"A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain-side shut fast ," ¬The Pied Piper of Hamelin.

 

 

  The Reach. Much of Skyrim's geography is harsh, merciless, when not battling the creatures that lair in the North, citizens are wrestling with the very land itself and loosing that battle can prove deadly. But no hold is as forboding as the Reach. It's rocks eroded into sheer cliffs ready to drop the careless traveller to his doom. It's valleys are prowled by beasts their hunger driving them to hunt stray men as often as they do venison and game. It's mountains claw at the skies, broken only by Dwemer spires shrouded eternally in mist. And the few roads that snake through the jagged landscape are stalked by the Forsworn, godless savages always on the lookout for travellers to snatch away and sacrifice in bloody rituals to the dark powers.

 

 

  How does civilization exist in such a place? By the blessings of the Divines of course. The people of the Reach accepted the Lady of Love as their patron and from her temple in Markarth her passions burn away the gloom that life may claw an existance here. Yet even that has dimmed and the demeanor of the common folk has become as dour as their landscape. On entering our Blessed Lady's sanctum I recieved no welcome befitting a sworn sister of the cloth, indeed their greetings were sour and morose, almost angered that another had come to share in their despair. Only the native priestess Senna remained somewhat welcoming, if curt, and the novice Amelie, both intrigued at the arrival of a new sister, slithering around each other in a bid to captivate me. The temptresses both eager to test the newcomer's knowledge of Dibella's arts, something I shared with them gladly.

 

 

 

  The cause of their gloom was divulged to me when the Matriarch, Hamal, lead me into the cloisters. Like the rest of Markarth carved by the Dwemer, master artisans capable of great crafts yet with no love of the gods, favoring sideways logic, obscene reason and diabolic machines. It pleased me to see their blasphemous halls sanctified and turned to peity. The infernal devices of the deep folk had long fallen into disrepair and eventually ceased altogether leaving only heavy foot falls to shatter the eerie silence. And there she revealed to me the source of their woes. The seat of the oracle, and it stood vacant.

 

 

  The Sybil of Dibella, a prophetess, the faithful would say that she speaks with the voice of the goddess, spending their existance in communion with the blessed lady and passing on her visions and decrees. Chosen through a ceremony known as the Exhalted Protocol, remaining a virgin for their lifetime and serving their kingdom as expressions of the goddess' will. Markarth's Sybil had served for decades but age had eventually caught up with her and toppled her from her seat. Hamal believed the new vessel to be in the tiny mining village of Karthwastern, I resolved to seek out the new chosen in the hopes that with a new oracle to guide them the hold's malaise could be lifted, a vain hope perhaps, given the stubbornness of Nords. I left the sanctuary to gather supplies but my trek through those streets did little to lift a growing unease. Indeed, overhearing the gossip of the townsfolk, my unrest only grew further.

 

 

"Another gone, Yngfa this time. Folks woke up and found her bed empty, mother's beside herself with worry."

"Divines sake, have they sent the guard? Arranged a search party?"

"Of course they did, it was a Nord this time. Can't spare men to search for a native woman, but one of their own vanishes into the hills.."

" Vanished? Pffts. More like she's gone to some secret dalliance."

"That's what you said about Aera, and Idona. and neither of them's come home yet."

 

 

  Whilst restocking for the journey and turning half an ear to the rumour mongering of the citizenry I counted at least six missing girls, two of them mere childeren. All of them in similar circumstances, Bedded down for the night in their family home and all of them gone come sunrise, as if they had evaporated into thin air. The officials had all but turned a blind eye, believing the natives had simpley fled into the hills to join the Forsworn, only when the daughter of a prominent Thane followed the pattern did they sound the warhorn and comb the surrounding countrysides. I would consult with the sisterhood on my return and perhaps mount our own investigation. But first the Sybil must be found and before I departed there was the matter of the old one. It would be indecent to depart without first paying my respects.

 

 

  The hall of the dead was kept by Brother Verulus, and Imperial priest of Arkay, a young man that was growing old before his time dealing with the dilemmas plaguing Markarth, clashes between the city's soldiery and forsworn along with the Stormcloak uprising, ensured a steady flow of corpses overwhelming both the priest and the catacombs, he explained they had already been extended twice and feared a third cavity would need to be dug. As he lead me through the catacombs to the mother's resting place I thought his situation a shame, were it not for the troubles weighing on him and the vows he had taken to the lord of seasons he would be a fine catch for some maiden, young and strong and if not covered in the garb of office, considerably handsome. Whilst my mind drew arousing pictures of what lay beneath his robes I almost stumbled into him, he had stopped dead and dropped his torch in shock, I quickly banished the thoughts from my head before they turned blasphemous and leaned forwards to see what had startled him and drew in a sharp breath.

