a voice as sharp as venom, she added: “They will hunt you down and torture you until you have confessed your sins and begged for them to end your life.”

“That book was warded against unwanted readers,” he said, ignoring her words, “You should have been poisoned just by touching the cover.”

“Once again, you underestimate me, Altmer,” Elenore said with a wicked grin. “I might not be a mage, but I do belong to the Telvanni. And unlike you, I was born into the House. The blood of powerful magicians runs through my veins.” She tucked the book away again, while keeping her sabre pointed at the High Elf. “And besides that, I make a point of using the standard Morag Tong equipment,” she added, holding up her hand to show him the ring she wore. It consisted of a silver band and a black stone with a faint green glimmer. “Protection against the most common forms of poison.”

Astarill sighed, rolling his eyes. The blade was painfully pressed against the vital arteries in his neck. “So... what happens now?” he asked.

“That is entirely up to you,” Elenore began triumphantly. “Personally, I have nothing against necromancy. I'll have you know that I am an unethical, opportunistic bastard in every way. I have been thinking and I decided that it is also in my own interest that you find out what the orb does before I take it to the Mistress. If it proves very useful, I might decide to keep it myself and a forgery will have to be created. That said, I see a great opportunity if we were to cooperate. Dratha often sends me to retrieve some magical artifact, and I understand you are a fairly skilled enchanter, am I right?”

Astarill nodded, as far as the sabre allowed him to.

“Excellent. What if I would share with you the locations of the artifacts Mistress Dratha orders me to find? And what if we could retrieve them together? You could study the items, gain their knowledge as scholars tend to do. Then, should we decide to keep the items for ourselves, you could create us a forgery with some minor enchantments for me to hand to Mistress Dratha…”

Elenore paused for a moment, and then said, “What do you say, Altmer?”

Astarill kept silent for a quite a while, before a sly grin crept up on his face. Puzzled by this, the woman tried to predict his intentions. This granted him a minor opening in her defence. Seizing his opportunity, Astarill grabbed the blade in the same fashion as he had done yesterday fighting bandits, evoking a startled scream from Elenore. She let go of the sabre, waving her hand in order to let it cool off. Astarill took the weapon and used the far end of the blade to force her head up to face him.

She sneered at his victorious expression.

“I hope you do not expect me to applaud now?” she said cynically.

He removed the blade and offered her the hilt. When she looked at him questioningly, he explained: “Your proposal sounds intriguing. I merely wanted to demonstrate that I do not wish to be threatened.

Returning a crooked smirk, Elenore took her sword and sheathed it. “I'll try to remember that,” she said. “So... do we have ourselves a new agreement?”

“We do,” he confirmed, “On the condition that you will retrieve the Temple files on Anudnabia for me, of course.”

“I’ll find a way. You’ll have them tomorrow.”

Astarill cocked an eyebrow. “If you’ve so easily changed your mind about returning to Tel Mora without the orb, why did you insist on going through all this trouble in the first place?”

“You threatened to withhold the orb from me,” she said. “And I do not wish to be threatened either,” she added with a smile, mimicking his accent. “Though… I'll be keeping this interesting book of yours, in case you try to violate our agreements again.”

“Very well,” he said, extending a hand.

Elenore looked down at his hand, and then up at his eyes with some suspicion. Recalling a minor spell of shielding, just in case the necromancer would try to cast a spell again, she took his hand and shook it.

“Very well.”
Chapter 7. The Orb of Madness (Part II)

A fierce storm had swept over Sadrith Mora during the night. When Astarill stepped outside through the backdoor of the Public Baths that following morning, the streets were damp and chilly. A strong wind blew through town. Shivering, the Altmer pulled the hood of his robe over his head and strolled down the main street in the direction of the Gateway Inn. Each hollow in the road had been turned into a puddle, and the gutters on both sides of the street where filled with gently babbling water flowing downhill until it would eventually reach the sewers. To the west, ominous stormclouds tainted the sky as though they had been driven away by the sun advancing from the east. The air smelled faintly of thunder.

Taking a deep breath of cold, fresh air, Astarill let his thoughts wander to the crimson haired woman and the deal they had made. The prospect of having more items for study certainly was alluring. It would save him a lot of research time if the locations of the items were already determined by Mistress Dratha. All that was left to do then was retrieving them. He had not doubt in his mind that, with the help of Elenore, the actual retrieving of the artifacts would not present any problems. If he knew her at all, she seemed efficient and relentless, and relentlessly efficient at that. And although he had no real need for the monetary advantages of sharing Mistress Dratha's reward, that also seemed quite beneficial.

