Vigilant Mhalla

[spoiler=The Curse]

“Where is she?”

Mhalla awoke to the sound of arguing voices.

“Are you even sure she was here?”

“Of course I'm sure! She was with the Bosmer. I was planning on having them together for the ritual.”

“It's fine. Let's just leave. The pact has been completed.”

“But Matron Halivid has not mastered it.”

“For magic of that scope and scale, I am not surprised. She can do it, with our aid, and that is a feat of it's own.”

“Are you doubting her strength?”

“No. But there will be time to practice on others. Nirn is filled with man, betmeri and mer. Many targets.”

“But I want her dead.”

Despite herself, Mhalla instinctively backed away from the two.

The sound of rocks stirring was audible in the pit below.

Mhalla could hear the smile in Martia's tone, “Roshel! Guess who I found!”

Before she could blink, Mhalla was peering inside, grinned more widely, and grabbed her by the scruff of her collar.

She was prodded out the gate and back up the cliff path into the inner chamber.

And Mhalla the Street Rat died.

In the center of the chamber, piles of bodies laid sprawled out. Men she had seen hours before with their throats cut and blood pooled and matted in their hair and splattered on their tunics. Women with their eyes gouged out, and arms cut until they bled out. They were floating in a lagoon of red, their clawed fingers reaching out for the alter in the middle, where two crimson-coated gems glinted, a mixture of red and black.

Somewhere along the way her knees had buckled.

In between the periods of bile rising in her throat and emptying out on the rock floor, she saw the next sight. The three cages in the back corner were no longer vacant. The one on the right held a figure whose wrists were locked in manacles fused to the rock wall. It was a blackened skeleton, the soot all but covering the white bone. The skull, the hands and arms, the torso, until the waist. There thick and deep blood, as if all the blood from the flesh above, was unleashed on the belt.

A golden ram was still glinted under the grime.

Mhalla felt become unhinged inside. But it was the next cell that sealed her fate.

A lone figure was prostrated on the ground floor. It's entire left side had been obliterated, as if some monstrous beast had bitten out a piece from him. In the division between the left and right sides a charred, bloody line dissected the corpse. Leaving Errinnir's listless right eye, surrounded by numerous cuts, to stare up and up and up at the ceiling.

The white of his eye engulfed Mhalla.

And she was screaming.

And she was standing.

And she was throwing her whole body at Martia.

The witch barely had time to blink before Mhalla tackled her to the ground. Her fists came down, one after another, and the witch sliced at her with that knife, cutting open a swath beneath her left cheek. But Mhalla didn't care. Until, Roshel dragged her off, kicking and snarling and baring teeth. Martia got to her feet and slapped the child. Mhalla tried to bite her fingers off.

“Mistress Martia,” One of the bone woman had returned, the others quickly filing after her, “Do not mind her,” The shaman said, bowing her head respectfully to show subservience. “The child has lost her wits. Gone wild.”

“Then she should be put down!” Martia shrieked.

“No.[/b]”

The most hideous creature Mhalla had even seen approached. Beady eyes and beak nose, claw fingers and long stringy hair with feathers protruding out of the back of her neck. He wore a tattered leather vest and a loincloth that hung on each end below her waist, the cloth sweeping against the floor as she moved. Her mouth, when opened to speak, revealed razor sharp fangs. Hideous, but not surprising. The fact that she was the leader of these monsters only showed their darkness, ugly and potent, as a stench to fill up the room.

The bone-ones, those who were still human, bowed their antlered heads to her, “Faolan Onstala.”

Martia did not seem to have the same reverence. “But Mistress.”

“She is for the Hand. It's power has yet to reveal it's truths to me.”

“...As you say.” Martia still seemed displeased.

Meanwhile, Mhalla had not pried her eyes off the head witch. She memorized every feature, every speck, every dot. No matter how terrifying the creature was, no matter how disgusting, still the child felt it, a monster hidden in her soul, rising up and demanding blood. She began to get to her feet again, the blood on her left cheek dripping down to her neck. But before she could do anything, the shamans reached over, their bones and feathers rustling, grabbed her. “No!” Mhalla shouted, as they carried her to the last cell. “No!”

Halivid approached the alter. Where before Mhalla had only seen, or cared about, the Black Soul Gems that were paired in the blood. She now also saw the brown bowl with the wooden stick by it. The leader hovered by the alter, and reached into a poach strapped around her waist. The ones in fur, bone and feathers circled around her, while the two in robes, Martia and Roshel, seemed to be extending their hands out wide. Mhalla could have sworn to see some swirling mass of blue leak off from the followers behind them and into the two witches, but, when she blinked, it was gone.

The creature poured in some sort of liquid, ethereal and translucent, and following that, a pile of black powder. After these two ingredients, once Halivid leaned in to mass them together, the shamans began to hum – soft at first, then louder. By the time she pulled out the last object, a ruby spiky tear, beating in her hands (Mhalla realized with some horror that it was a heart) the murmuring had become a full blown chant, “Faolan Onstala! Faolan Onstala! Est onsta halan erun! Est deda halan teturoni! Faolan Onstala!” She laid the heart down in the bowl and then stabbed down on it, smashing it and letting the blood coat the mix. “Faolan Onstala!” She did it again, and then took the concoction and gulped it down. A green light coated over her as the coven cheered, waved staffs and hands in the air.

Then the monster turned her pitch eyes on Mhalla.

And Mhalla understood.

They began a slow, patient pace. The leader in the front, followed by the witches and then the shamans.

Mhalla scooted back.

The chant had not stopped, rather it now rose to a high pitch.

Mhalla got as far back against the cage as she could.

A glow now began to issue off the witches, the same color as that which cloaked the head witch when she drank her potion, a bright green glow, full of life and vibrancy, and it reached it's brightest when the bird-crone creature slipped her hand through the bars, clamping down on Mhalla's left wrist.

Mhalla wet herself, tears and snot and blood mingling into a mess on her face.

A different glow came over her, the green being replaced by a heavy night-hue, oozing off her hands. The matron raised her hands, as if trying to gather up some invisible energy, and the glow escalated to a violent pace. And then she clasped her hands together, trapping Mhalla's in between.

She felt no pain.

For it was a pain beyond all her comprehension.

The skin on her left hand began to peel and melt away, bit by bit, the color flooding out as white replaced it, burning up through her arm. Mhalla's body became limp, became silent, became still, her face, so filled with fear, deadpanned in the vacant look that was in Errinnir's eyes. I am going to die. The thought came, a cold, lifeless thing. And Mhalla closed her eyes.

