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To the Bosmer Rangers I was little more than a rank amateur, a child who had only taken their first hesitant steps from the cities and towns with little to no knowledge at all.
They were incredible, invisible and utterly perfect in every movement and step. Between their natural skill and years, if not decades of experience and the enchantments woven into their armour and equipment there was no hope for any outsider to match them. Not a branch or leaf moved in their passage, spiders webs were left unbroken and neither indentation or mark was left in their wake. They were utterly impossible to track or to follow and mortals would be left wallowing in their wake, completely ignorant of the presence of the Rangers unless they so wished.
If I had been just a man, I would have lost them and would have been unable to follow within metres of leaving the campsite in the gorge. Only with my vampiric senses was I able to have the slightest chance of keeping on their trail, but the sheer effort to do so left my pulse thundering in my ears and my head throbbing. Neither track, scent, noise or even body heat allowed me to follow them as they had none. Their magicka was all too perfect but it did provide them with an unusual weakness. Magicka, no matter how subtle or faint left a trail, a trail that those attuned to such energies could follow.
Using my limited experience and skill with magicka, and the senses of a vampire I was able to follow their progress through the wilds as they moved towards their quarry. The faintest of tingles and the hint of a headache in the back of the skull allowed me to travel in their rough direction. My vampiric senses though gave me a different option. Their stealth was absolute and left no trace, but in doing so left a tiny void where nothing remained. This space that they occupied was devoid of everything; heat, sound, light and movement and between following the tingle of their enchantments it was this nothingness that I was able to follow as they threaded their way through the forests and plains.
One of the only real saving graces was that they were not moving quickly towards their quarry. They were moving no quicker than a normal hunter or tracker in the wild, instead moving carefully and sliding their way between trees and through shrubs as moving quickly would have disrupted the vegetation. Enchantments or not they were still solid and physical; not ethereal wraiths. Nonetheless, within the first hour of following in their footsteps I was almost certain that the trees, shrubs, bushes and the grass itself was moving around them and shifting to ease their passage.
Within a second of fading into the forest, Malulain was gone. His skills eclipsed those under his command, and unlike the others there wasn’t even an "empty space’ for me to follow. In fact, as midnight approached I hadn’t seen or felt his presence until he appeared at my shoulder.
"Your skills do you proud."
My face was taut under my hood and mask, but his sudden appearance made me jump and nearly fall backwards in surprise. He stood there, impassively, but with an obvious grin behind his mask as I struggled to calm my nerves with a series of increasingly vile expletives.
"Is giving people heart attacks another way you kill them?" I spluttered, rising from my crouch and feeling the tautness of my face fading.
"It would be if it was efficient." The humour in his voice left me grinning despite the way my heart was beating its way through my ribcage.
With a gesture, five other Rangers peeled themselves out of the shadows and I found myself standing in a circle with them. Each of the Rangers had incredibly detailed armour that were far superior in comparison to the one who had originally ambushed me, but none were as detailed as Malulain’s.
"We are close." One muttered, his words rolling across my ears and barely discernible from the light breeze in the air. "The ruin is nearby and they are there."
Like a branch of a tree, a glove of spider’s web and scales appeared from within the folds of a cloak, spearing a pair of daggers into the earth at his feet. Even from a few meters away, I could see that the two daggers were identical to the one that I had pulled from the chest of the dead Redguard, complete with their toxic braids.
"Have they camped for the night?" Malulain’s voice was cold and matched the darkness of the night that wrapped around us.
"No father. From the reports from my scouts I believe they are attempting the ritual again."
The unease that washed over them was obvious and I felt a similar chill course up my spine.
"We must stop it, but we must not let them get away a second time." Steel crept further into his voice as the commander of the Rangers looked between his subordinates. "We cannot allow a repeat of Narind. They escaped then, but they will not escape now."
With a boundless energy he stabbed his fingers at each of other Rangers, pointing and gesturing to emphasise his words. "Angudis, Siilyn, Glaromlallor, take your Warsmers and surround the ruins. Nimrdil, I want your Rangers with me in the main assault."