The only real danger involved in their scheme was in the items they would decide to keep for themselves. Certainly, he was quite a skilled enchanter, and it should not be problematic to create a forgery, but Mistress Dratha was very old, experienced and not likely to be fooled easily. It wouldn’t surprise Astarill at all if she could somehow see that the item and its magical aura were much younger than they should have been. Not to mention that the artefact would obviously be less powerful than expected. With time, the old Sorceress should become suspicious. Yet modesty had never been one of his gifts and in his confidence, he did not fear the wrath of any Telvanni councillor, especially not that of an elderly woman. The thrill of the challenge was already beckoning him.

Opening the door of his room, Astarill was pulled out of his train of thoughts by a faint, rustling sound. He looked down and saw a bundle of parchments lying at his feet. It seemed to have been shoved into his room under the door. He picked up the bundle, and smiled.

Elenore is very quick, he thought.

-

Around him, the room had vanished. His desk, his chair had disappeared. He was floating in a seemingly endless void. The Temple files on the cleansing of Anudnabia that have should been lying beside him, were gone. His quill, his inkwell, all was gone. There was only him, and the orb in a vast sea of blackness.

The orb was floating in front of him and pulsing with brilliant white light that seemed to grow larger and brighter with each breath. There was a blinding flash of light and the sensation of falling deeper and deeper into the void. When his sight returned, he saw he was indeed falling down with great speed. Around him, flashes of purple energy alternating with yellow lightning blurred his vision.

A deafening scream cut through the void. As Astarill moved his hands to cover his sensitive elven ears, a gargantuan, monstrous arm appeared. Its skin was purple, its pulsing veins were faintly red and its claws were black as soot. As the gigantic talons closed around him, he heard a horrendous laughter. He struggled to get free from the iron grasp, but then he saw eyes, huge glowing red eyes, like the fires of Oblivion themselves.

A voice could be heard in the distance, slowly coming closer. It was a strange, incomprehensible language with many guttural syllables. As it got nearer and louder, he could hear that it was repeating the same words over and over again. He couldn’t understand the short sentences, but they were beating his mind like a hammer, crushing his concentration and willpower.

A spell? he thought, A spell that affects my mind?

He fought against it, shielding his mind, closing off his senses to the hammering words.

There was another gulf of laughter and the talons around him disappeared. There was a gust of wind, as if something was running around him in circles. As he focussed, he could spot a dark shape running, jumping, and sometimes crawling across invisible walls.

It's trying to get out, he realized.

Astarill grabbed hold of it, and withdrew immediately, as the flesh on his fingers burned away at the touch. The shadowy creature turned around, red eyes gleaming evilly. Hysterical laughter resounded, followed by the same repeating, guttural words.

Grinding his teeth, Astarill grabbed the creature once more. Screaming, he saw his flesh wither before his eyes, yet he held on. The creature inflamed, literally, and frantically tried to shake him off. Seeing its attempts were futile, it uttered a hideous shriek. It lashed out with a fiery talon, grabbing the Altmer's throat. The Altmer didn’t budge, however, and stared straight at the red eyes of the flaming creature before him.

Astarill had trouble recalling any spells. Only one sprang to mind. He managed to utter the words. His throat was dry and he could only croak.

He would not have guessed his spell to have any effect. Yet the creature uttered a deafening, mind-shattering, high-pitched scream. There was a blast of yellow and purple light, followed by complete silence. All was black. Disorientated, Astarill stumbled a few steps, and collapsed to the floor.

-

“Astarill!”

With some effort, he managed to open his eyes. He saw nothing but blackness, at first. Then he began to discern vague contrasts. The voice repeated his name. It sounded feminine and it seemed concerned, with a hint of impatience.

“Sivithi?” he wanted to say, but his throat was dry and hurting. The only audible sound he could produce was a muffled mutter.

“Astarill?”

He blinked. Slowly, his vision returned to normal. He saw the ceiling of his room and he concluded that he was lying on his bed. A female visage hovered into view. He noticed heartless, bloodred eyes set in a fine face with sharp features, framed by long crimson hair.

“Elenore?” he croaked with some confusion and astonishment. Quite contrary to his own common sense, she seemed like an angel to him at that moment.

“You look like a corpse,” she said bluntly. “What happened to you?”

“I'm fine, thanks for asking,” he growled and turned his eyes to the ceiling, trying to remember exactly what had happened before he had ended up like this. Realization dawned all of a sudden. He bolted upright and grabbed the woman's shoulders, shaking her violently.

“Did it escape?!” he asked frantically.

“Did what escape?” Elenore asked irritably.

“The demon! The demon from the orb! Did it escape?”

“There was no one when I got here, except for you lying on the floor in the middle of the room, if that's what you want to know. And there was a warding spell on the door when I got here, so I doubt anything could have passed without accidentally dispelling it,” she answered angrily. She took his hands and was about to fling them back at him, when she noticed the marks on his palms. “Your hands...” she said, “They're burned.”

Astarill didn't even hear those last words. He only sighed in relief. Yet at that moment, a stab of searing pain shot through his head and the world turned black before his eyes once more. He grabbed his head and bowed forward, flinching in pain.

