Private The Calling (18+)

[The Phantom]

It was exactly 25 years after the Dragonborn's slaying of Alduin that the tourney began. The tourney that would change the course of history in Tamriel for years to come. For the reward of this tourney was that of the power of the last Dragonborn, and thus "heroes" from all over the continent swarmed like ants to the celebrations hoping to claim the power of the Dragonborn for their own. However, only a small number of the thousands who arrived were deemed fit to partake in these duels to the death and were forced to watch the games. The games were taking place in a large, stone coliseum that had been built where the Western Watchtower had been in order to commemorate the slaying of Mirmulnir, the first dragon to have been killed by the Dragonborn. This coliseum was as grand as the Dragonborn himself, larger even than the Imperial Arena and more architecturally beautiful than the city of Solitude. It was capable of seating all the thousands of spectators and even had underground areas in which the combatants would train and await their calling to battle.

Seven days into the celebrations and of the two-hundred that entered, only a mere 10 warriors were still living. The games had been entertaining for everyone, even the Thalmor ambassador was impressed not just by the tourney but by the splendour of the celebrations. The combatants consisted of: famed princes, deadly assassins, renowned duelists, accomplished champions, skilled mages and the truly greatest fighters in Nirn. A stir was even created when a Maomer battlemage and a self-proclaimed Listener of the Dark Brotherhood entered the competition, using their incredible skills to slaughter many an opponent before eventually too falling, however to avoid an incident the Jarls, Elenwen and the Dragonborn claimed that the Sea Elf was merely a powerful and peculiar looking Bosmer. Additionally, the true Listener attended the tourney under a truce the Dragonborn agreed to declaring him amnesty and the right to disguise his appearance in order to put to rest the rumours of the combatant's legitimacy. Furthermore, the leader of the Fighter's Guild, the Harbinger of the Companions, Arch-mages of all magic schools, all other guild commanders and persons of importance were in attendance, hoping to gain support, make alliances and attract the approval of the Dragonborn.

The finals of the tourney were to be begin at 18:00 upon the seventh day, following mass celebrations and an announcement by the Dragonborn himself- and at that time, the Dragonborn stood high above the spectators from his personal booth. He was a large, very intimidating Nord, who today had chosen to don the armour he had not worn in over 25 years: a set of iron greaves, boots, gauntlets, a studded cuirass and an iron helmet with horns. Despite the quality, age and look of the armour, the man still possessed such sheer power and authority that upon his obvious standing the entire coliseum became quiet. At first, the Dragonborn did nothing, then he screamed the words "LOK VAH KOOR!" and the ground shook, the sky cleared, the world waited. This power of the Dragonborn had grown such that the shout took effect across Tamriel, demonstrating to the world a final time that he was unparalleled in might and Lord of the Dragons as named by Odahviing. He spoke. And as he spoke, the world listened
"Today," he began, his voice still loftily bearing the weight of his thu'um "six victors shall be crowned. Six victors shall be named as Champions of the Dragonborn! Today, the celebrations will end, and a new era will begin. The closing of the tourney of the Dragonborn shall mark the ending of the 4th era, and the beginning of the 5th era- an era of prosperity for the people, peace for Tamriel, and finally, rest for me. It is now with pride, I declare the finals of the tourney begun!" the crowd cheered. The arena gates opened.

From the North gate stepped forward a warrior clad in ebony. He was exceptionally tall and wore a full set of ebony armour glowing with heavy enchantments and despite the weight of his protection, he appeared unburdened. Upon his back was a bow of ebony and a quiver full of arrows. In his right hand he held his sabre-like, wickedly sharp ebony sword, and in his left he held a shield with a coat of ebony that appeared nigh-impenetrable. Judging by his build he was assumed to be Redguard though was announced merely as the "Ebony Warrior" as he confidently walked to the centre of the arena. Anticipation grew and cheers were yelled in his name.