 

 

 

  The Sybil had passed not four days before my arrival through the mountains, Veralus had already begun the embalming process and yet the corpse before us seemed to have been dead for decades. I expected a elderly woman, wizened even, but this was withered beyond recognition, looking more like some nightmarish ghoul than a servant of the Divines. Her once kind features were contorted into a grimmace, rigor mortis had twisted her shape from a dignified sleeping position into a gnarled model of horror. Yet worse were the telltale signs upon her, her eyelids crusted with dried blood, lips pulled back giving her an expression of agony, her tongue withered and blackened. This woman had not passed peacefully of age as the sisterhood assumed when she was discovered, this had all the damning evidence of poison or black sorcery.

 

 

 

  The revalations in the Hall of the dead increased my worries and added more urgency to my task, there was more to Markarth's misery than mere coincidence, the Sybil had to be located swiftly. I had acquired a steed from the city's stables, Magnus, a magnificent stud, not the swiftest of beasts but they are bred for traversing the treacherous terrain of the Reach. Saddling him I set forth, Karthwastern was a mining town to the north of Markarth, one of many small communities that dotted the landscape here. As vicious as the crags could be they were also rich in minerals making mining the Reach's main industry and fuelling Markarth's ecconomy. The twisting paths that wound around the cliffs were quiet, almost peacefull, the echo of distant howls betrayed the presence of predators but none haunted the roads. It was only upon reaching the village I was reminded of the land's hardships once more.

 

 

  Karthwastern is an oddity in the reach, being one of the few tracts of land owned by a native rather than the Nords. Ainethach, the village hetman, explained to me the disturbances afflicting his community. Recent forsworn raids had drawn brutish sellswords to his lands, claiming protection whilst extorting him and his workers. Yet worse here I learned of more dissapearances, once again all young women, vexingly any one of them could be the one I sought. The native son of the Reach seemed to share my assumptions that these were more than simple kidnaps. I was told how the women had become morose in mood, several had began talking in their sleep or being afflicted by night terrors. During their waking hours they had been wistful, unresponsive when called, often caught gazing off into the distance with a vacant expression and murmering to themselves a childish rythme the words of which Ainethach never caught.

 

 

  This new information on the dissapearances along with the discovery in the hall of the dead only served to deepen my confidence that this was the work of dark magic. Due to it's jagged terrain space to settle in the Reach is limited, what little is not taken up by the miners is claimed by the heathens. Forsworn encampments are littered all throughout the hills and valleys, and though I could not be certain of their involvement, they were a start to my search. The pagans serve the princes of oblivion and in return are blessed with black powers, they'd also benefit from the chaos inflicted on the Nords. Finding which camp however, would be an issue. The Reachmen both here and in Bangkorai, split themselves into tribes, each with their own rituals, beliefs and each serving their own patron power. Which tribe would be behind the events here and where do they dwell? It was whilst pondering these questions that I saw her.

 

 

 

  A serving wench from the Silverblood inn. Hroki was the innkeeper's daughter, buxom and shapeley, she drew the lustfull attentions of many eyes in the city, mine included. Yet here she was walking the roads, alone, far from the city. Approaching her and calling out, she made no effort to stop when I hailed her, just continuing to wander her path with a sway of her hips. drawing closer I could hear her singing, a childlike rhyme in a language I did not know, her eyes were clamped shut as if sleeping. She was hexed, perhaps under the same spell that had led to the dissapearances of the other women. I began to follow, hoping she could lead me to the source of the enchantment. Her path was a long and winding one yet no man or beast appeared to hinder her progress and not once did she slow her step untill at last she came to an old abandoned fortress, pushing open it's rotten doors and sauntering inside.

 

 

  Once the Imperials had forts built all throughout the provinces, fully manned at strategic position to protect the populace or put down unrest. But with the opening of Dagon's gates the legions were recalled to Cyrodiil and the provinces left to fend for themselves, in the years that followed the crisis further events crippled the Empire, leaving many of their ancient forts empty, never to be reclaimed. Many fell into ruin, others were taken by villany, bandits, monsters and far worse things crawled into these keeps and infest them to this day. This one was no different, following in Hroki's steps the signs were everywhere, Forsworn. Imagery of the old Septim Empire now ravaged, decorated with skulls and other grisley decorations of their primitive culture. Old torture devices had been dragged from the dungeons and complimented with their own impliments of agony.