“Die and be damned!”

And then she was dropped.[/spoiler]

[spoiler=The Vigilants of Stendarr]

From the tunnel entrance to the cave, seven men came rushing through. The one at the head had spoken, and he wielded a Greatsword, which reflected the light from the braziers. Silver. Came Mhalla's thought, but it was sluggish and slow. As if it was a chore to think at all. Something … is … wrong. But she was exhausted, to the point where thoughts and feelings like worry were muted.

Five bursts of flames and two lightening bolts flashed at them, while the lead witch vanished in a smoke of feathers. The seven men, decked in robes and mail, reached out their hands and cast a shimmering oval of light, making the magic smack uselessly against it. Meanwhile the leader reappeared by the head of the invader's side, reaching out a hand for his sword.

But the man seemed to expect it and instead he jumped back and flicked out a hand of his own, brushing against the bird-creature's skin. Whatever effect he hoped it would have, the monster just shook it off, her hand sparking. It was then that he struck with his sword, while, at the same time, his skin became cracked and barklike, the lightening bolt struck the man off his shoulder, causing him to skid backwards.

The other warriors were cutting a swath through the feathers and bone cloaked shamans – curved swords slicing in elaborate patterns. Most were Redguards, like her, and they showed excellent swordmanship, pushing back and felling many of the followers in strong strikes.

The two witches were faring better, but even while one of them, Roshel she believed, struck down a robed warrior with a double-handed burst of lightening she still cried out, “Matron Halivid!” The monster glanced over to where the two were standing, and then nodded at them. She vanished once more and the two broke off fleeing towards the other tunnel. The leftover followers looked striken, but the witch Roshel spoke, “Hold them off, give your lives to protect Faolan Onstala!” And once the two were gone, the remnants cried the four charging at the six remaining with fury.

Once they were dead, the leader slammed his sword to the ground, “Damn it! Again! After all these years!”

“Vigilant Hjor. You want to have a look at this.”

Faintly, she realized the voice was talking about her.

Through a limited vision, she watched the warriors approach. She was fading in and out of consciousness, so her view was blurred by darkness, half of it cut off completely even. But she faintly saw the looks of horror on their faces. Must … be … the … bodies. She thought, the image of the pile of twenty behind them floating to the surface. But then it was drowned out by a sea of haze.

That is, until one man, whose skin was darker than her's, spat, “Cursed.” He said. “She should be given Mercy.”

He's saying to kill me. The thought was different than the others, clearer, more distinct.

Her eyes (eye) shot open. He's saying to kill me!

Just like that everything snapped into focus. Somehow, miraculous, she had survived those monsters. But now, these newcomers, want to kill her as well. She jumped to her feet. That rage, that fury, that had been born inside her lashing out, venomous. “Never!” She shouted, rattling the cage. “I don't want to die! I don't want to – ”

She saw her left arm.

It had been hidden out of sight, but when she moved her right eye saw it clearly. A frail, old thing, like the beggar women back in the District, starving out in the slums. Liver spots and wrinkles were thrown haphazardly across it. But it was her fingers, pressed against the bars, that caught her attention. And the moment they touched the bars she jerked them back, screaming.

“Child!” The man, Hjor, called. “Child, what's wrong?”

“It hurts.” She whimpered. Her right hand went to touch it, but then stopped as she stared.

“This isn't my arm.”

“Child?”

“It can't be my arm. Errinnir can't be dead. None of this can happen.”

The men gave each other looks.

“It's a dream. A nightmare. Vaermina's handiwork.” In comfort of denial, the haze returned.

“She's lost her wits. The Mercy will be kind.”

And then it left again.

“No! I won't – ”

“Calm now. No one's gonna harm you.” He glared at the Dunmer while saying this. “Now lets get you out of this.”

He approached the cage, kneeling to inspect the lock. Mhalla still stayed a good distance from him, eying the man. He seemed alright. But she had a distrust of everything now. Every glance, every shuffle, every muttered word – the world itself was poised to hurt you, or at best disinterested in human affairs entirely. Through barely contained hatred, she glared out with her one good eye.

“It seems locked tight.”

It's an easy lock. One that Erri- And she killed the thought dead.

“Is there a key nearby?”

“Got one here. Was on one of the Forsworn.”

Forsworn. Sounded like a official group of people, not these half dressed savages that were minions of that monster. There was more to this. More to what had happened today. She was merely a victim, caught up in schemes far above her understanding. But she didn't care. She didn't care who the Forsworn are. Didn't care who those two black-robed women were. Or that monster that lead them all.

All she cared about was death. To see their blood pool out.

It was the Dunmer who approached, key heading to the lock. It was at that moment he glanced up, looking into her eyes. He jumped back, scimitar sliding out of his scabbard as the cage door came creaking open. The fire was gone, leaving only a dull sense of fear, of a threat on her life, and Mhalla clutched her shoulders as she came to a unsteady stand.

“What are you doing, Bandalu ?”

“She's gone mad, sir. I can see it in her eyes. She'll slit our throats in our sleep if given the chance.”

“Liar!” Mhalla shouted. “You just want to kill me. You all want to kill me!”

“You ungrateful – ”

“Enough!” Hjor glared at Bandalu, burrowing into him, “She comes with us.”

“But – ”

“Am I not in charge of this mission?”

Bandalu was silent at that.

“Now. Let's go.”

The group left, heading back out the way they came. Some of the Vigilants approached, trying to wrap a blanket over her shoulders or give her a warm mug of cider, but she shrugged them all off. Her eyes were glued to that sliver of light. The cave, and all in it, were blots on her memory. And it would stay that way. [/spoiler]

[spoiler=The Sanctuary] The trip was a long one. But Mhalla didn't care. There were a couple times she was asked what her name was, where she came from, how she was faring, they told her that their base was not far from here, close enough that no steeds were considered necessary, and that they would take her there. She ignored it all. She had not slept in hours (save for that one rest that she can not, will not think about) not ate in hours, not drunk in hours. She moved on. Just putting one foot in front of the other.

Until her body collapsed.

When she woke up again, she was in paradise.

A lush, thick forest was spread around her. Rolling, windswept grasslands lay under her feet. Nearby, cascading water churned over whiterocks, before flowing down over a fall. But what took her breath away was the sight beyond that. Beyond a stone bridge and the gate in front of it, beyond a rocky hill top was a eagleview sight of a thick forest and fields of wheat on plains, and beyond even that, where the sun kissed the horizon was the heavy sands of the Alik'r Desert – a sight she had never before seen.