From the South gate stepped forth his opponent: an Altmer, of average human height, he wore his own customised armour which consisted of a small, light steel breastplate with his sigil engraved on the metal, a star with a mage staff in front of it, robe-like yet short, slim fitting frost dragon-scale equivalent of a backplate that came forward into a jacket style around his breastplate. The scaly backplate reached down to his knees in a manner like that of a cape however it was slim enough that it was vertical down the inside half of each leg and had a hood lined with very rich silk that was currently not being worn. He wore skyforge steel gauntlets over his dragon-scale sleeves and mail over the shoulders. He also donned knee-high skyforge steel boots over the trousers he wore, crafted in a similar fashion to the rest of the lightly armoured and underlayered parts of his armour. His face was exposed, baring his pale yet attractive features, high-cheekbones, defined jawline, facial tattoos and tied-back, long blonde hair. Upon his back was his impressively crafted staff of pure, ornate metal, the head being an eagle of the Aldmeri Dominion and the bottom half made of refined oak wood, also possessing an intimidating blade at the bottom which was bladed and pointed. He seemed to ooze confidence and poise while many cheers (Stifled by some boos from Thalmor haters) were screamed as the announcer proclaimed him to be "Lord Inquisitor Erebos Larethorin of the Summerset Isle." and he walked patiently to the centre, standing parallel to his opponent.

The horn sounded yet neither combatant attacked. Instead, they slowly circled the centre of the arena, sizing each other up and calculating their best strategy. The Ebony Warrior broke from the circle and decided to close the distance, raising his shield and running, only to be pushed backwards by a salvo of forceful lightning blasts. His shield, despite smoking slightly, had effectively absorbed most of the damage, and this time he strafed as he charged, making it difficult for Larethorin to keep him back. Erebos decided to confuse the warrior by rushing to meet him in combat and drew his staff from his back. The Warrior was caught off guard and slashed at Erebos's helmet-less head, only to be met by his staff's blade which he charged with lightning, causing it to conduct and shock the Ebony Warrior so severely a pained and angered cry was heard as the Redguard kicked Erebos back with all his might. The Thalmor stumbled back, confident in his attack strategy, he then poured all his mana into his staff, blasting out a powerful and focused torrent of lightning which slammed into the warriors breastplate, driving him back and causing immense levels of pain that would have turned lesser men into ash; however that fate was assuaged as the Warrior raised his shield and crouched so that his shield covered him and braved the incredible stream of electricity. The shield, though enchanted to absorb most magicka, was still being forced to endure exceptional levels of energy and just as Erebos's beam expired, the shield's metal melted through and set the wood alight, causing the fighter to drop his shield and bare his weapon with two hands.

Following this, the warrior looked down at his singed breastplate and realised that now, while the mage had no magicka left, would be his only opportunity to strike a killing blow. The Ebony Warrior cried as he charged with surprising speed towards the mage and, anticipating a block with the staff, slashed with all his strength, calling upon his Redguard adrenaline rush, knocking the staff clean out of the mage's hands. He then brought the blade around over his head and prepared to cleave through his opponent's body when something no one predicted happened. Erebos had accounted for all of this and used his ability as a High Elf to regenerate all his missing magicka in the time the Warrior closed the distance between them. He then expelled all his newly regenerated mana in the form of fire, causing an unbearable and intense inferno so hot that the audience could feel it from their overlooking seats and the Ebony Warrior could do nothing as the force of the fire threw him across the arena. For a few seconds the fiery tornado dominated the arena, and then subsided, revealing to the audience Erebos, barely standing and exhausted, standing up using his staff as support. Across from him, on the other side of the arena lay the Ebony Warrior. He was recognisable only due to the metal, for the heat had caused the ebony to melt into his incinerating flesh, meaning that now there was a small puddle of melted armour that contained the ashes of the Redguard warrior.

Then, the crowd erupted with applause and the Dragonborn declared that Lord Inquisitor Erebos Larethorin of the Summerset Isle was the first Champion of the Dragonborn. He weakly, but with pride and confidence, walked back into the South gate and down into the basement. Immediately after this, his Highborn power faded and he collapsed from sheer exertion. The Champion would not awake until the next battle was to begin.

 

[Kaelbu]

Fleur stood tall at the gate-- or as tall as she could-- waiting for her name to be announced. She was ready. She'd never been more ready for anything. Her wounds from the previous battles had been sufficiently patched up, her energy was replenished, and her drive was as strong as ever.
Do the Guild proud, she told herself.

