Yes, I know, there's no excuse. I just… kinda forgot? Fell out of the mood? Had a lot to do over the summer?

Meh, whatever. The best apology is a new chapter.

Chapter thirty-seven: Fateful meetings

The Trickster giggled to himself as he observed the little vampire best the big Nord as the cat laughed. Those three were now well on their way to the port they had used to travel to Albion, just a few short weeks before. Now, they would be looking for passage northeast, to the forests and mountains of Varangia, in search of a Shrine that apparently could cure vampirism.

He had no idea if this was true, and that was exciting. Having lived through thousands of lifetimes in the same world, and having the powers he possessed, being unsure of something was a feeling he had not experienced for an era.

As the three travellers, one Nord, one Khajiit and one vampire, settled down by the campfire to discuss their next move, he moved to observe someone else. It would be funnier if he did not know their plans.

Turning his head to the north, he saw a man in armoured robes, wielding a massive warhammer. He was coordinating the siege of a castle with several others in matching colours. Ah, the vigilants. So driven, so zealous, so sadly uncompromising. Their hate of the Daedra bordered on fanaticism, when they could so easily have forged alliances with at least some of the princes.

Merida in particular would have loved their "Burn first, salt later, talk never" approach to undead.

Ah, but they were always fun nonetheless. He could hardly wait for the big battle of Albion. Two champions, each without their summoner with them. A Nightblade Vampire, fighting a holy Crusader. He had seen those character types do battle before, many times. The result was usually victory for the crusader, but this time the vampire had the upper hand…

The battle, he thought, would prove interesting.

He then turned his gaze to the fifth and last champion, who was dragging her summoner along a muddy road to Tristania. Travelling with them was Serana, who had come with the Nightblade when Cromwell called her forth. An unforeseen circumstance. An interesting fluke.

They were just a few leagues from the camping site of Ysmir, Louise and Q'jaed. Oh, it would be so easy to have them meet up! Just a few dancing lights in the distance, a whispered voice, maybe an illusion or two… but would it be worth it? Serana would eventually find Ysmir, since she was actively looking for him, and time was not a concern for her ilk. Frea might follow on their quest. Joseph would probably have little say in the matter.

But how would the Varangians react to a king being dragged across their borders? With hostility? Mirth? He could not risk their adventure ending so soon, on the off chance they provoked the northerners…

Oh, what should he do…?

Viewpoint change!

It was early in the morning, and the chill of the desert night still hung over the camp. The inhabitants were stirring, and one after one they wandered over to the biggest ship in the fleet. As the sun rose above the dunes, it illuminated the massive ship. With six masts, divided over the three decks conjoined in the afts, the only reason it could keep up with the much more nimble schooners was the large amount of wind stones embedded in its hull. They were not enough for it to fly properly, but gliding across the sands had been more than enough for the elves since they were forced into the desert.

As the army and suppliers formed a crowd by the aft, the drapes of the large window in the stern of the ship were drawn back, and the Justiciar appeared before them, his golden skin almost shimmering in the morning sun. Cheering commenced, but he waved them down, and spoke to his army.

"My brothers and sisters! Today, we leave the desert behind. Today, we begin the retaking of our lands!"

More cheering. The Justiciar revelled in it for a moment, before letting the noise die down.

"I understand some of you are worried that we will have to leave our ships behind. Fear not! In the hold of this very vessel, we carry the results of fifteen months of tireless work on our arcanists' part: enough wind stones to easily allow your ships true flight!"

The cheering recommenced, and then the work began. Each pilot was given a number of wind stones, based on the size of their ship and the weight of their cargo, to be installed under the directions of the arcanists.

The Justiciar looked out over his navy. He had seven hundred good men here, with fifty two arcanists divided up among the ships. Back in Tamriel, that number wouldn't be even close to enough to even take the imperial city. However, the elves of this world were significantly more powerful in the magical arts than even the altmer.

The thought had at first infuriated him. A race where even their most soldierly grunts used magic on the level of a highly trained Thalmor wizard. Their arcanists, as they called their specialized mages, were beyond anything he had ever seen. It was good that they fell to racial propaganda as easily as everyone else. They were not Altmer, nor descended from the Old Ehlnofey, but in a way they, too, were elves. He had found supporters within their ranks, and he could see himself leading their civilization into a golden age of unparalleled power and human subjugation for the next century or two.

All in all, being transported into this strange realm was turning out to be a blessing in disguise. Back home, he would not be in command of such a large or such a potent force, and even if he had, he would likely have been killed off by a power hungry subordinate.

He turned, and re-entered his chambers. There was much to plan. Thus, he did not see how, for the second time in a month, the sun seemed to redden and lose a portion of its intensity.

Viewpoint change!

If the sun was weakened over the edges of the desert, it was barely visible in the skies above Albion. The reddish circle high in the sky was all that told the vigilants that it was noon, and not late in the evening. Having counted on the inherent weakness of their undead, the vigilants had attacked Newcastle by early day, but found themselves beaten back when the vampires somehow managed to block out the sun.

One of the first things hammered into the skull of a prospective recruit was to never, ever fight vampires by night. Seeing as they had little choice now, some of the younger vigilants began to panic, their discipline giving way under the pressure. The once two hundred and fifty strong force had been halved, but the casualties were mostly from the ranks of the weaklings, and the elites gave significantly better than they got.