“So are you going to tell me what happened?” Elenore asked impatiently. When he muttered a few unintelligible words, she frowned. “What?”

“I was trying to tell you... that I am in dire need of a potion. So please...” he groaned in pain, “Left most chest, the blue one, please...”

She cocked an eyebrow and stood up with a sigh. She found a chest in a corner, next to his desk. It didn't appear to be locked and she lifted the lid. Within the chest, several potions were neatly ordered according to colour. She picked one of the blue ones, holding it up.

“This one?”

He nodded curtly.

She walked back to the bed and handed him the blue vial. He immediately gulped it down and laid himself back. He closed his eyes to let the healing liquid do its work.

“Now can you tell me what happened?” she asked, sitting herself down beside the bed. “Did you find out what the orb does?”

Astarill winced at the memory.
“It is a tool to summon a particular demon, a Daedra,” he began his explanation, “A much stronger Daedra than any Daedra I have ever encountered. At first I even thought that it might have been Sheogorath himself who could be summoned, but perhaps it’s one of his champions. A champion that has been locked up in the orb as a punishment or something similar, I don’t know. It… it is a downright monster. It cannot be controlled…”

“You mean you can’t control it,” she interrupted.

“Yes, so I daresay no one can,” he snapped back angrily. “That thing is much too dangerous. If someone with insufficient power or experience would try to use the orb, the creature would use that person’s link to this world to escape its imprisonment. I think that was what it tried to do to me, but I prevented it. In any case, we can’t give the orb to Dratha. What if it escapes? Or worse, what if she actually manages to summon it?”

Elenore frowned. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any danger in giving her the orb, Altmer.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s broken.”

“What?!”
Astarill glanced up at his desk where the orb still lay still. It had ceased glowing, though, and there was a huge crack in the crystalline material.
“Ah…” he muttered, “Then... what will you tell Dratha?”

“I’ll tell her the priests must have broken it.”

“Will she believe you? The files explicitly mentioned that the orb was left untouched.”

“Have you not heard the rumours? The Splinterer is known to be rigorous and unorthodox. If anything, he's a fanatic. I'm sure he deserves his nickname. I think the Mistress will figure that he destroyed the orb in his anger.”

She stood up and took the orb from the desk, carefully folding it in the rags they had used to transport the artifact. She put it away securely in the satchel at her side.

“Get well soon,” she said, as she walked towards the door, “I'll soon have a new assignment and a new artifact to find.”
Chapter 8. The Splinterer

“There it is!” Elenore shouted, gesturing with her head while she reloaded her crossbow.

Astarill could hardly distinguish what the Dark Elf had called out to him. Every word was drowned out by the boisterous roar of the ash storm. He parried a blow from a cliff racer's tail and glanced in the general direction of the woman’s gesture.

“I see it!” he yelled back at her, “Cover me!”

Astarill dashed away, while Elenore fired a bolt that went straight through the cliff racer's throat. The creature crushed to the ground with a dull thud. Its companion shrieked and dived towards the young woman. In one fluent movement, Elenore took her crossbow in her off-hand and drew her sabre with the other to grant the cliff racer a bloody greeting.

In the mean time, Astarill ran down a path to the south, covering his face with a sleeve of his robe to prevent the ash from blowing into his eyes. Behind him, the sound of the rogue’s fight with the remaining cliff racer was lost in the howling of the wind. Before him, the crude path emerged from the mountains and ended in a small valley of no more than a few yards wide. Seen through the red haze of ash, silhouettes of dead tree stumps and trama shrubs seemed like dark and ghostly figures. On the opposite slope of the valley, the indistinct contours of a stone entrance could be seen. A skeleton guardian stood in front of it.

A sardonic grin appeared on the Altmer's lips. Raising the decayed remains of warriors and forcing them to guard a specific location was a widely used form of necromancy in Morrowind. It was simple in the sense that the procedure was accurately described in several books, yet casting the necessary spells demanded a lot of experience and knowledge, mainly of the Conjuration School. Quite remarkable was the fact that it was the one form of necromancy that was approved of -and even widely used by- the Temple.

Hypocrisy in its purest form, Astarill thought as he approached the skeleton carefully. The undead guardian did nothing but stare ahead into the storm through empty eye sockets. But as Astarill had expected, the skeleton awakened as soon as he had stepped within arm's length of the entrance.

The skeleton drew its rusty sword that had been strapped to its back in an awkward manner by a mouldy leather belt. Readying his sword in his right hand, Astarill took a step back and extended his left hand.

“Nirish'a-tokgh'iri,” he uttered, remembering the most common magical command to hold and command undead creatures. Or, as he liked to refer to it, a long-winded way of saying 'halt'.

The skeleton did not obey though. Astarill cringed in anticipation of the slow, but devastating blow that was to come. Ancient steel crashed down upon elven silver with a force that made the Altmer's sword arm give way.