Fleur could hear the crowd roar as the north gate opened. It was time.

The announcer boomed over the arena.
"Captain Dar-Tulm, 'The Kraken'!"

Oh, plopse. Him again?
Fleur had tangled with Dar-Tulm before. Years ago, when he was first mate to a pirate captain whom the Guild needed dead, he'd gotten in her way. The battle with him lasted longer than the captain's before he forced Fleur to retreat. She'd heard he became the next captain, and he was one of the most successful-- meaning ruthless-- pirates Tamriel had ever seen.

Her own gate slowly opened, and Fleur stepped forward.
"Representing the Thieves Guild, 'The Little Viper', Fleur Baudin!"
The audience cheered for her despite her modest appearance. Sleeveless Guild light armor, bracers and boots were all she thought she needed. The less armor she wore, the easier it was for her to move. The more easily she could move, the less need she'd have for armor.

On the other side of the arena stood the same Argonian pirate she loved to hate, now brandishing a much fancier-looking set of steel armor and a glass dagger in each hand. They were more swords than daggers, really... And he was taller than she remembered...

He opened his arms to her in a cocky welcome before assuming a defensive position.
Smirking back at him, Fleur drew her bow and held it downward, awaiting the starting signal.

Mere seconds felt like minutes passing as each rogue stared the other one down. In truth, Fleur respected her opponent. He'd climbed the ranks in his own circle, just as she had. He would probably make a very good Thieve's Guild member, or a formidable ally.
But that didn't matter anymore. Only one of them would leave the arena after their last battle. And it wouldn't be him.

The horn sounded, and in an instant, Dar-Tulm was charging her, his swords whirling around him like winds in a storm.
Fleur easily evaded him and shot an arrow close-range at his back. It ricocheted off his armor into the ground, but left a nice little dent where it had hit.
As she sprinted farther away, Fleur drew another arrow back, ready to fire. When she turned to do so, her enemy was nearly to her already.

Faster than I remember! she silently critiqued, sending her next arrow into his chest.
It actually penetrated his armor, but didn't reach his flesh. Dar-Tulm broke the arrow off with a sneer, not worried about the sharp point still embedded near his heart. With a thunderous shout, he swung both swords at once toward Fleur, aiming for both her shoulders. She darted out of the way, but the edge of one sword still caught her boot, slicing some of the side off and scraping down her calf.
"Gah!" she involuntarily called out. Arrow at the ready, she twisted around and released it in the general direction of his head. It grazed his cheek fairly deeply, which was made apparent by the sudden gush of blood cascading down one side of his face. He barely seemed to notice.

Once again, the captain was closing the gap between them. Fleur had little time to think, but she worked well that way. Against her very nature, Fleur dropped her bow and dashed toward her opponent. He expertly sliced at her, very nearly cutting her each time. With each swing, Fleur had to bend one way, lean another, take a step back, duck... Until she finally got her opening.

She hurled all her weight into Dar-Tulm's breast plate, barely knocking him back. He grinned at her for a moment before realizing what she'd done. The arrowhead had pierced his skin, but wasn't lethally deep yet. He quickly threw off his armor and plucked the little arrow from his bare chest, flicking it onto the ground.

"You hadn't accounted for scales, 'Little Viper'?" he taunted, raising his swords to attack.
Fleur glanced at her bow, several feet away. She needed more time.

Before she could make a move for it, Dar-Tulm was already on her, his swords moving in a fluid, deadly dance. She moved with him, inching backward and dodging his every blow until she was within reach of her bow.
When he noticed how close they'd gotten to it, Dar-Tulm flung one of his swords at it, shoving both weapons several feet further away. With one swoop of his arm, he snatched Fleur up by her throat and dangled her above the ground.

The stands simultaneously filled with cheers and hisses as Fleur gripped the hand holding her neck.
"Should I crush her?!" the Argonian called to his fans. Many rooted him on.
"Should I let her head roll?!" he questioned, raising his sword in his other hand. The whooping increased.