As she was marveling at this, a flask of water was pressed into her mouth.

She barely was able to protest before the water poured down her throat, then, all complaints ceased.

It was like drinking down Aetherius

She leaned back, only now noticing the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

She glanced up, seeing the Nord from before, the one who had been pestering her with his concern the most on the way back. For a moment, he overlapped with the other, the one who suggested she hid – the sole reason why she survived long enough for her saviors to come. She was speaking to both of them when she said, “Thank you.”

Hjor looked relieved. “Of course, little missy. Get some rest. You're safe here. This is our Sanctuary.”

Distrust flared up instantly, but after taking another sip of water it cooled back down again.

She'll trust his words … for now.

“What is this?”

A voice came out from ahead of them. And there, on the cobblestone path leading from the stone bridge to the buildings behind them, were three men. Two of them wore the same uniform that the other warriors had, a blue robe over steel armor with plate gauntlets and boots. But the one in the middle was different, a Dunmer, like Taravis, yet entirely different. He held himself with poised authority, almost regal, his robes of a fine silk make seemed to glow with magical energy (which, Mhalla noticed for the first time, a couple of the warriors' garbs were enchanted, though with a very muted, quiet power). Before she could even make heads or tails of the man, Hjor jumped to his feet, standing straight as a arrow, “Keeper Tarvlyn!”

Other men from the trip, who were busy stripping off their armor by the barracks sprung to attention as well.

I see. Mhalla thought. He's the leader.

She met that leader's gaze, and, despite his steely expression, the man flinched.

And suddenly she remembered her arm. How hideous am I? Mhalla glanced down.

As the other men began to approach, Tarvlyn focused on Hjor, “Report.”

“Yes, Keeper.” The man bowed his head which, considering the authority he had wielded back in the caves, Mhalla thought was mighty strange. “We tracked Halivid and her coven to the northern Dragontail Mountains, between the border of Skyrim and Hammerfell, but before the mountain range cuts to the west separating Hammerfell from High Rock. We learned then that the Wyd had acquired the loyalty of some Forsworn in the Reach within Skyrim. A few were guarding the ritual site, and we dispatched them before coming in.”

I didn't see any bodies outside. Was Mhalla's first thought, followed by They were after those monsters!

All of a sudden, Mhalla sat up straighter on the stone bench she was on, her eyes never leaving them.

“Inside, we came across a vile scene. Halivid and her coven were huddled around a cage, chanting.” No. Mhalla knew what was happening, what Hjor was describing. And her gaze fell to the floor, the haze growing, swallowing everything up. “Behind them was a pile of bodies, twenty or so, with a alter in the middle, two filled Black Soul Gems there.” No![/b] “The victims apparently from the two cages by the third. One with a man with his upper body just a skeleton – all melted off. While the second was – ”

“No!” Mhalla screamed. By the way the men spun their heads towards her, they likely forgot she was there. “Stop! Stop it! No more.” Her body was shaking, tears streaming down her face. “No more.” She whispered, as a dead silence issued.

“Oh, for the love of!” It was then that a figure rushed from the center building, a plump woman clothed in a apron and a chef's hat. She gathered Mhalla up in her arms, shooting daggers at the men behind the girl's shoulder, “Honestly. You men have no tact at all. Don't speak this nonsense in front of the child!” She glanced down at Mhalla's face, not even blinking at her features, “How about you come on inside? Get some nice sweets in the kitchen, hm?” Before Mhalla could even say yeah or nay, the woman dragged her off.

Tarvynl watched the two women walk off, “I take it she was in the third cage?”

Hjor seemed to blink off his daze, “Uh, yes Keeper. Halivid was reaching through the cage when we came, she had her hand clasped on the child's wrist and some foul magic was working on her, aging her before our very eyes. We broke their attention, Halivid dropped the lass and a fight broke out. In the fray, Halivid and her witches,” Seeing Keeper Tarvynl's confusion, he added, “There were two of them sir, they were already becoming Hags from what we could tell. Well, they left, leaving the Forsworn to defend them. We killed their followers, but the three escaped.” Hjor's voice did not shake at all recounting their failure.

Tarvynl sighed, “Great. Not only did she gain a coven, including two promising apprentices, but nearly all her captives were sacrificed to complete that pact with Clavicus Vile in exchange for who knows what vile – ”

“I'm done.”

That drew all the Vigilants' attention. There, standing amongst them, was a robe-cloaked Breton. Bannrion Wickien. He was there liaison with the College of Winterhold in Skyrim and he provided enchanting services on behalf of the Hall of the Vigilant, the Skyrim chapter, which the College owes a debt to. He had been working for them for the last seven years, but by the look on his face they realized that cooperation has ended today.

“Why?” Was all that Tarvynl asked.

“Because, I have heard legends of that magic. Long forgotten, from the Merethic Era, or even the Dawn some wilder tales tell. It is known by many names, but the most common is the Hand of Decay. It is one of the strongest destruction magics in Tamriel, in all of Nirn! With a single touch the caster is able to age, decay, the body in seconds, disintegrating them and killing them instantly. Death, in a touch.
Clavicus Vile has given a mighty power to the Hagraven Halivid and I will not be her enemy.”

Bandalu snarled at him, “Coward.”

But the Breton just shook his head, “I am no Vigilant. The College has repaid their debt twofold.”

Before Bandalu could open his mouth, Tarvynl concluded, “They have. As have you. You have helped the Vigil immensely, and that will not be forgotten. So long as you are nearby, the Sanctuary will be a safe haven for you and yours.”

Relief seemed to flood the old man's bones, “Thank you, I will not forget this.”

As he walked off to collect his things, Bandalu approached, “Keeper.”

“Kinsman, I will not argue about this.”

“The Breton can leave. It is the girl I must speak to you about.”

Hjor scowled at that, “Not this again.”

But Bandalu went on, “She is cursed, Keeper. There is no saving her. The Mercy is all we can give.”

Tarvynl looked at him long and hard. “I will speak to her.” He said at last. “Then I shall decide what mercy she shall receive.”

After giving Hjor orders in how to proceed with the search for Halivid, he turned to the kitchen, deciding to get his evaluation of the girl over with. He knew not what Bandalu's distaste of the child was, despite the obvious. The mercy he planned to give her was a warm bed, some good food and then a trip to Honorhall in the morn. He felt that Constance Michel would take good care of the child, now that the bat Grelod was gone.