There was collection of nods and the rustle of movement as each Ranger covered their mouths with their gloved hands in a salute. Malulain locked eyes with the fifth Ranger standing closest to me. She was shorter, but I was surprised to see that she was not carrying any weapons at all. What was even more unusual was the way that her armour and clothing was covered in tiny, thin creepers and vines that threaded their way through the spun fabric of her clothing and across the leather.
"Wylweneth, is the chorus ready?"
The vine covered Ranger nodded, carefully and succinctly. "The Druid circle and Nature stands ready Father."
Malulain’s return nod was sombre and he turned to me, seeing my look of confusion and the question I was yearning to ask.
"Where do you want me?" I said simply.
"You have made it this far and have proven yourself capable." He replied. "I will have you by my side in the main assault."
Carefully, I unstrung my bow, unfolded its travelling case and placed it inside. "Keep them from putting an arrow in my eye and I’ll do what I can."
Six sets of eyes, hidden in the depths of their hoods and glinting from within the ash-blackened sockets watched as I drew Sunchild. None of them had anything resembling a blade like those I had strapped to my spine, and even their longest swords were little more than lengthened daggers. If their corrupted brethren were equipped the same way, I would have a considerable advantage if I got in amongst them.
"They must not be successful in completing the ritual and awakening the armour. If it costs us our lives, then it will be a fair payment to stop such evil."
The hardened gazes of the Circle of Rangers swept across each other and I found myself gripping Sunchild tightly in my gloved fist. I had no intention of dying and while I couldn’t rely on my vampiric abilities I had enough confidence in my own skill. Also, as long as I didn’t get shot in the face I had the utmost confidence in my armour protecting the rest of me.
As quickly as it had formed, the circle broke up and the group moved away. All around me I could sense the absences that revealed how many Malulain had under his overall command. Before the groups moved and faded into the forest and hills around us I was able to count over forty hidden Bosmer, and I would have bet a considerable amount of money that there would be others like their commander that I couldn’t detect.
"What is the ritual you mentioned?" I asked Malulain as we moved and joined a small group of rangers hidden behind their magicka.
"A terrible one." The hesitation in his voice was enough to tell me that it was possible even worse than that. "the ritual we managed to stop in the ancient city of Narind came very close to succeeding. Eregor had sacrificed a handful of his followers, and was going to offer up one of the sacred artefacts of the Bosmer to Molag Bal to gain the Rape-God’s favour. Graithlan’s Vessel is a horror impossible to describe, but if its wearer is also a servant of a Daedric Prince, then the destruction and suffering that it will cause will have no bounds."
"How do we stop it?"
There was a chuckle from under his hood. "We kill them all. Failing that, we retrieve at least a piece of the armour. Unless it is complete it is useless."
"Understood."
The Rangers spread across the hills and moved through the trees and swaying grasses like spilled ink across polished obsidian. Most were hidden within their enchantments but as we moved over the slight rise and beheld the ruins I could sense their unease and the building pre-battle nervousness.
I too felt uneasy, which wasn’t difficult as the night had been one surprise after another and I was becoming increasingly certain that this would have to be some form of intense fever dream instead of reality. To find myself fighting side by side a group of Bosmer Rangers against a collection of their corrupted brethren in the service of Molag Bal attempting to raise a set of artefacts unique to the world was hurting my brain. Instead I found myself pushing such thoughts aside. Thinking about the situation wasn’t going to do anything more than distract me from the upcoming fight.
The corrupted Bosmer had set themselves up in a tiny collection of Ayleid ruins no larger than the grounds of a coaching inn or messenger post along the highways. Heavily covered in moss, grasses and shrubs, they had gone to considerable amount of effort to clear away a large area in the centre of the ruins. A handful of marble pillars were interspaced around the central ruins where an octagonal altar had been carved from marble. Where it once would have been polished to a mirror, thousands of years of wind and rain had rounded off the edges, and pitted and scoured the surface to the consistency of sandpaper.