Astarill cursed aloud, feeling his arm go numb.

Older than I had expected, apparently, he thought. As the skeleton drove him back with sluggish yet precise blows, he searched his mind for older, less traditional spells and procedures that were used to bind souls back to their mortal shell. He found his thinking hampered by the need to dodge, avoid and parry attacks.

“Amhan'amrisi!” he decided eventually.

The undead warrior raised its sword over its head with apparent determination. Astarill braced himself for another blow, but none came. The skeleton stood frozen to the spot. Sighing in relief, the Altmer put his sword away. At another word of command, the rusty sword dropped to the ground. The skeleton collapsed. Bones crumbled to dust, and were carried off by the wind.

May you be so fortunate to meet the priest who did that to you, Astarill thought with a vile smile, drawing a certain malicious enjoyment from that thought. He chose not to think of the things that he himself would have to answer for on his dying day. For all his affiliation with death, he feared it as much as anyone. Perhaps even more.

He remembered the words of his father, clear and calm, yet as cold as the old man's eyes.

Justify your deeds, or face the consequences...

He lived by those words.

Suddenly, his ears twitched at dull sound behind him. He swung around to see a cliff racer lying on the ground before his feet, a bolt poking out of its back. He looked up to see Elenore casually walking up to him.

“Hope you didn't have too much trouble with that skeleton,” she said, grinning one of her characteristic crooked grins that he had grown used to over time, “But my bolts won't do much good against creatures without vital organs to get stuck in. Is this the right tomb?”

Astarill turned to the large stone door and studied the symbols that were carved into its surface. He traced the words with his forefinger, wiping the dirt and ash away where necessary.
“According to these writings, this tomb is the final resting place of some Arch Magister of Great House Telvanni, specifically from the second era.” He squinted his eyes. “The stone has weathered, but I think his name was... Lirtis Nerellis?”

Elenore nodded. “Yeah, that's the one Mistress Dratha was talking about,” she confirmed, while keeping an eye out for more cliff racers. “Does it say anything about his wife?”

“No, except that she has been sealed within this same tomb twenty three years later, together with some loyal servants. And there's something else here... can't read it, but it seems more recent than the other symbols.”

“Well, she's in there, that's what matters,” Elenore decided, “According to Mistress Dratha, Lady Nerellis is the one who created the artifact we're looking for, so my suggestion would be to look for her corpse. Agreed?”

Astarill nodded and tried to get some movement in the heavy stone door, but the chinks and cavities in which the door should roll were filled with sand and ash from the storms that had swept around the tomb for centuries.

“Give me a hand with this,” he grunted, and together they managed to shove the door aside just far enough for them to squeeze through.

Once inside and out of the howling wind, Astarill suddenly became aware of the ash that itched in his neck and within his boots. He shook out his hair and his robe feverishly. Small clouds of red dust whirled down to the floor.

“I despise the Ashlands,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “And I hope you've noticed this tomb is significantly further south-west from Tel Aruhn than you said it would be.”

Elenore ignored his complaints and pressed a finger to her lips. She gestured him to stay where he was, and muttered the words of a Nighteye spell. She reloaded her crossbow with quick and soundless efficiency and sneaked down the shadowy corridor that had opened up before them.

Intrigued, Astarill watched the way she managed to sneak to the end of the corridor without a sound. He listened hard, but he could not hear her even though he could see her quite clearly now his eyes were adjusting to the dark. She pressed herself to the wall and peered around the corner. She turned back and gestured him all was safe.

As soon as he had caught up with her, Astarill found himself in a small, dusty ante room. Elenore had removed a torch from one of the rings on the wall and handed it to him. At a snap of his fingers, a small flame emerged above his hand. He brought it close to the torch, and immediately the room was filled with a dim, flickering light. There was a soft rustle of vermin scurrying away from the sudden brightness. The room was covered in cobwebs. On the opposite wall, three doors became visible.

“So, Altmer, which one do you reckon we pick?”

“I thought you were the expert on traps?” he asked with a snort. He approached to examine the three doors more closely in the light of the torch.

Elenore rolled her eyes. “None of them is trapped,” she sighed. “I can see that from here. I was merely trying to put that knowledge of yours -on which you pride yourself so- to our advantage. It might save us some time.”

“Fair enough,” he muttered, ignoring her sarcasm. He took in the situation and considered his options. Suddenly, he narrowed his eyes. “There’s something wrong with the door on the left,” he said.

She moved to stand at his side and submitted the door to a critical survey. “No cobwebs,” she concluded quickly. “Which means this door must have been used recently.”

“Exactly,” Astarill said, and added with an exaggerated gesture, “After you, madam.”

-

The shrill, crackling sound of the concentrated bolt of lightning that left Astarill’s hand, was followed by the otherworldly grunt of the Dremora as it smashed into the wall. Elenore took advantage of the situation, jumping forward and trapping it between the wall and her blade with a vicious grin.

