"They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
It had been strange, even in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise." ¬Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

 

 

 

 

  A quiet moment, they seem few and far between now. With a new Sybil enthroned in the sanctum the temple has become bustling once more. Pilgrims flock from distant cities to see the holy seer, The Markarth city watch come to recieve blessings before they march into the hills to cross swords with the godless savages that dwell there. Old men with "discreet" problems, too afeared to go to Bothela, the old native herbalist, lest she bewitch them. Young men and maidens, freshly come of age come for instruction, and occaisonally practice, in the passion dancer's arts.

 

 

  And then there are the applicants. The tale of the battle at Broken Towers traveled far and wide, how an adept of the Order of the Lily marched in to liberate the Goddesse's chosen oracle and put to flame the corruption of the primitive Forsworn. Warriors and sorcerors, Mercenaries and Mages, they come to the sanctum. Spurred on by bard's stories some wish merely to earn personal glory, to battle enemies of the faith and thus immortalise their deeds in song and saga, earn their place in the great Edda. Others, few others, are brought here by genuine faith, eager to lay their blades on her altar and take vows in her name. It's one of the latter that Mother Hamal interrupted my bathing to speak of. A shame, it was a quiet moment.

 

 

 

 

  Safia al-Rusa, a Redguard, born to a wealthy merchant dynasty in the city of Sentinel, her family had won great glory battling the Altmer during the long and brutal great war, she had expected to do likewise but by the time she had come of age and completed her training in the Rahni'Za school of warriors, that war had been fought to a standstill. Knowing she'd instead be married off to some withered merchant thrice her age to increase her father's wealth and influence, she wandered, untill she came to us. Wishing to be ordained and pledge her blades to the goddess.

 

 

 

 

  Her knowledge of the divine mysteries impressed many and her sword work was solid, Hamal had blessed her and welcomed her into the Sisterhood and I had her kneel and be ordained into the Order Militant, not a knighthood, she would need to travel to the Grand Cathedrals of Daggerfall, Anvil or the Imperial city for that, but an Novice Errant. She was young, shapely and beautiful, all qualities that the Lady of Love seeks, she was firey and headstrong, clashing wills with mother Hamal repeatedly. And very well versed in the bedroom arts, clashing tounges with me after lengthy training sessions in the arts of love and war.

 

 

 

 

  And now she was missing. A traveller came to the temple from Hroldan seeking the order's divine aid. Draugr, the embalmed dead of Skyrim, the majority of them are enshrined in ancient crypts dating back to the Merithic era, thus most of them date from a time before the pantheon of the Nine Divines was established here and were not subjected to blessings and rituals that would bind them to Arkay's law. That makes the old ruins and necropoli across the Fatherland's landscape a favorite haunt for necromancers and the dark powers. A tomb near Hroldan had awoken, and it's dead had begun to emerge and wander the countryside aimlessly. They had not yet assaulted the small tavern but many visitors had seen their distant forms shambling through the mist in the distance, and Eyedis sought a solution before they found their way to the lonely Inn.

 

 

  The undead are usually handled by the priesthood of Arkay, but Brother Verulus had been absent, a wanderer had already sought his services in clearing an infestation and sanctifying Reachcliff cavern. And thus Safia had taken up her blade and set forth for Hroldan, alone. An initiate should not travel alone, certainly not into dangers, much like the squire to a Knight they are to travel with a more experienced member, partly to reign in their excesses, partly to point out their mistakes and judge their performance. Senna however had allowed her to leave and now Mother Hamal feared the worst had come to pass, as did I. She was not ready.

 

 

 

 

 

  I am ready. 

