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vestige-nan · 11 months

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The Count, The Lord, and The Hunter: Ch 1

Summary: After losing their family to a harrowstorm, the vestige becomes obsessed with finding Rada al-Saran and killing him. Just as Verandis is obsessed with saving the vestige from their own depressive spiral. And just as Rada is obsessed with convincing Verandis to join him.

Fun Stuff: Round 3 here we go! This is definitely darker, longer, and less fun than my other stories. Love triangles, unrequited love all the way around, and angst. As always, vestige is gender neutral and not described, and bonus! their family is also not described so you can put your own ideas there. Vestige chapters are in 2nd person, Verandis and Rada chapters are in 1st person.

You stared at the papers scattered across your desk, willing them to give you answers, like forcing a puzzle piece in a place it doesn’t belong. Maps detailing gray host activity, stolen letters between battles, orders and documents that only speak in vagueities, notes—some your own, some from Gwendis or Fennorian—jotted down incase something gets lost; all this and still you were left frozen, unable to find out what the gray host was doing and subsequently unable to do anything.

You stared at the witch pike fragment and the prepared ashes that had been set aside for further study, as if you could glean anything more from them that you didn’t already know. The witch pike fragment encased your vision. Your jaw locked tight. Your grip on the back of the chair tightened. Your knuckles with white.

The gnarled wood was nothing more than that: old, rotten brown wood. But you could see the red drip from it as clear as you could the first day you saw it—the red sweat from the fetish in beads like blood.

☾

You hummed as you picked the blue entoloma and set it in your basket. How lucky you were to find this! Mixed with butterfly wings, you could make a healing tonic. But if you wanted to get creative, you might be able to mix it with some nirnroot to make an invisibility potion. Whatever you decided, you were sure it would be helpful for you and your caravan.

Speaking of your caravan, you had been foraging for quite a while now, you must have been pretty far from them. Though, you were sure a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt, and with a cluster like this, there was sure to be more close by...

A wicked CRACK of thunder startled you to your core. Shivers traveled the top of your head to the tips of your fingers. You stood, your basket long forgotten. It was a cloudless, noonday sky. How could it be thundering?

For a brief moment, your heart quickened at the thought of anchors falling once again to shatter the ground. The logical side of you shook your head at the thought. That threat was over.

Another CRACK. This one broken and not quite as spine-chilling, and yet your unease didn’t leave you. The wind started to pick up speed; first a gentle guide through your hair, then an insistent push, as if ushering you forward.

You didn’t believe Kynareth guided these winds, but you didn’t hesitate when you realized which way the wind was beaconing you to. It was rushing towards the direction of your caravan.

You ran. You ran so fast, you didn’t realize the cruel wind cutting at your cheeks. Thump after thump after thump—of your feet across the ground and of your heart against your chest. Trees and brush faded past you in a blur. Your own fear kept you from seeing the ash in the air and the darkness that crept.

Your caravan—your only family left. Those who took you in when you were alone and lost, emerging from coldharbour without even a name to call your own. You hadn’t known if you had such a family—if you had known kindness and love and friendship—before your soul was stolen from you, but your family now taught you what a family was. Showed you what it meant to rely on others. Gave you a reason to fight, to love, to live.

You shouldn’t have strayed so far. The words in your mind shook you more than the raging wind and warped lightning. But certainly it was just paranoia, you had to repeat to yourself. They weren’t helpless. They could hold well enough on their own.

You stopped when you realized it was no longer a cloudless, noonday.

The air was crimson and ash to breath. The sky was a black sickness. The trees and grass had been stripped of life, something unnatural and twisted even in the harsh unforgiving cold of Skyrim. No animals were in sight or sound; none that weren’t corpses.

And this—! This looked like the aftermath of something great and terrible!

You called out to your family. Your caravan was empty. Things you held dearly were torn apart and cast aside. You called and screamed as you searched, your voice going hoarse. Tears streamed down your face, but no matter how much you tried to catch them, more kept falling.

Then, you saw him.

Red eyes met yours stained with tears. They were cold and perfect, and somehow stood more vibrant and rich in color than the red that seeped in the air all around him. His gaze was cruel and apathetic and beautiful, but with all your strength you couldn’t tear yourself from it—as if it was your last lifeline.

The man with crimson eyes wasn’t alone. He and another figure stood in front of a wicked, wooden crook that spilled blood from its bark as if it was sap. The other figure, a woman completely obscured with reach-witch regalia, spoke to him in harsh shrill tones, but you were too transfixed with the man to pay her words mind. He also wasn’t paying her any mind, instead staring at you with an idle and heartless curiosity—the curiosity one has for a passing butterfly drowning in a puddle.

He had the strength you didn’t, and he pulled his gaze back to the reach witch and said something your grief-ridden mind couldn’t understand. Shattering your attention, he dissipated in a cloud of bats, blood, and ill mist, the reach witch along with him.

You stared at the bleeding wooden crook. It looked... broken. Wrong.

And then, your family emerged from the shadows. Broken and wrong.

☾

Your breath was labored through clenched teeth. Your head ached. You could hear your own pulse through your skull. You needed to understand what move the gray host would make next. What move he would make next. You must.

“Staring daggers into your notes won’t pressure them into revealing any more than you already know.” A calm, familiar voice called out, “And last I checked, that wasn’t a gray host chair, you needn’t grip it so hard.”

You cast your eyes up to meet Verandis’s. His were never so vivid in red as the man you saw on the day you lost your family. The count’s eyes were a strange soft red; muted like a beloved red quilt washed too many times or snowberries just a few days before ripening. It was as if his eyes were tempered by his compassion, so different from those cruel crimson eyes.