When he entered the kitchen, however, his optimism soured. While the kitchen maid Berta was trying desperately to earn the child's attention, still she wouldn't tear her gaze off of a mug of milk in her small hands. She was staring down at it, into the reflection that it showed her. He wondered if this was the first good chance the girl had to see her new face. If so, the glazed, dead look in her eye forced him to admit that Bandalu had a point. There was not much life left in this one.

Seeing him enter, Berta reached over and took the mug out of her hands, “Look, dear, Keeper Tarvynl is here to see you.” Still she gave that out of focus look. “Over there,” The kitchen maid said, worried, as she pointed. “See?”

Something must have gotten to her, for her right eye snapped back, and it's blue hue sparkled with life again as she turned to look at him. She was quiet for a moment, as if she was evaluating him, hesitant to speak. Finally, though, she did, “It's you, the leader of the – ” She trailed off.

“The Vigilants.” He aided her, “The Vigilants of Stendarr. Hammerfell chapter. Stendarr's Sanctuary.”

To his relief, she was not lost in that, but nearly nodded. “Yes. What do you want with me?”

“To see if you are well. There is food and drink and warm beds to rest in. There is a reason this place has been called the Retreat. You are safe here. We will make sure of it.” However, instead of making her relax, as he had hoped, the girl's back tensed and that look in her eye, that alertness, sharpened becoming a torrent of barely contained. In any other child, he would have thought her excited or eager for something, but all he saw in her was seriousness.

“Are you going to kill them?”

Berta looked alarmed. Tarvalyn spoke as softly as he could, “They will not be here to harm you or anyone.”

She nodded. “Good. I want to join.”

“Child!”

But she was determined, “I want to join!”

“I want to find her, I want to slit her throat, cut open her gut and leave her to rot.”

Berta was silent. No horrified “Child!” again. Her face looked as if she could not comprehend what she just heard. What she just heard a child say. Tarvalyn was still as well, gone ghostly white, but for an entirely different reason. Berta glanced at him, eyes pleading.

His shock had worn off, and his mind reached a decision at the same time.

“What is your name, child?”

“Mhalla.”

“Well, Vigilant Mhalla. Training starts tomorrow.”

He stood up from his seat.
“Keeper? Sir?” Berta sounded like nothing that just happened made sense to her.

He walked through the door.

“Sir!”[/spoiler]

[spoiler=Tarvynl's Meeting with Calilian]

The next morning,Tarvynl geared up, gathered a few Vigilants and headed for Skyrim. Now that Bannrion had left, he wished to find a new mage at the college to enchant their robes. But, more important than that, he had heard about the Hall's destruction and wanted to verify the reports firsthand. The trip was a long one, starting from down in Falkreath before heading northwest to the Red Road Pass. But all that waited there was a empty expanse. Gathering the brothers together, they held a vigil for the fallen with Tarvynl speaking some words about Keeper Carcette, who he knew personally.

The rumors they had heard about the destruction blamed a vampire clan called the Volkihar, who rampaged through Skyrim last year. The ones who had defeated the menace was a newly formed group of vampire hunters known as the Dawnguard, by Riften. So, to them, he went for answers.

Coincidentally, at the same time, a traveling mage known as Calilian the Mystic had arrived into Skyrim. A Restoration master he wandered from nation to nation, learning from his fellow colleagues and aiding temples with their healings, such as the Temple of Kynareth while he was in Whiterun. His plan was to visit his colleague, Colette Marence – the Master of Restoration at the College of Winterhold, before leaving Skyrim once more. It was as Keeper Tarvynl was holding his memorial at the Hall of the Vigilant that he was dining with Colette Marence in the Hall of Countenance when she told him of the new Restoration magic discovered by the Dawnguard. He was stunned to hear of it. In the last decade, he had not learn of any such new magic, despite chasing rumors of a allusive poison magic known in Morrowind. This was a chance he simply could not pass up, so, after saying his goodbyes, he decided to check up on the Dawnguard prior to his departure.

The two met in the back quarters of the fortress, which housed not only a forge, but, more impressively, pens of armored trolls. Tarvynl had just been briefed about the situation and had been mulling over it, staring at the trolls as if they'd give him answers when Calilian came in, speaking animatedly with Florentius Banius. Realizing that he was spotting a College type buying tomes of some sort from the Dawnguard, he approached the wizard.

“I'm surprised to see your sort here.”

Calilian jerked his head up. He had obviously been oblivious to his surroundings. “Ah. Yes. Just buying tomes.”

“Tomes?” Tarvynl's suspicions were confirmed. “What sort of magic would the Dawnguard know?”

He struck gold with that question.

“I know, right!” Calilian's eyes lit up, a hyper smile on place. “It's one thing for the College of Winterhold to not knowing anything, being limited in scope and size, but for the Synod to be in the black is astonishing! It is like the Dawnguard discovered a magical item of which Tamriel has never seen, from which this “Sun Fire” magic all originates! Whatever the source may be, no amount of my probing can – ”

“Wait. Hold on. What is Sun Fire magic?”

“It's the new discovery that the Dawnguard has acquired. A genius branch of Restoration magic that functions like Destruciton school of magicka. The magicka forms itself into the visage of light and then burns one's enemies. While on living humans this will be no more deadly than Fire Manipulation of the Destruction school, the power is particularly deadly against the undead such as skeletal constructs or even vampires, which is why groups such as the Dawnguard or … or”

“The Vigilants of Stendarr.”

Calilian turned on his heel and walked away.

Tarvynl chased after him. “As you guessed, I am part of the Vigil. Keeper Tarvynl.”

“Of course. Would never have guessed. You're just wearing armor under your robes and sort of carrying a sword,” After a flicker of a glance, “A scmitar, well excuse me, on your hip.” Calilian shook his head. “I'm a fool.”

“Not such a fool if you're a Restoration mage who has managed to pounce on this magic before the Vigilants have even heard of it.” That made him stop. So. Compliments work. Tarvynl continued on this track. “A man of your talents should not go wasted. It so happens – ” And the mage was off again.

“Wait.” Tarvynl said, hurrying after the Imperial.

“Of course. Let me guess, you need a mage to help enchant your equipment, to even teach your Stendarr-spouting-soldiers how to kill better. That's all you militant types ever think. Is it so strange to think that magicka can be learned just for knowledge's sake?”

“You are a seeker of knowledge?”