Isabella and Hamal will be angered, but I am no child to be babysat and coddled. I am redguard, the blood of generations of Yokudan sword masters flows through my veins, graduate of the Rahni'za, I have walked the circles of Hunding and conquered. More than a match for any Nordic warrior and certainly a match for a shambling corpse. My steel is tempered and given weight by Moth gro-Bagol, a veteran of the legions now serving as a master smith in the keep of Understone. The edges silvered with ores hauled from Cidna, where the knaves and the villanous are turned to honest labour, and then blessed at her lady's altar to smash through rotten flesh and bone like the fist of Ebonarm himself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Faith shields my body and burns through my enemies with the force of a thousand suns, tearing profane sorceries from the dead and letting them rest once more, crumbling their heretical forms to ash and freeing their souls to ascend to Arkay's embrace. They retain little of their old knowledge of battle, or perhaps they never had any. Their ancestors came from old Atmora and purged the land of Mer in a tide of blood and murder, it is hard to believe these wretches are of the same lineage, has age atrophied their minds as well as their limbs? Or is the vile wizardry that makes them rise again simply not strong enough. It matters little, they pull themselves from their slumber and lurch forward, ragged throats trying to form words as they shamble forwards with jerky, almost insect like movements, only to fall, shattering under holy wrath. I need no accomplice here, no superiors, and when I return to the temple victorious my Isabella will be forced to accept me as equal. What could go...

 

 

...Wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

  I work with imbeciles. It seems I always work with imbeciles, first the College of Whispers, they claim to be free of the restrictions the Synod places over it's members, to plum depths of magic that most would consider forbidden, but they trembled just the same, afraid to delve to deeply. The independant college of this frigid waste, perhaps worse. Free of the politics that tear appart the institutions of Cyrodil, but not free of their own fears, so anxious, so concerned with what the primitive Nords think of them that they will barely cast more than a cantrip let alone rend aetherious asunder and learn the secrets of Magnus himself. And now this rabble, rogues and outcasts, the remnants of the great Worm Cult now bound together in my Pale Acadamy, pathetic what classes as a conjuror in this land. They find the girl and their first thought is to carve her for spare parts.

 

 

  After all I went through to bring her here. Travelling to that infernal stone city in the guise of a simple traveller who had been assaulted by the dead of this very crypt, pleading for aid. Shuddering when I stepped through the doors of that "Holy" temple, I should have known better, the spirits of Aetherius are powerless, Dibella did not strike me down with holy might, the harlot of the divines is impotent. But it was necessary, The temple recently took up arms against the forworn, if my own work here is to progress uninterrupted I cannot allow a house of painted strumpets to grow in power and influence. She was all too eager this cleric, so hasty to sally forth and take up arms against the foes of righteousness, and yet here she is bound and beaten. So much for Dibella's champion. Do you see her goddess? Can your eyes penetrate this tomb? Will you watch as she is defiled?

 

 

 

 

  She is delightful, how she struggles so feebly against her bonds, how she clenches her eyes shut and bites against her muzzle as she is entered over and over again, her muffled sobs and squeals as the circle takes her again and again. So much for Dibella's champion. Do you see her goddess? Can your eyes penetrate this tomb? Are you watching as she is defiled? That vicious stare through hatefilled eyes, smudged with tears, the rattle of her chains. But she is not done yet, she will provide entertainment for days, perhaps even months, perhaps eventually she will grow accustomed to it, is it not every Dibellan's wish to be a whore for their goddess? No she is not done yet, the circle may be spent for now, but there are other things to keep her holes ripe, she can satisfy the servitors.

 

 

 

  This is what the forsworn fear? The witchmen of the North now cower in their hovels because of this? A Sanctum of sluts. What did this little Redguard whore hit them with, flowers? Despicable, the conviction of the people in this land. When a chapter of the Vigilants or the Order of the Circle plants it's banners in the Reach, then perhaps I shall have reason to pause. But for now the Pale Academy will be the dominant force here. These necropoli, the constant skirmishes between the city and the Forsworn and the idiotic civil war will provide an ample supply of corpses to fuel the Worm's hunger. And with this whore in chains, to be used and abused as I see fit, who is left to challenge?