You hadn’t told Verandis the difference eased you so much. And you also hadn’t told him that there were moments, brief glimpses of the count’s inner thoughts, that his eyes betrayed which followed you. An expression of... something you didn’t know and would just as quickly forget, save for the first time you saw it. The night he died.

☾

Your breath came in heavy, weighted pants. Blood soaked your weapon, your attire, and the floor. Everything had happened so fast, you couldn’t believe you’d done it even as the Baron Montclair layed dead by your hand. But he wasn’t moving. It was over.

You took a deep breath in. It was over.

The Remnant CRACKED loud enough to startle you. That was good, right?

“The Remnant... it’s cracking,” Verandis’ voice shook you from your stupor. “You did it!”

Okay, it was good. Good.

“The power threatens to break free.” Something washed over Verandis as he stared at the Remnant, transfixed as Gwendis had been when she felt the pull for blood of your allies. It was the Remnant. You didn’t have to have ancient vampiric knowledge to know that. “I can feel it … the power. I could consume it. Become stronger than I ever imagined ..."

You held your breath.

“No! I can't give in to this temptation.” Verandis shook himself. “I must remove the Remnant from this place, I—”

Without saying a word, you took Verandis’ hand in yours. Those muted red eyes, those which were sporadically searching the Remnant over and over, were drawn to you. You were tired, beaten, hurt. He was tired, beaten, hurt. You stared at each other, and he seemed to lose his words in his throat. Then, he cast his gaze down.

He found his words, but you knew they weren’t the ones he was going to share, “Time is against us, my friend. I must remove the Remnant from this place before it's too late.” He held your hand up, placing his other on top of it and clasping it tightly. “I … I need you to do something for me first, though."

“What do you need?” You asked.

Verandis breath left him in a weak, palsy laugh, “Even after all you’ve done you’re still so willing to aide me...” There was a feeble look of slight mischief in his eye as he smiled at you, “But I promise this won’t be nearly so daunting.” His humor fell into a melancholy expression, “Adusa … Tell her that House Ravenwatch is hers now. She must carry on our work …”

Your brow furrowed. Your eyes scanned Verandis for understanding, but he simply bowed his head under your scrutiny. “I don't understand. Why are you talking like this?”

"Because I need to take this relic out of this realm. I have made a deal with my master. Molag Bal has agreed to take me and the relic to Coldharbour."

You pulled your hand away from his, and he cringed from the lack of contact, as if it was the only thing holding him together. “You're giving the Lightless Remnant to Molag Bal? He has my soul, we’re at war with him!”

Verandis looked at you with utter anguish and desperation. You couldn’t help but swallow your anger at the expression, the face of a man who has sacrificed and will keep sacrificing everything for the safety of others. A man who has fallen apart to rectify his mistakes and it was taking everything to keep him from giving up.

“It is the only way to make certain that Rivenspire is saved. Molag Bal will take the relic into his realm,” He swallowed. “Rivenspire, all of Nirn, will be safe."

He looked to you in a desperate plea, a beg for hope, as if your next words could crush his spirit as he walked into damnation or give him the strength he needed to hold onto his conviction.

You thought of your family. Their lives were at stake just as much as anyone else's. They were your reason to fight. Verandis must do this.

You took hold of his hand, and for a brief moment you saw something beautiful spark in his eyes. “Do what you think is best.” You said, sure that would give him the strength he needed.

Strangely enough, while Verandis did look relieved at your reassurance, there was also something else in his expression. Disappointment? Longing? Something... lost? You couldn’t place it, but it didn’t matter because it was gone in an instant. “I thank you for your trust. Rivenspire will be safe and life will go on. Farewell, my friend.”

Verandis loosely held onto you even as you pulled away from him, his eyes following you even as the light of magic encircled you. You closed your eyes. Verandis was a good friend. His sacrifice would be remembered...

☾

You looked down. The chair looked close to crumbling under your tight grip. You let it go with a humorless laugh. “I... I feel I’m close, Verandis.” You wiped your face with the back of your hand. “If I could just—”

“Just what? Commune with the divines to unravel the gray host’s plans?” He set down a wooden cup of coffee for you. “If it were that easy, I would’ve called for a priest.”

You sighed and picked up the cup, “You’re right. I should be out there, hunting for—”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He chided, and you nearly rolled your eyes. The man loved interrupting you.

You took a sip of the coffee. It wasn’t coffee. “What is this?” You asked.

“Tea.” He exhaled, putting a hand over your notes and calling your name, gently. “You need to rest. When was the last time you slept?”

You set the cup down, “Thank you for the concern, Verandis, but I’m fine. I can sleep when the gray host is defeated and...” You swallowed as a fire flared in your chest, licking your veins with action. Crimson eyes, cold curiosity, cruel stare—“...and Rada al-Saran is dead.”

Verandis clenched his jaw.

You grabbed your weapon in hand and downed the rest of the tea. You would have to pick up some coffee from The Hunter’s Repose on your way out of Markarth.

Just as you reached the doorway, Verandis called out, “It might be difficult hunting any gray host members, considering it’s morning.”

You stopped. It was morning already? When was the last time you slept?

Crimson eyes, cold curiosity, cruel stare—

“Good,” You said. “Then they’ll be easy to catch off guard.”

#tes #eso #the elder scrolls #elder scrolls online #vestige #rada al-saran #verandis ravenwatch #vestige/rada al-saran #vestige/verandis ravenwatch #rada al-saran/verandis ravenwatch #the count the lord and the hunter

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