“No, wait!” Astarill interrupted, as he grabbed a small, orange gem from one of the many pockets on the inside of his robe. “Let me finish this one…”

She stepped aside to let him pass and he approached the severely wounded daedra, holding up the gem in one hand. As he began to speak, harsh incomprehensible words left his thin lips and a purple glow appeared around both of his hands. The Dremora moaned painfully and struggled to crawl back against the wall. Astarill placed his boot on the creature’s chest, forcing it down, and bent down to press his fingers on its forehead. The same purple glow began to encircle the creature.

Hellish glowing eyes stared up in fear at the cold gaze of the elf, as the Dremora slowly felt the last of its life drain from its body. It closed its eyes to welcome the soothing darkness of Oblivion, but instead, it felt something tugging at its soul. The Dremora uttered a terrifying scream.

Astarill closed his eyes and drew in his breath as he pressed his fingers harder. He felt the essence of the creature’s soul depart from its body. Seizing the tortured spirit with his mind, he absorbed it within his own being and transferred it to the gem in his hand.

When he opened his eyes again, his arms felt numb and cold, and his head ached. The gem in his hand glowed weakly for a few seconds before its light faded. The Dremora lay before him, cold and lifeless. The body would eventually fade and return to its plane of origin, soulless.

Astarill noticed Elenore staring at him with horrified fascination.

“Give me a moment to catch my breath,” he said, and leaned against the altar that was standing in the middle of the room, putting the gem back into the pocket of his robe.

“So that is how it’s done,” Elenore whispered with amazement. “I’ve never actually seen anyone do it. It looks horrible. I mean… How does it feel?”

Astarill shook his head. “I couldn’t accurately describe it to you,” he said, “It feels… wrong, I guess. Just wrong. Each soul you capture seems to eat away at your own spirit, taking a bit of yourself with it into the gem, as if it’s desperately trying to hold on to the world, the flesh.”

“Ah…”

“In any case,” he began, “There’s an awful lot of daedra roaming about for your average tomb. The Temple never guards tombs with demons, only with undead,” he said and added under his breath, “Which apparently makes it all right for them.”

“Well, the man was a Telvanni,” Elenore said simply, shrugging her shoulders.

“Yeah, but still…” he mused, rubbing the painful sides of his head before he stood up. He unsheathed his sword. “Let's get going.”

Before she could have replied, there was a terrible thunderous sound, not unlike an explosion. The door broke out of its hinges and was flung against the opposing wall by a burst of searing flames. Astarill and Elenore stared at the burning pieces of wood that would have hit them, had they not ducked behind the altar in time.

They peered over the altar at the smoking door opening. The misty contour of a woman appeared, stepping through the flames seemingly unharmed.

“You have violated my husband’s grave and my home! You have killed my pets! I shall punish you for this, you filthy, puny mortals!” a hideous voice cried out.

The woman stepped into the room with utmost precision and elegance. She was dressed in an exquisite gown that once must have been a beautiful emerald green colour, but that had worn out and paled with time. Her hair was milk white, just like her eyes, and reached down to the ground.

Vampire... both Altmer and Dunmer realized simultaneously as they exchanged a glance.

“Lady Nerellis,” Astarill mouthed soundlessly, and Elenore nodded at this.

“Come out, little rats! I can smell you!” the vampire screamed and launched another ball of fire into the room.

“Aim for the heart,” Astarill said, before he rose and directed a crackling ball of lightning at the figure in the door opening. The woman did not try to dodge it. On the contrary, she closed her eyes and welcomed the sizzling energy with open arms. The lightning came to an abrupt halt only inches in front of her.

“For all the magick I sense in you, is that the best you can do, mortal?” she screamed.

With elegant movements of her arm, she shaped the destructive magic into a small bundle of dense energy and threw it back at the Altmer with uncanny speed and strength. Astarill's eyes widened in shock. Knowing for certain that he was too late to dodge, he tried to force the concentration of energy to a halt by means of Telekinesis. Grinding his teeth, both hands extended, he realized that the attack was much too fast to control on such a short range. The compacted ball of lightning struck him, flinging him against the wall. The pain of the electricity that surged through his body, contracting his muscles uncontrollably, felt oddly soothing compared to the pain that shot through his head as his skull hit the wall. He collapsed to the floor.

The vampire approached him and grabbed his collar. She lifted him up slightly, sniffing. She shook her head. “Your blood is tainted,” she muttered, “You'll die purposelessly.”

At that moment, Elenore saw an opening and fired a bolt. It struck the vampire right below the shoulder, close to the heart, but apparently not close enough. Lady Nerellis gazed vacantly at the young woman and then at the bolt in her shoulder. With a wicked grin, she pulled the bolt out without a flinch. She threw it up in the air, where it kept hovering. With a snap of the vampire's fingers, the bolt broke in half and fell down to the ground.