“Am I – ” The mage seemed to sputter and then abruptly halted. They were both outside of Fort Dawnguard now standing above the battlements, having somehow passed through the foyer. A few of the Dawnguard recruits working sentry duty nodded respectfully at him, but Tarvynl's attention was still fixed on the mage. “Do I seek knowledge? I wonder. I've been traipsing across Tamriel for the last five years after excelling at the Synod due to vacation time obviously. Cyrodill was just not beautiful enough for me. I much before being in this winter hellhole any day of the year.” A nearby Dawngaurd, a Nord, darkened at that. Tarvynl decided to walk farther down the path, away from prying ears. Calilian followed, adamant on having his rant. “I traversed the ash-smothered, soot belching Morrowind not in search of Poison magics but for the scenery! And the hospitality of it's – ”

“Think of who you're speaking to and then finish that sentence.”

Calilian opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

Tarvynl took the opportunity. “How would you like to learn a spell impossible to learn anywhere else in the world?”

“Come again?” Obviously that was not where he thought the conversation was going.

Sink or swim. “We had a mage at our chapter in Hammerfell a week ago. Part of the reason why I'm here, excluding finding out what happened to the Hall, is to visit the College of Winterhold to find another who can aid our efforts. He left because of one, very, simple reason.” He looked into Calilian's eyes, “He was afraid. Afraid of this magic.”

Calilian seemed to study Tarvynl for a moment, before saying, “Go on.”

The Dunmer did not show his relief. “For nearly a two centuries, we have been hunting down a Hagraven known as Halivid. In the fifteenth year of the fourth era, she plagued the Alik'r Desert, kidnapping tribesmen and sacrificing their souls to Clavicus Vile, for, I believe, the chance to gain a audience with him. After eight of their men were taken, the Vigilants of the Sanctuary, my chapter, were called in to deal with it. Though the fight was fierce, Halivid still escaped, after having formed a Pact with Clavicus Vile. Since that time she has been bidding her time, gathering supporters among the Reach and finding two witches who she trained. A month ago we began to hear reports of widespread kidnappings along the Dragontail Mountains. Suspecting it to be Halivid's work, we chased her down and found her in the middle of practicing her newfound power – the Pact having been completed. Magic, forgotten from the world since the Merethic Era, reborn again in the hands of a Hagraven. The Hands of Decay.”

That got the reaction he wanted.

“No. There's no way! Legends from the Merethic Era are entirely unsupported! And absurd magic that kills with a touch simply can not be real. You will not trick me with this foolhardy.”

“Do you wish to see a victim?”

“A corpse won't – ”

“I'm not talking about a corpse. I told you. We interrupted her in the middle of practicing – in the middle of casting a spell. The victim, a young girl, has been horrendously cursed. Half of her is of a child, but the other half has been magically aged, decayed.”

Calilian was silenced. But Tarvyln could tell. He wanted to believe this was true.

“You are a traveler, correct? Then why don't you come visit Hammerfell, see what magics you can learn there. While there, come by the Sanctuary, and see for yourself whether I am being a Lorkhan to your Magnus.” It seemed the mage appreciated the analogy.

With a bit of a brighter tune, Calilian said, “Well. I was going to visit Hamerfell to study the magics inherent within the Alik'r Desert anyway – after High Rock. But changing the order a little can't do much harm.”[/spoiler]

[spoiler=Training]
It had only been two weeks since he had left, traveling along the length of Skyrim, but Tarvyln and Calilian came back to find the atmosphere of the Sanctuary vastly changed. In the dinning commons where the Vigilants gathered a tense air hung, none were touching their food, and rather were staring at the main door. When it opened, a few let out sighs of relief, but a few more were angry, chief among them Bandalu, however, they all jolted up to attention when they saw Keeper Tarvyln. Before he could even begin to ask what was wrong, Berta came rushing in, “Please!” She squealed, “Please, Keeper Tarvyln. Do something!”

“What's wrong?” Then he realized the hour and the fact none have eaten yet, “What is the stall?”

“It's Mhalla, sir. She is still practicing out in the courtyard.”

She's already practicing with a blunt blade? Usually it took some time for the recruits to even learn the basic motions of the blade, being taught by the head blademaster, in this case Hjor, the fundamentals of the art before they are ready to begin practical testing. But, more importantly, combat sessions only lasted from morn until midday, at which point all Vigilants present gather at the dinning commons. None are supposed to start without everyone present.

“Has she been made aware of standard procedure?”

“She has, sir. She obsessed with it though. Won't stop till she breaks.”

“Hasn't anyone taken the practice weapon from her?”

It was this time that Hjor spoke up, “Aye, Keeper. We did. But then she'll steal one from the Armory. We punished her by making her take laps around the courtyard, except, well, she never stopped. Some brethren heard noises in the middle of the night and found her running, bruised and battered from slamming into trees. After that, we decided to let her have her way a bit – she has to stop to eat eventually, after all.”

Considering how cold the food appeared, that time was far from coming.

Before he stepped out of the hall, however, Bandalu stepped up, “Keeper Tarvyln. A word.” He curled his fists.

Should have expected this.

“In a moment, let me get the stubborn brat in so we all can eat.”

“...That's not quite the word I'd use.” Bandalu whispered.

I'll pretend I didn't hear that.

Tarvyln slipped through the courtyard, his feet gliding over the mossy rocks and the grassy slopes. He understood, for a moment, while others of the Vigil, outside of their chapter, had dubbed the Sanctuary the Retreat. The trees swayed. Birds chirped and fluttered from branch to branch. Water glistened and twinkled down, swirling in rhythmic currents and patterns. Serenity.

“Die! You! Mother! Fucking! Son! Of! A! Whore!”

“Language, Vigilant Mhalla.” Tarvyln leaned against a nearby tree, seeing the recruits handiwork.

The girl panted, silver scimitar hanging loosely in her grip. Before her, one of the target trees, a wooden cut out of a human strapped against a trunk, was torn up beyond all recognition – head, torso, legs and arms gone in a flurry of gashes. The tree behind it prey as well, the bark in the front all but chipped away. For a moment, Mhalla just stared, blinking at Tarvyln, before standing up straight, the motion awkward.

“Keeper Tarvyln! You do me honor! What do you require of me?”

Well, at least Vigilant Bandalu was teaching her proper methodology.

“It is time to come and eat, child. You have made your brethren wait long enough.”

“With all due respect, sir. I am close. Close to getting a hold of it. Please, permit me to study a moment longer.”

Now, Tarvyln understood. During those first few weeks in the training, he and Harvir would always enjoy sparring, feeling rather than simply seeing how they improved. Mhalla could sense it as well, sense herself changing, becoming a warrior.

But that's all the more reason why she needs to stop. To rest. To meditate on what she has learned.