Malulain’s Rangers had done their job of picking off the sentries and it allowed us to creep forward to the very edge of the forest and ruins, and see with our own eyes exactly what their corrupted brethren were attempting. There was no doubt in any of our minds as were lurked on the very edge of the forest and vegetation that they were enacting a dark ritual. Eight wooden stands had been erected a few meters from each of the altar’s edges, each containing a bound and writhing Ranger nailed to it. Each had been ritualistically cut open, their ribcages peeled open and organs pulled out in various ways. Each were still alive and screamed as best they could but were unable to raise anything more than a sickening gurgle as their tongues had been cut out along with their eyes.
Shadowed figures lurked in a circle around the altar, some standing behind the crucified individuals glowing as they fed enough restoration magicka into the sacrifices to keep them alive. Others lay prostrated on their faces, kneeling and chanting a dark tongue that crawled over my flesh like I had been bathed in maggots. On one side a single individual stood, hands raised to the sky and facing the figure standing on the altar and leading the rest of the corrupted Rangers in the chant. I could discern very few details of any of brethren in the ruins, but I could see that the two individuals standing by the side of the speaker, and the single being standing on top of the altar were easily as tall as I was.
"The ritual has started." Malulain’s hiss reached my ear as we crouched in the shadows. I was the only being in his group that wasn’t hidden behind enchantments and his voice was the only sign that he was anywhere near me. "We do not have much time."
I nodded in the darkness, knowing that he could see me even though I couldn’t see or detect him. "What do you want me to do."
A chuckle came from the shadow at my side as the Ranger commander removed his enchantments and became visible. "I have no doubt in your skill at arms, but as your stealth isn’t as good as ours initially you will be little more than a distraction."
The flutter of fear in my belly made itself felt and I chew on my lip. "I can play decoy easy enough."
If Malulain was able to discern my nervousness he made no show of it, instead pointing to the figure leading the others in the chant. "Lariel is Eregor’s second in command and his mate. She is the one enacting the ritual and to have any chance she needs to die first."
Sunchild was a solid comfort in my grip and I rolled my shoulders and stretched my arms for the coming fight.
"Just... Beware her Xivilai bodyguards." He continued softly. "You have slain daedra before but I’m unsure of whether you have faced ones such as those."
"Xivilai?" I muttered, turning to face him. "What the hell are Xivilai?"
Malulain was gone as quickly as he had appeared and there wasn’t the slightest trace that he had even been there. All around me the empty spaces revealing the presences of the other Rangers began moving and I found myself bitterly cursing them and their stealthy natures.
Pushing aside all my unease and nervousness, feeling the pounding of my heart in my chest I rose to my full height and began casually striding towards the ruins and its infestation of daedra worshippers. It reminded me all too much of the time in Vvardenfell that the detachment of Legionaries I was supporting dealt with a coven of Namira worshippers. That situation had hadn’t gone anything resembling the original plan and I had a sneaking suspicion that this was going to be the same.
Eschewing stealth, I simply moved forward without the slightest attempt at hiding. I knew that Malulain’s Rangers were all around, moving slowly and carefully through the knee high grasses and bushes but my walking pace was faster than what they could manage. I was going to be the decoy and hopefully allow the rest of them to get in close to do some serious damage.
The closer I got, the more I could see of their ritual. The more I saw, the less I wanted to and I could feel my stomach rebelling against me as I saw the fate of those chosen as sacrifices. Their organs were spread out, the blood and other fluids used to draw ancient symbols of hideous power around the altar. The air itself was throbbing with energies, dark and foreboding and interlaced between the sounds of their chants were the groans and gurgles of the mortally wounded.
Only a handful of sentries were placed around the outer edges of the ruins, and those few were not paying enough attention. Their trust and faith in the skill of the few slain by Malulain’s party was their undoing and while they quickly spotted me advancing upon them to reacted with confusion and uncertainty. They were expecting the other Rangers, not the appearance of a heavily armoured and armed Imperial breaking into a run at them. With Sunchild in hand, I went from walking to a flat out sprint seeing the gaping expressions of amazement on the corrupted Ranger guards turn into realisation at what I heralded.