“You’ll have to do better than that, my dear,” the woman said sweetly. “Not that you’ll get the chance, of course…”

Before Elenore could have reacted, the ancient sorceress disappeared and reappeared again right in front of the rogue’s nose. “Sleep, my child,” the vampire hissed and dug her nails painfully deep into the young woman’s neck.

Elenore tried to cry out, but all that left her mouth was a muffled gargling. She felt the long fingernails [censored] into her skin. A searing, yet at the same time freezing sensation emanated from the ten punctures in her neck, spreading slowly through her entire body. Her vision blurred, her mind was hazy and her limbs grew numb. The last thing she felt before all went black, was the cold, lifeless breath of the vampire against her neck.

Lady Nerellis lifted the numb girl and brushed away the strands of crimson hair to expose her neck. “Do not worry, my child,” the woman hissed viciously. “In contrast to your companion, you shan’t die in vain. Your blood shall renew my vigour and beauty for the coming century.”

The vampire bent forward, exposing her fangs, but instead of sinking her teeth into the young woman's neck, she uttered a deafening scream, blank eyes wide in shock. She dropped the rogue and looked down at her chest. The blade of a silver elven sword protruded from her chest. She turned around and saw Astarill before she dropped to her knees.

“You…” she hissed and wheezed, “You were… stronger… than I th–…”

Astarill pulled his sword free from the back of the vampire. Though he had driven it straight through the heart, there was no blood. As soon as the blade left the body, it shrivelled and withered, as the flesh dried out and peeled loose from the skeleton. On one of the bony fingers, a gold band glistened in the torchlight. Astarill bent down and removed it. It was a heavy golden ring, engraved with strange letters on the inside. Five bright, green stones decorated the front. He could sense a magical aura radiating from the trinket.

He put the ring in one of his pouches and turned to Elenore. Her limp body lay on the floor close to the shrivelled corpse of the vampire. He squatted down beside the rogue and lifted her head. There was no reaction. He studied the punctures in her neck and reached for his satchel. He produced a small, green vial. Resting her head on his knee, he placed a hand under her chin and pressed her mouth open with his thumb. He poured the liquid in and held her mouth shut for several moments, forcing her to swallow the potion. Then, he propped her up against the altar and stood up.

Rubbing the back of his painful head, he walked to the smouldering door opening and glanced into the next room. It was dark and covered in cobwebs. In the middle of the small room, Lady Nerellis' sarcophagus was exposed upon a large pedestal. Astarill peered inside just in case, but it was empty. He rummaged around through the chests that were stacked against the back wall. He found piles of old, dusty tomes, undefined potions, rare gems and several enchanted items. He began to sort the books and laid a few interesting volumes apart. After a while, his ears twitched at a rustle from the other room. He put down the book he had been leafing through and returned to see the rogue regaining her consciousness.

“My head...” Elenore moaned and blinked. She found herself sitting on the dirty tomb floor, leaning against the altar. Astarill squatted beside her. “What did I miss?” she asked, “And what on Nirn is that disgusting taste in my mouth?”

“I’m afraid that would be the potion I gave you to neutralize the poison,” he answered. “Lady Nerellis applied some strange form of venom on her fingernails.”

Elenore rubbed her neck. “Yeah, I remember that. Did she… bite me?”

Astarill shook his head.

“Thank Mephala!” she sighed in relief. Then, a thought seemed to strike her. “Why was it that she didn't try to bite you?” she asked with a frown.

“I don't know,” he said.

“She was grumbling something about your blood being tainted or so,” the rogue insisted, narrowing her eyes.

“Did she?”

She submitted him to a scrutinizing look.
You are one terrible liar, Altmer... she thought, and couldn't help but smile a crooked grin. “Yes, it was rather strange,” she said, “I would have thought Altmer blood to be quite tasty. Did you find the ring?”

“Yes,” he nodded, tapping the pouch at his side. “Together with some intriguing old books. A lot of interesting items are stored in the next room. You might want to take a look around before we go,” he said as he rose to his feet and offered her his hand.

She took his hand and allowed him to help her up. She reached for something that was hidden under her cloak and produced an empty sack. “I'd say we fill this loot bag up,” she said, unfolding the bag, “And then head back for Tel Aruhn for a bottle of shein to celebrate our success.”

-

Astarill took a seat at a table in one of the gloomy corners of the Plot and Plaster. He removed the cylinder-shaped case from his belt and took out an empty parchment. With a piece of coal in one hand and the ring from the tomb in the other, he began to copy the markings that were engraved on the inside of the small artifact. The symbols resembled Daedric, though there were slight differences.

A Daedric dialect, perhaps? he mused. Or a code based on Daedric created to shield her work from unwanted readers?

His train of thought was interrupted by Elenore, who returned with two goblets of shein and sat down opposite of him. She raised her glass.

“To another successful cooperation,” she said.