“No. You must stop. This is a order, Vigilant.”

“I understand, and I'll take whatever punishment you give, but – ”

“Your training is suspended.”

Mhalla blinked. Then blinked again. “What?”

“You are free to use your time as you see fit, and that includes going over what you have already been taught, but you are not allowed to use targets designated for Vigilants-in-training or to continue lessons from either Bandalu, Hjor or our new mage, Calilian, who will be teaching Sun Fire, a Destruction type Restoration magic.”

“That's...” She seemed to lack a word to describe it, so settled on a old favorite, “That's unfair!”

“You may continue your self-taught practice, if you wish. The rest of the Vigilants shall begin eating, since we are all gathered. You may join us if you wish; guests are always welcomed here.” For a moment Tarvyln thought he went to far, when he saw the flash of hurt behind her eyes. But when she stomped off to shadow fence in the forest, Tarvlyn returned to the dinning hall. “You may begin, the Vigilants of the Sanctuary are gathered.” Some raised their eyebrows, but most began to feast, having waited far too long.

Berta came as well with his food, but hesitated. “If I may, Keeper?”

“Speak your mind.”

“It's just – I don't quite understand at all why you've decided what you have, and the poor dear has been pushing herself far too hard, so I don't condone any of this – ”

“Please reach your point, Berta Sanwire.”

“It's just … did you really have to end her training? It's odd to say, but it's good for her. She has gotten much better in the last two weeks, more normal I suppose. Asking everyone she can all sorts of questions about training. I think having a goal has oriented her.”

Bandalu couldn't keep himself out of it, “Personally, Keeper. I respected the decision, I believe – ”

Tarvyln held a hand up. “Just wait.”

Sure enough, the door from the courtyard creaked open and Mhalla scurried in. She stopped in front of Keepr Tarvyln, looking abashed. “Yes, Mhalla?” She winced at the lack of “Vigilant” before her name, and seemed to be working up her courage. At last, she said:

“Please, Keeper Tarvyln, forgive me. I stepped out of my bounds. I can not do anything without the will of the Vigil or the Sanctuary. I lack strength. I need strength. And this is the only path before me where I can get it.”

Tarvyln supposed Strength wasn't as good as asking for Stendarr's Mercy, but it was a start.

The years passed swiftly after that, and, while not obstinate in her training anymore, Mhalla was still devoted, spending every free moment either out in the courtyard polishing her swordplay or in Calilian's chambers, learning all she can about Restoration magic. It is the later where she truly excelled, for, while she was only a apprentice in the field, she learned a vast variety of spells, all she was able and it, combined with her other training, quickly made her deadly. And caused the other Vigilants to work just as hard, especially those no longer in training, out of fear of being showed up by the young teenager.

In the hours where she wasn't pushing her boundaries, she was done in Elinhir. She found she was welcome her, as were all Vigilants “Up from the Mountainside” as the locals like to call it. Mhalla came to enjoy her walks down there for shopping for ingredients for Berta's homecooked recipes, seeing if there's any practical texts to study, or, rarely, to come with other Vigilants to earn Auragloam Mine's earnings.

For she had learned some of the intricacies of the Sanctuary's relationship with Elinhir. All silver ore was mined by the town's inhabitants, and outside of being forged into scimitars or the weapon of choice of particular Vigilants the miners were free to sell the ore to Elinhir's blacksmith. A bustling silver jewelry market had opened up in the city in the years since the mine's opening. But what made the deal particularly beneficial to Elinhir is that almost all the mine's proceeds went to them, not the mine's landowners, the Vigilants, who only received a small percentage of the profits. Tarvlyn had foreseen a possible future conflict with Elinhir once the mine proved lucrative and snipped the problem in the bud. And unlike the town's other mine, the Njoll Mine, a iron ore deposit some miles away in the Dragontail Mountains, no bandit would be foolish enough to attack a fortified base of Vigilants.

It was a mutual beneficial relationship.

However, despite her growing competence, Mhalla still had one fatal flaw. No matter how often she lifted metal weights to hone he muscles in her left arm still it remained frail and flabby. Forget carrying a shield, Mhalla couldn't hope to pick up a fork at the dinning commons to save her life. It was a fact her naysayers, Bandalu especially, used to display her inadequacy as a Vigilant-in-training.

While she had some acquaintances back in town, and Mhalla was beginning to see her fellow recruits as true comrades-in-arms, it was to Hjor and Calilian that she confided in. Hjor had felt a fatherly instinct for the youth ever since he saw what she underwent and had convinced Bandalu not to gift her “Mercy.” meanwhile Mhalla was Callian's favored student, showing a hunger fro magical knowledge that was simply absent in the other recruits.

So the two plotted. Hjor worked on forging the finest steel plate gauntlets he ever crafted while C, and, together they formed the Calilian poured over all he knew of Restoration and Enchantment and together they made the Bracers of Striker's Might – the strongest enchanted gear the Sanctuary had ever invented.

The problem, however, was coming up with a valid excuse for gifting such powerful equipment to her. The way came on the 11th Day of Rain's Han. Mhalla was called into Tarvlyn's office, there he told her the last things he was expecting. In the years past, Vigilants did not train in shield work and blocking. By hat standard, she was more than ready to have her initiation, her first mission, to join the Vigil in truth. Eager, she rushed to the stables, smirking at the bemused and then enraged Bandalu.

The mission was simple. The city of Markarth had hired them to rid the world of haunting spirits, who dwelt on the other side of the Dragontail Mountains. They were a Stormcloak patrol ordered to scout out the country's border with Hammerfell and High Rock. They had been ambushed by Imperial soldiers and slain shortly before hearing of Ulfric's defeat for the first time. Since, they have clung to their disbelief, waylaying Imperial soldiers, travelers, and Markarth locals – attempting to retake the city in their High King's name.

Mhalla tracked them to a fog-filled forest at the base of the mountains, right before it expanded out west to the Illiac Bay. The day turned to night and in the depths of darkness they came, shrieking their otherworldly noises, ethereal blades slicing at her. Mhalla danced, sword singing, light burning thorugh the night. The silver blade parted their forms, exploding out in waves of light and heat. Slashes and flashes of Sun Fire, and they were gone, four piles of ectoplasm (“Faolan Onstala!” She heard the chat.) oozed to the ground.

She came back three days later, the news heralding her success met cheers and pats on the back. Tarvlyn decided her celebration should be at the end of the week. A look flickered past Mhalla's face at that, there and gone, but she respectfully bowed her head to him and thanked the Keeper for the honor and privilege of serving for the Vigilants.