Despite struggling to breathe, Fleur smiled knowingly down at her aggressor.
"Finally lost your mind now that you've lost the match, thief?" he chortled.

She said nothing, but winked.

Dar-Tulm's eyes widened as he appeared to freeze in place.
Fleur's encourages cheered in the stands, for they'd seen this trick of her's before. They knew what was happening.

Fleur pried his fingers from her neck, cracking them in the process.
She dropped quietly to the ground and slid the sword out of his grasp.
"I didn't know which arrow it would be, and I didn't know which poison coated it, but I knew it was coming!"

She placed her hand on his chest where the paralysis poison had entered, as a final goodbye. The fight ended with Dar-Tulm's own glass sword plunged into the spot where the arrowhead had been.

With that, Fleur was declared the second Champion of the Dragonborn. She thrust her fist into the air as the crowd applauded in congratulations, but as soon as the gate closed behind her, she wilted into the nearest chair. It was a good, hard fight. But now it was time to nurse her skinned leg and bruised throat.
It would be an interesting meeting between all the Champions, once they were named.

 

[Seanu Reaves]

It was annoying, the loudness, too much like a battlefield. Merce Wickhart groaned to himself, for all he wanted was a quiet life. He felt short by all these Nords and other warrior types. He wished he could get this over with. They all smelled like blood, or maybe it was just his mind making metaphors sensory. It was a sickening stench, as the match before ended suddenly he heard his name called, more correctly his nom de guerre.

“The man known as Priest!”

There was no fanfare as the priest walked out into the field. This was the contrast between him and his opponent. Oh how they cheered for the old man, likely was once a war veteran of the Great War. Merce couldn’t help but pity the man, he was going to have to face someone unlike any other. Though muscular Merce hid his physique behind his unique armored robes, even without magic his youth was a great advantage over the Old Nord. For on the other side of the arena, was a larger Nord man, pacing like some wild animal. Once muscular it was obvious age had softened his body, and Merce pitied him. Merce kneeled and began to pray, it grew quiet as the young Breton dropped his knee to the ground. Bowing his head as if it was any other day and giving his respects to the gods.

Akatosh the Dragon Father, Grant me endurance and everlasting strength

Arkay, The Mortals’ God, grant me vitality in the coming fight.

Lady Dibella, Give allow this fight to have only beauty in its forms.

Julianos, grant me wisdom to allow this fight to incur no suffering.

Kynareth, May I feel your wind upon my back upon my journey.

Mara, May there be no unnecessary suffering upon this field.

Stendarr, guide my hand so that it may be righteous and only bring justice.

Zenithar, God that will always win, bless me with good fortune in the coming battle.

Merce finished his prayers and stood to face his opponent. He didn’t really care to catch the Nord’s name. Since it didn’t really matter anymore, Merce could feel his mind shifting back into what he was trained to be. His eyes began to dart around scanning his opponent. It proved to be a short analysis, for the Nord was clad in only light armor, leaving most of his arms and torso exposed. But the older warrior did have a large warhammer that meant reach and more than likely crushing power.

Filling his hands with magical energy, Merce turned his skin as hard as ebony and fell into his combat stance. Left arm shoulder height, elbow at ninety degrees, palm flat and facing the ground. Right arm bent at a larger angle, hand resting at chest height, and palm opened and pointed at his opponent’s chest. His legs where little more standard in their positioning, right leg a step forward, both feet pointing towards his opponent. The bell rang and Merce sprinted forward, covering the twenty some yards between him and his opponent in almost a second. His opponent brought the warhammer back to try and crush Merce as he approached but the priest was already within the old warriors arms. Using the momentum from his dash and the rotation of his upper body, Merce slammed his fist into his opponent’s studded armor just below the metal disk on his opponent’s chest. The old man had the breath knocked out of him in surprise, and landed a few feet back from Merce. The crowd was silent by the surprising speed of the strange man before them. But they cheered when the old man stood back up and in defiance slammed his own fist against his chest.

“Neat trick, but you are nothing before steel,” The old man hefted his warhammer and beckoned Merce to come at him again. “Come on Milk Drinker!”