“To Mistress Dratha,” Astarill replied, laying down the ring and taking his goblet. “Who selflessly showed us the way to another one of the most valuable artifacts on Vvardenfell.”

A vague, crooked smile appeared on her face as she nodded at this, fading as quick as it had appeared. She averted her eyes and took a thoughtful sip of her comberry wine.

Raising an eyebrow, he narrowed his eyes and studied her face, wondering whether he had truly seen it correctly. Her smile had been different than usual. Quite shockingly, it had seemed genuine for a change. Nothing like the occasional sneer or mocking grin she often shot at him.

He wondered if it was a smile she reserved only for people she trusted or cared for. A small part somewhere inside of him hoped, if not prayed, this to be the case. For a brief moment, a strange mingled feeling that he could not define filled his soul. He knew that neither of them was quick to warm up to people, though Elenore could very convincingly act as though she did. They were both distant and distrustful by nature, he knew, but he had grown fond of her company over the past few weeks.

Only a few days ago, they had combed out an Ashlander tomb in search for a particularly interesting guar hide with supposed magical properties. Apart from a few diseased rats and nasty moulds, there were no real threats. He had let Elenore handle it, while he had taken his time studying the unique mummies and burial rites typical in Ashlander culture. He had tried to point out to her the similarities that seemed to reappear in every culture no matter how small or primitive, but she had only frowned at him.

“My job is to kill,” she had said, “I don't care what happens after that.”

Astarill smiled at the memory. He found he enjoyed having someone around to talk to without worrying too much about what and what not to say. He enjoyed working with her. He enjoyed having a friend, though he was afraid to use that word. He would never cease to prefer solitude above anyting else, yet sometimes the benefits of having a trusted person to turn to surpassed that.

But can she be trusted? If not, she knows too much...

Moments passed as he stared ahead, entranced and caught up in his own thoughts. A soft and delicate melody from a bard’s lute filled the tavern. He saw other patrons having their conversations in subdued voices to avoid disturbing the music. The bittersweet, sedating smell of alcohol hung heavily in the air. The room was small and somewhat stuffy. There were little to no windows to let in the light in Telvanni architecture. Flickering candles provided the only available light.

Astarill noticed their glow falling on the ashen skin of the woman opposite of him. He followed the play of shadows and light on her face framed by long, wavy hair as deep a red as the wine in his goblet. He studied her, observing her as though he had never really looked at her before. She was nothing special. Women of far superior beauty had left him unmoved. The streets and courts of Shimerene were loaded with them. Tall and elegant women, much like his own mother in her younger years, with warm and tender eyes. Elenore wasn't tall, though not necessarily less elegant. She displayed a crafty, feline grace, where others were proud and haughty. In contrast to Altmer women, she didn't try to appear better than she really was. If anything, she tried to appear less. He would have liked to compliment her on that, if it wasn't for the fact that it would seem rather awkward. He suspected that she wouldn't appreciate any compliments from him without an exceptionally well-formulated reason.

“Are you quite all right?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Astarill woke from his thoughts with a start.

“Yes...” was all he could say for several moments, “I was just thinking about the symbols on the inside of the ring,” he said, realizing he must have looked fairly stupid, staring ahead like that. He hastily put down his glass and took the parchment, concentrating hard on the strange letters he had jotted down.

“There’s no need to hurry with that,” Elenore said. “Mistress Dratha will leave for Ebonheart tomorrow to attend a High Council meeting on the improvement of women’s rights. She won’t expect me to bring her the ring before she has returned again.”

“I know,” he muttered under his breath.

“And besides, there’s bound to be some clue in one of those books we’ve–…”

When it occurred to him that she hadn’t finished her sentence, Astarill looked up. He saw her staring at something beyond the scope of his vision. Opening his mouth to ask what was wrong, he turned his head and followed her gaze. His breath caught and his eyes widened.

A Dark Elf with crimson red hair bound in a tight tail casually strolled towards them. Astarill’s eyes were immediately drawn towards the massive warhammer strapped to the man’s back. The gloom of the tavern cast ominous shadows upon the man’s appearance and the candlelight made his bloodred eyes flare dangerously.

“What a fortunate coincidence to have ran into you!” the man said joyfully. It wasn’t completely clear whether he was addressing both, or only one of them, though he was looking at Elenore.

He moved behind her, put his hands on her shoulders and placed a kiss on her forehead. “My dear sister,” he said, “It has been a dreadfully long time since I’ve last seen you.”

Astarill stared incredulously at the two Dunmer. He could not believe that he hadn’t seen the resemblance before. That same deep red colour of hair, those same heartless eyes set in almost the same sharp features…

She is his sister, his mind cried out, She is the Splinterer’s sister! It was him. He was the high-ranking Temple member she was talking about… Gods... Where have I gotten myself into?

“Seltn…” Elenore began, with a quavering voice, though she recovered remarkably quick. “It’s good to see you. What are you doing in Tel Aruhn?”