On the fifth day, Calilian intercepted a courier.

For the last ten years, Hjor, Calilian, Tarvlyn, Berta and others concerned have attempted to drag out Mhalla's past from her. Where she was born, who she knew; hell, they still didn't know her age and she was reluctant to tell Keeper Tarvyln her name during their first meeting.

But that letter revealed it all.

It arrived two days after her trip north, on the 16th of Rain's Hand. It seems that not only Markarth had heard tell of her deeds but the northern town of Dragonstar as well. The letter was from a Nord named Borvil who wrote that they (whoever that may be) were ecstatic to hear she was alive. And that she must have her own reasons for not visiting they wished to send a birthday gift to show their well wishes.

On the day of the celebration, Hjor and Calilian presented the letter to her, as well as a gift, in honor of her first successful mission, initiation into the Vigil and all the birthdays past, the Bracers of Striker's Might were wrapped in a familiar, old fine red cloth.

Mhalla chocked on her emotions, clutching it to herself and thanking them.

With that, her training was complete.[/spoiler]

[spoiler=Bandalu and Fesda]

Becoming a Vigilant of Stendarr was not the end of Mhalla's problems.

Following her intiation, the resistance against her shifted from whispers behind her backs and dotted looks to glares and scowls and complaints to the Keeper. While a good deal of it came because of the Bracers, some of the greatest abuses happened while doing her training with the shield, and it was undoubtedly worsened by Vigilant Bandalu.

While their relationship was rocky before, it became all the worse after her initiation and gifting of the Bracers. To Bandalu she was being unfairly favored before pure, uncursed, promising recruits – had been ever since Tarvalyn allowed her into the training and the Bracers only confirmed it. Their classes were cold – filled with sarcasm and spite as subtle as a mace to the head.

“And that is the complete knowledge of known Daedra, greater and lesser – ”

“Vigilant Bandalu!”

Prior to the Bracers, Bandalu would reluctantly answer any questions that Mhalla might have. But after her initiation, he became steel – ignoring her as much as he could. But she made that impossible for him, like now.

“It seems you are lacking several key Daedra discovered in the last decade, including biological beasts found in their planes. For instance, the Lurker – ”

He couldn't restrain himself. “The what now?”

“The Lurker, along with the Seeker, are inhabitants of Hermaeus Mora's realm, Apocrypha.”

She felt some curious, interested looks on her back. “And how, exactly, would you know that?” His teeth sounded like they were going through a grindstone.

“It is stated in the Children of Oblivion by the Scholar.”

“The who?”

“He's – ”

“Are you truly telling me you believe the work of a man who not only wrote under a alias but claims to know the denizens of Apocrypha and not to have gone mad or lost wandering it's halls? Of course, I shouldn't expect any less from you Vigilant Mhalla.”

Bandalu's crowd snorted, cruel eyes laughing.

Mhalla merely smiled.

“Indeed, it is a foolish thing to believe, and only fools can. But since the entire population of Solstheim was held under the sway of the foul magics of Apocrypha a decade ago and personally spotted the beasts and the Redoran Guard of Raven Rock even fought a couple off then they must be fools as well, isn't that right, Vigilant Bandalu?”

A dropped septim could chime loudly in the silence that followed.

“The – the” Bandalu sputtered at last. “The Great Houses would never condone such lies, least of all House Redoran!”

“Feel free to berate me tomorrow night if I'm wrong.”

He didn't.

He didn't say a word to her for weeks.

Tarvlyn, partly to ease the tension and partly because he knew she would insist, assigned Mhalla a mission. It had been a decade since any word had reached them of Halivid's Wyrd. And now there was a breakthrough. The ali'n dan tribe who the Sanctuary had aided centuries before had become close associates of the Vigilants, sending recruits over the years and requesting aid. They did so now, informing the Sanctuary that the buried shrine of Clavicus Vile was once again disturbed.

Mhalla, Hjor, Igmund and D'ordon left their steeds heading deep into the eastern desert. That was all they thought they needed. The tribe had given word that only one figure had entered the shrine, and only a small one at that. But it would not be a easy fight, for the Vigilants believed that one of Halivid's Hags had begun the final stage of transformation, hatching, born again, from a egg in order to grow from that miniature size to great power.

It would be a tough fight, they thought.

So they were understandably surprised when a child waited for them.

The child in question wore a plain green dress with yellow hemming, and, incredibly, golden jewelry around her neck and fingers. When she heard the footsteps a mix of relief and tension fluttered on her face, only cemented into wariness when seeing them. A small hand grasped the hilt of a dagger on her hip, while the strange child demanded, “Who are you?”

Mhalla shook her head. “No. Who are you, child? What are you doing in such a place?”

“I am searching for one who can help me.”

There's no way. “Are you searching for Halivid?”
To Mhalla's shock and horror, the child said, “Yes. Yes I am!” Desperation leaked into her voice, “How do you –”

“Did you honestly just tell the Vigilants of Stendarr that you seek out a Hagraven?”

“Vigilants of Stendarr? Halivid's a Hagraven?”

There was a beat, while looks were shared. Comprehension dawned.

“What?”

Mhalla began to pace towards her, and the child instinctively stepped back. “Halivid was a witch two centuries ago, but she has since fled this place and has changed.” Mhalla's hand rest on the hilt of her blade. “The Vigilants are a militant order created two centuries ago, a order dedicated to hunting abominations, like vampires.”

All color drained from her face.

A moment later Mhalla held her blade to the girl's throat, light imbuing the room fully.

Mhalla's body was tensed and coiled, prepared for the monster to spring and strike.

But the vampire fell to her knees.

The grip on her hilt wavered. What in the Eight's holy name?

“No. Not like this.” The girl wept. It had to be fake. “Not now. Not before they are dead.”

Mhalla was about to raise her blade.

“Before who are dead?” Mhalla glanced back a glare at Hjor.

“Before the destruction of the Anthotis.”

“The who?”

She settled on the ground, her eyes vieiwng some place far. “The Anthotis are the Clan of the Alik'r, and other kingdoms around the Illiac Bay before the Warp in the West.” She closed her eyes. “They like forcibly changing their victims and leaving them stranded in the desert, forced to join or die. That's how I joined my old clan. Before I was cured.”

“You're cured, and you want your fellow vampires dead? You expect us to believe that?” D'ordon obviously didn't believe. Mhalla didn't either.