The Old man's armor saved his life, Merce thought. That metal plate means I can't destroy his heart with a powerful strike, then guess the face it is. With his new strategy in mind,Priest didn’t charge forward like a madman. Instead he began channeling and summoned a pair of daggers. His scar across his nose was itching, so using the bound dagger he used the hit to scratch his face really quickly. Growing enraged, the Old Nord opted to charge Priest. Though he had grown soft in his muscles they still obeyed him faithfully, as he knocked aside two thrown bound daggers launched at him. As the warhammer crossed his vision, Priest charged. It was a simple trick, an assassin’s trick, and it was also nearly impossible for someone wielding a warhammer to counter. The Old Nord could only begin a curse as Merce’s magically enhanced fist smashed into his nose. His body went limp, like a ragdoll. Folding over itself, Merce saw that the Old Man’s eyes had rolled back.

“We have our winner! The man known as Priest!”

The crowd was shocked, but soon began to cheer. It doubled as Merce kneeled down to heal the Old Nord. The Old Nord looked shocked, Merce didn’t smile but he did manage to speak.

“Not yet my friend, I won’t take your blood on my hands.”

The Old Man looked shocked, he could only laugh. Merce hoped the Old Nord had a family, lest his mercy prove to be the cruelest of actions. It was annoying, how loud it was, reminded him of a battlefield.

 

[Sid]

Arthonnen could hear the muffled cheering of the crowd in the basement. He was standing there, topless, sweating. Across from him, Galtus stood breathing deeply. "I've seen one of the rarer copies of the Words of the Poets collection. I was thinking of goi-"
"Really? Now? I'm about to go win a tourney, and all you care about is your book collection?" Galtus cut Arthonnen short. They stared at each other for a short while, the silence almost unbearable. Then, they both grinned, opened their arms wide, and embraced one another. "You're going to be there, right?"
"Yes. I am, I wouldn't miss it for the world. Now, enough of this. I've got to go a freshen up, and you... You have to get ready." Breaking the embrace, he turned around to search for his shirt. He continued on his previous point, "Y'know, the Song of the Diamond Sword is really quite rare. I'm rather plea-"
"Again with the book? Listen, I don't need this right now. Could you pass me my sword? No, not that one. The other... Yeah, that one. Thanks." Arthonnen had finished getting dressed, and passed him his worn, yet functional scimitar. Age and use had dulled its edge on many occasions, but Galtus honed it, often and with care. "Just... Don't die." Taken aback by this statement, it took the Imperial a while to find his wits. Then, he finally said, "Is this doubt from my noble lord and client? I am surprised at this-"
"Enough! I'm serious. Don't die. At the end of the day, I expect you to be out there drinking a fine vintage with me. Promise me you'll be there." The room fell to silence once more. "You're more than just a sellsword to me. You're more than just the captain of my guard. You're a brother to me."
"Aye. And you know, you're a brother to me. I'll be there... I promise." Galtus replied, as they moved together for one last embrace, unaware that it would be their last. Arthonnen was the first to break the hold. He turned, picked up his rapier and main gauche, and strapped them to his belt. "Until this evening then." He said, as he walked up the steps to the outside world. "Yeah, until then..." Galtus replied solemnly.