Cries of alarm all around the edge of the ruins were stopped in mid breath and those few who reached for weapons were cut down without warning. Arrows flickered out of the darkness to rip them from where they stood, and the two standing before me died instantly. One slumped onto his face with an arrow in the heart, the other fell slack but remained upright from the fact the arrow had pinned his skull to the broken pillar he was leaning against. All around me I could hear the sudden rush of noise as Malulain and his forces shed their concealing magicka, launching the assault a dozen metres behind me as they chose speed over stealth for the first time.
Chaos erupted all around us, the ritual being undertaken suddenly breaking in mid chant as a large portion of the cultists were felled by arrows or reacted to our presence. I had seen kwama nests react with less singlemindedness than these daedric cultists did, as most reached for their arms, but a significant number of them continued the ritual unabated.
We were outnumbered though, even with the Rangers that Malulain had brought with him to Cyrodiil and after months of hunting and picking at Eregor’s forces, he still commanded a significant number of Bosmer. Our only saving grace was that most of those Eregor had at his command were not Rangers. A huge majority of his clan had followed him down the path to damnation but while they weren’t skilled warriors we soon found ourselves facing a desperate horde.
The ruins were lit with a combination of Braziers, lit torches and the building light illuminating the Armoured figure standing on top of the altar. Shadows danced and cavorted about in the light as the mass of loyal Rangers clashed with the surge of resistance. There were dozens of them in the expansive area within the heart of the ruins. It was easily fifty metres in diameter, framed by a circle of pillars and a concentric circle levels that sunk into the ground. Eight separate levels, each only a few centimetres difference in height had been carved out of the soil and built with marble blocks, and all lead down to the altar at the mathematically perfect centre. Each level had a single crucified victim placed parallel to a side of the Altar, and it was no doubt that this particular ruin had been chosen very, very specifically for this ritual.
Several dozen Bosmer had crowded the ruins and even as the Rangers swarmed through the gaps in the pillars, hacking and slashing with their daggers and blades they reacted. Some were almost entirely naked, covered only in strips of foul braids and daubed in horrific runes drawn with blood and other liquids. Those that wore clothing were as varied as the individuals themselves. Some were dressed in typical Cyrodillic tunics and togas, others were in similar clothes to the Rangers themselves of leathers and spiders silk.
Eregor and his followers had been limited in the number of their Ranger Cadre, but these handful of individuals stood with their backs to the altar and the individuals upon it, facing outwards and gripping their weapons tightly. They were mirrored images of Malulain and his kin, but images that had been distorted and corrupted. Their armour was draped in series of braids matching that attached to the dagger I had pulled from the dead bandit, faces tattooed and bared from their hoods and masks to reveal visages of hate. Everything about them had been altered, their cloaks were made from greasy leather that the vampire identified as human skin, and further sheets of it had had been sewn into breastplates and shell pauldrons. At least one I glimpsed had a mask made from the nose, lips and face of some hapless individual they had skinned, pinning it over their own scowling features and showing nothing more than the soulless eyes of the damned.
To my surprise none of them wielded their bows or used them at all. Only blades and daggers were visible in the last surviving Rangers of Eregor’s clan and while Malulain’s group loosed arrows in their direction I didn’t see a single on felled or hit at all. As I pushed through the press, hacking, stabbing and slicing with Sunchild at the press of cultists before me I realised that Malulain’s Rangers were actually missing their foes. For all their skill and ability, the air itself seemed to be turning against them, arrows were being curved away from their targets or in some cases shattering as though the air itself had turned to rock. From the central altar a deep throbbing pulse of magicka was rolling out in time with those still prostrated and chanting before it. It was a pulse heralding something truly terrible and was affecting the very air itself.
Malulain shouted an eerie battle cry a couple of metres away. He and a handful of his veterans were stabbing and hacking at the press around us and while they were extremely proficient with their bows and stealth, they were not the greatest of swordsmen.
I found myself wishing for a dozen Legionaries as I cut and danced my way through the cultists attacking me. None of them were fighters worth a rusty septim and with all of them wielding little more than daggers I had an enormous advantage in reach. Sunchild’s length and make made a complete mockery of their daggers and short swords, cutting through the Bosmer cultists with ease as none were wearing anything resembling armour. A squad or two of Legionaries would have been able to take this rabble apart in minutes, especially with the deadliness of their bows negated by the proximity to the ritual.