“I came here to find the witch Halivid, who knows of where I can find the Khulari.” After seeing their confusion, she clarified, “They are one of the rival clans of the Anthotis – I hoped to ask their aid in destroying the Anthotis. Halivid had connections among them.”

The writer. In the cabin. “What are these vampires like?” Her mouth betrayed her.

“What are you saying?” Igmund was one of Bandalu's.

“They are infamous for their paralysis powers.”

There was no doubting it now. “She's telling the truth.”

“What are you saying?” She was practically saying his words.

“It doesn't matter one bit, she has to die.” Not because she was a vampire, but because she's Halivid's ally.

“No. She may be of use to the Sanctuary.”

Both Mhalla and Igmund spun around to Hjor. “What?” They asked in unison.

“If she is a cured vampire and does wish for her clan's destruction, then we can aid each other. She can give away information about vampire clans, information that the Sanctuary, that the order, couldn't hope to ever gain, in return we destroy these Anthotis, which we would want to do regardless.”

Mhalla and Igmund still seemed speechless, but D'ordon seemed interested. “Would you be willing to betray not only the Anthotis but all vampire clans?”

The vampire (or ex-vampire) just laughed, bitter. “Yes. Yes I think I can. I would have gone to vampire hunters but I thought they would kill me on sight.”

“I still say that's a option.” Mhalla couldn't believe how this conversation was going – couldn't believe there was a conversation.

“Mhalla. Are you really going to condemn her to death just because of what was done to her? You? Of all people?”

The child who was turned, whose life was flipped upside down, at thirteen stared curiously up at her.

“No. No! She's nothing like me!” The lie tasted foul in her mouth. Mhalla turned on her heel.

She was outside before she knew it. And soon enough so was the others. The trip back was a slow one. And while the group had decided, for now, to trust in the girl, whose name is Fesda, they found out, they did not trust her so much to turn their backs to her at night. But as their three day journey continued, they found that despite not drinking any blood she still looked human, and, more than that, in the light of day they could clearly see that her eyes were only a dark brown, not the black or red of vampires.

Despite herself, Mhalla had to admit that Fesda was cured and so was no more than a child now.

That was not how Bandalu saw it.

“What is this?” He demanded, after hearing the Vigilants testimony and Tarvlyn's admission that such knowledge would be useful. “Have you all lost your wits? She should die!”

Suddenly, Mhalla felt disgusted. She had agreed with him, however unknowingly.

They eventually settled on a trial period. They would keep her under guard, but still would ask and question her. If the information turned out reliable and they managed to kill some vampires of nearby clans because of it, then more permanent arrangements would be made, since Fesda would then be unable to enter back into the clan, her betrayal having caused deaths among them.

While Mhalla no longer wanted the weak child slain, she still did not trust the ex-vampire, and did not want to be in the dinning commons while they questioned Fesda. So in the pit of night, she worked in the courtyard, trying to forget everything. And that is when Fesda approached.

“What is it?” Mhalla asked, barely even looking up.

“I wanted to apologize.”

Mhalla took her gear and began to head back to her room in the barracks. “I don't want to hear it.”

“I heard from Hjor.” The man needs to learn
to keep his mouth shut. “I didn't know. I was desperate, and I thought Halivid could be of use. I had no idea of how terrible she really was.” Mhalla opened the door to her room. “If I – wait. Watch out!”

Mhalla stepped into her room and onto the rug in the middle.

That was when a bright green light pulsed beneath her.

Fesda jumped in to push her out of the way.

They were both struck, the Poison Rune exploding and pushing them against the fall wall.

Pain wracked Mhalla's entire being, burning through her veins and blurring her vision entirely. She couldn't move. Couldn't scream. The only thing she could do was think, and she thought at a thousand miles a minute. A trap. Someone left a trap for me. To kill me. Poison magic, Calilian's missing art of Restoration, from Morro –

“Well. That couldn't have gone better.”

Standing in the doorway was Bandalu.

Through her coughs, Mhalla wheezed, “I didn't think you'd stoop to murder.”

“I'm merely following the tenets. Something that Tarvyln has long forgotten it seems. Once you are gone, I'll file a report to the Vigil letting them know that our Keeper is associating with vampires and witch-spawn. I'll be Initiated as the new Keeper.”

“Will that be before,” Mhalla spat out blood, “Or after Stendarr showers you with glory?”

“Cute. Time to die.”
And then there was nothingness.

When Mhalla woke up, she was lying in Calilian's healing quarters. She saw Calilian's worried face above her, which then brightened up into a grin. “She's awake!” Then, she was bombarded with sights. Keeper Tarvyln, Hjor, Calilian, D'ordon, a abashed looking Igmund, Berta, and, sitting in the corner in the dark, whose eyes were burning into her, Fesda.

Just looking at the cured vampire made everything come back.

“Bandalu! Where is – ”

“Calm down.” Tarvyln said, putting firm hands on her shoulders, “He is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Aye.” Hjor said, looking grim. “I found him right as he was about to kill the two of you. We fought, but he couldn't keep up with the BladeKeeeper. Once I struck him down, I called over Calilian. You've been healing here every since.”

“I don't know cure poison often.” Calilian apologized.

“So,” Mhalla started, “What do we do now? We need a LoreKeeper, especially for the new recruits.”

They seemed surprised by the change of topic. But Tarvlyn answered, “I was thinking it would be you.”

“Me?” But I need to hunt down Halivid. I can't stop and teach while she's still alive. “But – ”

“But I decided n Fesda. We will test out her knowledge. I expect you to fill her in on the tenets of the Vigil.”

“We're going to be working together from now on,” Fesda beamed.

“Great.” Mhalla sighed. “Great start so far.” [/spoiler]

…...............................................................................................................................................................

Translation:
Faolan Onstala: Red Eagle's Mother
Est onsta halan erun! May your heart be filled with power!
Est deda halan teturoni! : May your life be everlasting!

Summary: Mhalla was born of the Lady Sorrine in Dragonstar. She had a affair with a Redguard and tried to get rid of Mhalla in the poor district. There she is raised by a group of homeless and a petty thief, who taught her how to pickpocket and lock pick. Their first joint heist is on a vampire, who then hands them over to Halivid. The sole survivor of a ritual, Mhalla is cursed with the Hand of Decay before the casting is interrupted. Taken in by the Vigilants, she trains for ten years and becomes a Vigilant of Stendarr. On a mission, she mets Fesda who becomes the LoreKeeper after the previous dies trying to kill them.

Ha! I got the point. I'll refrain from making you read novels from now on.

Thanks for the approval!