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Arthonnen walked to the arena in high spirits. He had manage to get hold of "the Song of the Diamond Sword" for a bargain of five-hundred Septims. Entering the arena, the Dunmer found the thought of betting on his friend too appealing. And so, he walked up and said "I bet one emerald on Galtus"
"One emerald sir? I'm sorry, but I'm afraid we only take bets made in Septims" the bookie replied.
"Ah. Alright then. I bet three-hundred Septims."
"Yes, sir. Right away. It would be a pleasure."
And so he made his way to his seat, a small stall in which he could watch the action unfurl, without having to mix with commoners. It was at this moment he thought back to the kill. He thought that an Orc would have more pride and honour than to beg for their own life. And no one would expect an Orc to whimper, right up until the moment his axe was buried into his skull. Naturally there were inquiries into the murder, and some people were apprehended by guards, but no one expected the Dark Elf noble. Why would they? What could he gain?
Them, the booming announcer's voice echoed around the arena, jarring Arthonnen back into the present. "May we welcome into the arena: Ogharod Lonebasher!" An Orc walked out of the north gate. A big Orc. He must have stood at least seven foot high, and was built like fortress. He wore thick steel armour that made him look bigger still, and wielded a great war hammer that looked like it was made from a giant's leg.
"And his opponent will be: Galtus!" It still amused Arthonnen that Galtus never used his surname. However, in comparison to the Orc, Galtus looked tiny. His slightly mismatched armour didn't help the fight look in his favour. The announcer's voice rang forth once again, "Let the final BEGIN!"
And so the two combatants approached each other, Galtus' calm swagger, Ogharod's heavy stomp. Then it happened. They were less than a metre away from one another. The Orc changed his swing within an instant, hitting Galtus full in the side as he tried to roll. There was a resounding crunch as the hammer hit home. The Imperial rolled along the ground, until he lay, sprawled out on the ground. The Orc slowly approached the body, and observed the bones poking through his side.
"Get up! Do something!" Arthonnen thought desperately. The hammer rose. Silence. No one in the arena made a sound. The hammer fell. Galtus' skull fractured into tiny pieces, and the crowd quickly roared back into life, both cheering and booing. The match had lasted around a minute.
"And your fourth victor is: Ogharod Lonebasher!" The announcers voice rang, as the Orc scowled at the stands. He trudged back to the north gate, as Arthonnen glanced from the lifeless body, to the Orc and back again. "No... You promised..." As he stared in disbelief, his eyes stared to well up. And so he sat there. Just sat.

 

[Dabiene Caristiana]

While the battles took place, up in the stands with everyone else sat a cloaked man. The only visible parts were his steeled toed boots, pale thin hands, and two glowing orange orbs that peered out from the hood eerily. The man sat not moving an inch as he watched the battles one by one, each Champion walking out alive. Some battles although being gruesome did not make him even flinch. So when the Orc, Ogharod Lonebasher slammed his hammer down on the poor Redguard's head, it did not phase the cloaked man. He merely smirked. Looking up he saw a lone bird sitting alone in the back of the stands, waiting. He nodded at the bird and it took off now knowing the battles were almost over and to deliver news.

'So, a High Inquisitor of the Thalmor, a Breton rogue, a Priest, and now a burly Orc. Interesting.'

It was looking a bit disappointing. The only amusing one was the Breton and Priest for they were almost unlikely outcomes. The Orc was merely morbid entertainment and the Thalmor well... The end result was expected. Narrowing his eyes he seemed lost in thought...

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A few days ago..

The cursed island that held the infamous Castle Volkihar was silent, much like inside the halls of the castle. If there was anything living other than thralls it dared not make a peep. For not even the bravest adventurer dare tread in these castle halls.

A lone man stood upon the upper levels of the main room, looking over the dinning hall in displeasure. So long he had waited, so long. But the tourney he had heard rumors of as well as a faction called the Dawnguard drew his attention. Perhaps these could work to his benefit. The Lord of the Castle stroked his beard in thought while he called out, "Garen."

A few seconds later a wiry Dunmer stood just behind his Lord as was called. "Yes, Lord Harkon?"

"Tell my son Soren that I wish to speak with him in my chambers."

"At once, my Lord."

With that, the Lord swept away from the hall and retreated into his chambers.

--------------------------

Meanwhile another man that wore the same garments and even looked very similar to the Lord of the Castle, was bent over an Alchemy table and was furiously hard at work. He hoped beyond hope he wouldn't be disturbed. Alas, it wasn't his day as Garan Marethi called out his name from above.

"Soren? Our Lord wishes to speak with you. At once."

Grimacing and pulling a sour face he called back, "Is it of any importance?"

"It is not for me to know. But I advise you to speak with him now. You know how he is with waiting."

"Advise me..." Soren chuckled at the 'adviser'. Still, Garen was one of the few inhabitants that did not attempt to kill him. Unlike Orthjolf and Vingalmo. Harkon warned him about the dangers of those two and Soren merely stated, "I can handle it."

