Consort to Princes
Fangs of the Mountain
Between northern Cyrodiil and Skyrim lie the Jerall mountains. Stone structures built by nature to separate the snowy and hostile lands of Skyrim and, the diverse lands of the heart of Tamriel. The mountains were a beautiful sight when they were not surrounded by snow and blizzards, jutting out into the sky like the swords of soldiers, rising to the stars. These swords towered above the nearby city of Bruma, a county under the Colovian Estates that constantly feuded with the Nords to the north. The current winter had the mountains enveloped in an ever-constant (at least it seemed like it) storm of snow and rain. The animals hid in their burrows and the poachers were left starving, many succumbing to the elements or whatever wildlife remained outside. The sky above the mountains was bleak, grey and dark, a foreboding tone for any traveler who wished to pass through the mountains. And why would they? The Interregnum had left many busy fighting for survival and no time for exploring. Yet the shroud of winter had made the mountains the prime meeting location for any who had not wished to be seen, from the malicious Dark Brotherhood to the scheming Daedra worshippers.
On one of the mountains stood a small shack. It was rickety, with many cracks and holes to let in the cold deadly air. It felt as it was ready to fall at any moment and perhaps would right now. The lack of windows was also unnerving, the inabilty to see what happened outside was a disadvantage to any occupant, especially the current one who had to be aware of his surrounidings at all times. Inside the shack the only piece of furniture was the small chair on which sat the Bosmer named Tavan. He wore a fur cloak of a great bear which he had found on an unlucky hunter just outside of the shack who was mauled by a bear. He also wore Colovian leather even though it did not help him much in his current environment. In front of him was a floating torch , the only source of heat that he had and the torch remained lit due to a lute that occasionally plucked its own strings. The music of the lute and the crackling of the torch served as respite from the song of the wind. Only Tavan did not care about that, he needed to know why the damn cultists haven't arrived yet. Help me with these men he said, and this service will be reward as richly as you desire he said. Molag Bal had proven to be his most disliked Prince, even more than Malacath.
Just as he was musing, the door opened and three cloaked men in fur entered the shack, all looking around nervously as if they had intruded upon some important meeting of the kings of all Cyrodiil. The torch buried itself in the snow and the lute suddenly stopped. One of the men approached Tavan, "Are you the Consort?" he asked with a hoarse voice.
Tavan peered at him and asked a question in unusually low voice for a Bormer, "That depends, will you call me a consort again?".
The man took the hint and replied, "No. So are you the one we had to meet?
"Unfortunately, take a seat my friends."
The three men, Breton by looks, looked around and then looked gormlessly at the Bosmer.
"T'was a jest you dimwits," Tavan took out his journal, unfrozen ink and quill from his bag and glanced at the men with his young brown eyes, "So what are your names?"
The second man who wore a black beard answered, "Veya, Cassio and Julios."
Tavan's thin and gloved fingers scribbled down their names with the same passion one would wipe a dead insect off their palm, "And what is it you ask of the great Prince of Domination who you have served o' so loyally?"
"We seek to to become pure blooded vampires," said the third man, youngest of them all, "We wish to become closer to our lord, to- to-," the man stuttered before the first intervened.
"To dominate the mortals as he would," said the eldest of them all.
After Tavan scribbled down everything on his journal, he closed with a loud smack, put it in his leather bag along with his inkwell and quill. Standing up he noticed one of the men sweating profusely despite all the cold and remembered his other assignment by one of the other Princes. He clasped his hands together and chanted, "O' Great Boethia, The Lord of Plots, Deceiver of Nations, Devourer of Trinimac, The Queen of Shadows, Goddess of Destruction, He-Who-Destroys and She-Who-Erases. I have found the traitors that you have sought for so long, take them to serve as your eternal minions for they have proven their worth."
"What? No! This is not what we have agreed on, no!" one of them shouted but before they could escape, they were soon gone into her realm of Oblivion and her voice spoke to him, "You have my gratitude mortal, as promised, here is your personal Hunger, as you had requested. A pleasure working with you."
The Hunger appeared before Tavan, a srawny and ugly creature but it would serve its purpose. That's one done with, thought Tavan, now the second one. Before he had the chance to summon him, Molag Bal appeared in the form of the dead hunter outside, "Interesting solution, cunning, even. Now that they are gone, what do you wish for, my loyal servant."
"Well, I try my hardest my Prince. Could you find me a warmer place than this piss-pit?"
"As you wish," the Prince said laughing in his usual tone.
In a moment Tavan found himself on a beach with a sapphire sea. One look around confirmed where he was. Altmer structures, pompous High Elves, golden foxes, of course I'm in Alinor, why do I even bother with these requests. He was approached by one of the Altmer, "Where did you come from Bosmer? What is the meaning of this?"
Tavan stuck out his hand, "Tavan Twelve-Tongues, when the Daedra have a need for assistance they come to me, sometimes."
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