Since fighting vampires in a large group whilst outnumbered was a very quick way of being hit with massively powerful and destructive spells, the Keepers had ordered their forces to break up into groups, each consisting of three squads of three, as far as possible. They moved throughout the city like a wildfire, and though they were sometimes forced back by vampires or thralls the forces of the vigilants slowly but surely continued onwards.

The High Keeper was there with his troops, his warhammer painting the cobblestones red with vampire blood. He had no idea how the vampires had managed to block out the sun, nor how long it would last, and thus had no idea what to do other than continue onwards.

The battle was going relatively well, at least. Though runners from his subordinate Keepers reported high losses, they kept pushing forward. He had taught them well. Soon, they would have cleared out a third of the city, and his group was approaching the castle itself. A continuous stream of ice and lightning flew from the top of the walls, where at least fifty vampires were bombarding the vigilants below. The gate was open, but with the drawbridge up access was limited to the undead who could jump the six meters across the moat.

And jump they did. In swarms. It might not have done them any good against the High Keeper in his Guardian Circle, but it was still a sight to see: undead soaring across the moat like ravens and then dying like flies when they came within the reach of his warhammer, if his spells had not made them ash beforehand.

The High Keeper was in his element, constantly adding to the wall of corpses beginning to form around his Circle, and thus was a little distracted. Thankfully for him, his Lord looked out for his favourite mortal.

Dodge left!

Following the command without question, the High Keeper was shocked to see the black shaft of an arrow sticking out of the ground where he had stood a moment before. Its brother came soon, forcing him to dodge yet again, and whilst renewing his Circle he searched for the archer.

It did not take him long to find her. A cloaked figure stood atop the highest tower, sending arrow after arrow flying down below. He recognized the glimmer of her weapon from his Lord's description. So, the lady Sheffield was not above fighting personally? Interesting…

These thoughts only stayed in his mind for the second or so it took him to prepare a hopefully fatal shot of Vampire's Bane. Directing the spell towards the archer, he continued the slaughter.

There were still plenty of undead to slay.

Viewpoint change!

Sheffield saw the golden orb shoot from the fingers of her enemy toward her, and leapt from the tower to the roof of another. The spell struck right as she landed, creating an explosion of holy magic which engulfed the spot where she had stood. For the fourth time today, she cursed the fact that Vampire's bane looked identical to its much weaker variant Sunfire whilst in flight.

Drawing her bow again, she took stock of the situation whilst searching for a good target. She was losing, slowly but surely. Her undead minions, both vampiric and otherwise, rarely lasted long against the enemy mages, who were spewing out deadly magics left and right. They were hard to kill, too, since they hid behind their heavily armoured comrades whenever they could.

Her eyes found a mage, out on his own, having called up a small golden circle around himself but forgot to bring his squadmates. Her arrow pierced his throat just as he was about to renew his circle, and he was engulfed by her horde of darkness as his magic died along with him.

Still, the commander of the force held fast, slowly beating her minions back with the strength of three men; his outline shimmered of blue armament spells, his hands spewed forth circle after circle of Protection and orb after orb of Sunfire and Vampire's bane, and if she ever managed to hit him despite the almost supernatural degree of dodging he was displaying, he healed the wound in a moment.

He truly was her match; her athletics, archery and destructive magic versus his strength, warhammer and holy spells. If anything, that proved her suspicions: the only other one in this world who had come close to beating her and her minions was not of this world at all. Logic, along with the distinctly wandless magic she was seeing, said that this was true for this man as well.

She loosened another arrow, watching it slam through the arm of one of the armoured assailants. She growled, watching the healer next to him pull the arrow out and closing the wound like it was nothing.

Her minions were falling, the enemy was pressing towards the castle. Perchance it was time to use the escape tunnel.

Viewpoint change!

Ysmir scowled at the sun as it shone above the treetops. It was significantly more red than usual, and he was quite certain it had been shining brighter yesterday when he was trying to sleep.

Q'jaed and Louise were still asleep, one in the tent away from the light, and one up in a nearby tree. Ysmir himself had woken up from a strange smell. He found that someone had placed a bowl of Elsweyr fondue on a nearby rock. It was still hot when he found it, and threw it away before his companions could see it.

He had a suspicion, but no way to prove it.

Sitting down by the tree next to the tent and looking in his pack for another dose of stamina poison, the Nord took a moment to appreciate the surrounding wilderness. Rolling hills, leafy oaks and not a single conifer in sight… it reminded him of southern Cyrodiil, in a way. These lands lacked the untamed quality of Skyrim's nature, and he felt a small yearning for the forests of his youth.

Though a hero of all Tamriel, a person possibly more instrumental to the function of the empire than the emperor himself, he had always thought of himself as a lumberjack who had greatness thrust upon him. Oh, he had adapted, to be sure, but he never felt quite at home in the cities, preferring the peaceful and raw countryside.

His hand finally grasped the distinctive bottle he was looking for, and withdrew it from his bag.

As sleep claimed him once more, he did not hear nor smell the trio approaching the camp from the west, goaded on by a trickster-empowered smell of delicious fondue.

After all, everyone loved fondue.

Author's notes:

Not that long, but it's something, and I don't want to keep you waiting longer than necessary.

See you soonish. Ossa out!