Since joining the clan a few hundred years ago the two scheming men have failed to kill or lower his favor with their Lord. Which infuriated them to no end.

"Fine. Seeing as he didn't call for me himself and sent you in his stead, it must be something private." Putting the materials away he walked in the direction of his 'father's' chambers.

"Be careful, Soren.." He turned around to look at Garan only to find the second floor void of him. Scowling he headed off.

---------------------------

"You wish to see me my Lord?" Soren stood at attention next to the guest chair. He restrained himself from looking at the poor soul strapped to the torture rack a few paces away. Soren was used to seeing the 'delightful pleasures' that his Lord often partook in.

"What did I say the other day dear boy? And many times before?" Harkon warned deeply and quietly to the man standing close by.

Soren steeled his nerves before correcting himself. "Father, you wished to see me?" It took all his will to mask his face into indifference. However, over time he had become to resent being Lord Harkon's favorite and especially being his 'son'. Years ago he felt pride and was honored to become as such, before realizing Harkon's intentions. When Lord Harkon told him of the prophesy he had been trying for seemingly thousands of years to complete, he had realized that the man was possibly insane, positively mad. It was after one-hundred years after joining the clan did Soren come to terms with everything and soon branched away from his surrogate father. Harkon had noticed this too and had noticeably tried everything to keep him close. To manipulate him. To ensnare him in his plans.

Soren soon realized he didn't have a father to begin with. He was but a pawn. But even a pawn has some power on the board and thus began to act out his plans. He was to go behind Harkon's back.

Now here he was in front of him, still calling him father and playing the part of a loyal adopted son. A pawn.

"Good. Please, sit. I wish to speak with you on the rumors I have heard about the Dragonborn and his 'arena'."

Sitting down as requested Soren asked, "What of him? He is hosting an arena from what I have heard. Six champions are to be named in his honor. Anything beyond that is not of my knowledge."

Harkon was silent for a moment before speaking again. "Yes. You are correct. It has been twenty-five years since the slaying of the great beast Alduin. And thus there are celebrations to be had. The ending of this will mark the ending of the Fourth Era. As such there will be many factions vying for the Dragonborn's attention."

"You wish for me to partake?"

"No, for the tournament has already started. However, I want you to observe what is happening in the world. I want to know who these champions are. For surely if hundreds of fighters have come they should be strong to come out on top."

"The top six anyway..." Soren muttered.

"Indeed, my son." Harkon sent a smile his way and a chill went down his spine. But his mask was still up.

"It will be done." he made to move but Harkon's hand moved in a blur to grasp his arm to keep him from getting up.

"You will also find activity regarding the Vigilant as well as these... Dawnguard insects. I also want to know more locations where the 'artifact' will be found." He paused before lowering his voice into a icy chill. "Should you fail, do not return. For your punishment will be severe."

Soren was frozen as he digested this information on his fate. "Do I ever fail you, father?"

And just like that, Harkon let go and the room wasn't as chilled and icy. "No. Which is why I have high hopes for you, Soren."

As Soren Volkihar walked out he soon heard agonized screams of the woman being tortured on the rack. His mind playing echos of Harkon's words for years ago.

'... My wife Valerica betrayed me and went against me. And so help me if I ever find her again, I will make her wish Molag Bal was her torturer.'

Soren hoped he found Serana and her mother before the monster known as Harkon did.

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Back at the arena..

He wondered how long this would last. A few more people were needed to be named champion and for the event to be over. His thoughts were interrupted when a fellow cloaked vampire sat next to him in the stands.

"Quite the event isn't it? I do hope some more guts are spilled."

"What are you doing here, Fura." Soren muttered.

She learned closed to him and whispered. "I'm informing you that our Lord has given you a month for your task. Do not fail him."

"A month." He whispered slowly. "I am but a humble servant, not a miracle worker."

Fura tutted at him and replied, "You had better hope luck is on your side... Severus Alucard." She hissed his true name before getting up. "Do hurry now. The two buffoons are getting restless."

'Vingalmo and Orthjolf.'

He looked around the arena in search of those two. Two figures were sitting alone in one part of the stands. But they were not them. They were their underlings.

Soren sighed. This was going to be a long day.