“I was sent to negotiate with Arch Magister Gothren. The Temple wants to build a small shrine here in town, in order to provide the poorer citizens with a place to pray and cheaper potions. Most people cannot afford the expensive Telvanni alchemists,” Seltn told, “But how about you? What are you doing here? And more importantly, what are you doing here with one of my fellow priests?”

Elenore glanced at Astarill, who was still staring ahead in complete shock. “Mistress Dratha sent me to retrieve an artifact for her,” she began, slowly and hesitantly, “And I was told that the artifact was in the hands of a vampire. I asked around for a priest with some experience with vampires... and that way I met Astarill.”

Seltn nodded with understanding, though Elenore could not tell whether he truly believed her makeshift explanation or not.

“Well then, my brother,” Seltn addressed Astarill as he sat himself down at the table. “I see you are even more renowned than I thought.”

Astarill turned to the Dark Elf and managed a weak smile. “Apparently,” he replied.

“Now then, let me buy you two another drink, while Elenore tells me what she has been up to these last few months in which she didn’t think of visiting her dear brother,” Seltn said, smiling a crooked grin that apparently ran in the family.

“Not for me, thank you,” Astarill abruptly said, rising from his chair. “I would like to be back in Sadrith Mora before sundown and I venture my boat will be leaving soon. I bid you both farewell.”

He quickly packed his things together and prepared to leave the tavern, when Seltn stopped him. “Why are you taking that with you?” the Dark Elf asked, pointing at the ring. “I thought it was supposed to be returned to Mistress Dratha? By my sister?”

Astarill looked at the ring in his hand, then up at Elenore. “Yes…” he began, “But the Mistress will be out of town for an undefined time, and in return for my help, I may study the artifact in the mean time, before it will be returned.”

“Yes,” Elenore added quickly, “That’s what I’ve promised him in return, Seltn.”

“Ah... Everything for knowledge, eh? You have the makings of a true Telvanni, Astarill of Shimerene,” Seltn said.

Astarill managed a polite smile in return, ignoring the Dunmer's mocking tone. He exchanged a glance with Elenore and took his belongings. “Good evening,” he said, and left the tavern.

-

As the harbour of Sadrith Mora appeared on the horizon, he leaned his elbows on the railing and rested his head in his hands. A weak sea wind blew strands of hair in his weary face. He sighed heavily, lines of worry deepened on his forehead.

She is his sister…

His sister…

The Splinterer's sister...

The thought kept echoing through his mind.

How could I have ever put my trust in someone this close to that witchhunter? What if this all was a trick? He mistrusted me from the beginning… What if he used his own sister to get close to me and find out whether I am truly the loyal priest I pretend to be?

Suddenly, his pale grey eyes widened in shock.

By Phynaster! She still has a book of mine! If she betrays me... That bloodthirsty hypocrite of a brother will have my head.

“Oh gods…” he moaned through clenched teeth.
Chapter 9. The Rise of Anudnabia

As soon as Astarill descended the gangplank to set foot on the docks of Sadrith Mora, a fierce gust of wind greeted him, nearly knocking him off his feet. Grumbling a collection of gross obscenities, he voiced his displeasure about the weather and the evening in general as he pulled his robe around him and legged towards the entrance of the Gateway Inn. He realized in time that there was no need to forsake his manners and he made a point of neatly closing the door behind him, instead of slamming it as had been his original intention.

Inside, the warmth of a crackling fire and the savoury smell of guar cutlets added a homey atmosphere to the small dining hall, yet it failed to move him this time. Sivithi was serving a plate of steaming marshmerrow stew drenched in gravy to one of the patrons. When the publician returned with an empty tray to take her place behind the bar, she noticed the Altmer in the dooropening. She granted him a warm smile, but he found himself unable to answer it.

“What can I get you today?” the elderly woman asked kindly.

Astarill sat down on a bar stool and shook his head. “I don’t feel very hungry at the moment,” he said, “A slice of bread and some scuttle to go with it will do.”

The publican nodded and disappeared into the kitchen to comply with his request. He was grateful for the fact that the old white-haired woman always seemed to know exactly when he did not wish to be questioned and when it was better to just leave him be.

He thanked her when she returned with his plate, and told her good night before he ascended the stairs to his room. Closing the door behind him, he sighed heavily. The events of the day finally seemed to take their toll as exhaustion came over him all at once. He dragged himself to his desk and put down the plate with his frugal meal. He took off his robe and flung it onto his bed without much elegance. He allowed himself to flop down on the chair by his desk and closed his eyes for a brief moment. Then he took a deep breath and began to sort out the books he had taken from the tomb that afternoon, intend on immersing himself in study, if only to take his mind off other things.

-

He could not quite remember how long he had been searching Lady Nerellis’ journal for clues on the translation of the Daedric code, but at a certain point in time he was distracted from his work by strange noises that appeared