 

 

  The first sentries fell swiftly allowing me to explore their twisted occupation further and what I saw appalled me. Corpses in piles, devious machines of pain covered in blood from fresh use, cages where their captives had been held, beaten and broken. The further I ventured into their citadel the more vile the scenes became, the childeren, it appeared had simpley been slain, left in piles, ravaged occaisionally for the organs used in their sickening rituals. Those that had flowered into maidenhood I found bound and tethered, their captors still in the act of violating them. My anger could no longer be held in check, I moved in a frenzy, blade aflame with divine rage. This place had become an affront to all that was holy, it's inhabitants must be exterminated, their imagery and existances purged.

 

 

 

 

 

  When the celestial anger dissipitated I gasped for breath and surveyed the scene, scanning for even a twitching limb or still heaving chest, but all lay still. The cages, like the fortress, had long fallen to disrepair and decay, their locks collapsing into dust under repeated blows from the hilt of a sword. The women within seemed as terrified of me as their jailors, several had to be shaken untill sense returned and they attained a state of mind that could offer explanations. All were maidens that had heard the voice of the goddess, Dibella had told them they were destined to become her next Sybil, the Divine's song had called them, lead them to this place. Upon arriving the godless infidels had put them in chains, children they had slain, others they defiled, taking their first blood to remove their candidacy for her lady's chosen. The savages sought to deny Markarth it's Sybil, weakening it's divine protections that they could assault it once more. The Forsworn had been enchanted as much as the damsels, a witch had appeared and enthralled them inspiring a feirce loyalty, it was her song they had followed here.

 

 

  I bid them leave swiftly and took up the great blade once more and began to ascend the tower. I expected a hag, a wizened elder such as the Glenmoril covens or the Raven-crones, but instead I found a creature of beauty, young and shapely, were she not ashen covered in black runes, and wreathed in profane sorceries I would have mistook her for yet another hostage of this place. She made no movement as I approached, blade held high, ready to cleave this vile witch. She simpley smiled and then I heard it, the chant in my head that had enraptured so many others, it was exquisite, no creature so despicable should be able to voice a chorus so beautifull.

 

 

 

 

My grip on my blade began to loosen, I had to grit my teeth and steel my resolve calling on the goddess to block out her sacrilegious psalms, I would not fall under her sway. When she saw me regain controll and continue towards her the smile dissapeared and she let out a screech, it hit like a hurricane throwing me and everything nearby backwards across the room, there was such force I was suprised it did not take half the wall out and send her tower toppling.

 

 

  Struggling to my feet I saw her rear up, cloaked in icy blue flames as her body contorted and stretched, eyes glowing with hatred as new limbs sprouted and she took on new shapes. Her true form revealed the daedra lunged forward with a howl and battle was joined. She was fast, far faster than her gnarled form should have allowed, claws met blade, dark fires met holy light as we danced and whirled around the tower.  It's assault was relentless, there was barely time to catch a breath as soon as one flurry of talons was deflected another began, it became clear I was going to tire before the creature, I needed to find an flaw in her attack and swiftly. She gave me the opening I needed when she reared up once more and lifted all four arms to bring her claws crashing down, it was merely a split second but it was all that was needed for reflex to take over and drive the blade into her exposed neck swinging it back around in an arc to sunder the fiend's skull.

 

 

 

 

 

  Stepping away, panting, clawing for breath as it's serpintine tail gave it's final thrashes and fell limp. The fiend crumbled quickly burning away to ashes, not dead, they never die, they are hurled screaming back into the waters of Oblivion, those tides would eventually release it to be reborn in it's master's realm. Not dead, but for now banished, the Reach would be free of it's influence for some time. Investigating it's chamber revealed all manner of occult paraphernalia, tomes and arcane volumes, charms and alchemical tinctures and there in an alcove the statue of our lady, desecrated and splattered with blood and beside it a final cell. I knew before I even broke open the cage, I think the daedra knew also, that is why she was here, seperated from the other captives. Fjotra of Karthwastern, the child I sought. Thankfully unharmed and unviolated but somewhat shaken by the horrors she had seen here.

 

 

  It would be some time before she forgot those horrors. But she was the chosen of Dibella, when the sisterhood had prepared her for her role, she would have seen first hands the enemies of the faith. Likewise it would take some time for the divine's influence to reasert it's dominance over the Reach, time the Forsworn and other terrors would no doubt exploit. But for now the seat of the Oracle is occupied once more, and that is enough.