"Damn this all to Oblivion!" my shout came out mostly incoherent but the dozen rangers following Malulain heard it and followed me as I stepped forward, dragging Sunchild from a shrieking Bosmer’s chest. For a second she clawed at my legs with fury, breaking fingernails on the metal plates protecting my thighs even as I kicked her off my sword.
I went on the offensive, as did the rangers behind me as they rushed forward with their single edged shortswords and double edged daggers. The few daggers that were thrown were also affected by the strange properties of the air and with a crunch both the loyal and tainted groups slammed together to fight to the death. They fought in the way that only families could; a terrible viciousness that came to the fore when siblings turned into bitter rivals or that countrymen turned against one another in civil wars. There was no thought of chivalry or honour or even efficiency, instead they ripped and tore into each other with blades or whatever else they could get their hands on. Within seconds all thoughts of stopping or protecting the ritual were lost to the overwhelming hatred and desire for each side to utterly slaughter the other.
Cutting my own way through the press and using every trick and skill I had learned, as well as a considerable amount of anger. Blades thirsting for a taste of my own blood and flesh were turned aside before their owners were left dying on the ground from ripostes. Others simply had their defences battered through by my superior strength and greater reach, hacking and killing them as efficiently and quickly as possible. Even though those initial moments were fighting against untrained civilians I was still left with dozens of nicks and bruises from blows or impacts I had not managed to block or dodge. It was still a mutual slaughter, as the Bosmer and their Rangers were unmatched in archery and stealth but once those skills were taken away they were not left with much else. This reason and almost this reason alone was why the Legion spent so much time and effort training the Foresters to be able to fight with more than just their bows and do so while wearing heavy armour. To most, it was not surprising that some of the greatest swordsmen and duellists within the Empire could be found in Legion Plate and a bow over a shoulder.
A good number of the Bosmer continued with their chanting, keeping themselves pressed to the floor even as knives and blades sank into flesh and took their lives. One of their number pouring restoration magicka into one of the crucified sacrifices dropped to his knees with the open mouthed look of agony on his face as a dagger speared a kidney. He didn’t utter a single word as the Ranger behind him stabbed him to death. Instead he used his last breaths to keep the magicka flowing down his arm and out from his outstretched fingers, forcing himself to stay upright right up until a second Ranger joined in and cut his throat.
"It is about time you arrived brother!" Called out a booming voice, one that cut through the sounds of fighting and the shrieks of the dying.
Standing above the swirling, hate filled violence consuming the ruins, the figure on the altar stood as still as the marble of the altar itself. In the chaos I had seen how the arrows that had been loosed at the armoured figure had either curved away or shattered on the air as though it was rock. Little of the figure could be seen beneath the full-body plate of the armour it wore, but the face and head were clearly visible. Similar to Malulain, the Bosmer standing on the altar had skin turned leathery from years spent in the elements, hair braided into greasy deadlocks and tattoos covering every inch of flesh. Unlike the Commander of the Rangers, this corrupted individual was openly sporting signs of his allegiance to darker powers.
The braids were of his hair were threaded with sinew and smeared with blood, bile and other substances I didn’t want to identify. Hand carved effigies of a reptilian monstrosity of horns, fangs and claws jingled in the air with every movement he made, and as he turned to face us I could see the strange protrusions of his skull pushing against his skin.
"Have you finally decided to stop skulking in the shadows?" Even over the sounds of fighting all around, he didn’t seem to have to shout and I could feel my skin crawling at the sound of his voice.
Malulain was deep in the press of the fighting and I only caught glances of the veteran Ranger as he stabbed one of the toga wearing Bosmer to death. His arm was wet to the elbow in gore already and the mask has slipped down to reveal his face, but in the midst of the brawl he was unable to answer.
"You’re too late. The sacrifices have been made! The blood toll is paid! Now that you have arrived your deaths will empower the armour once more!" Another arrow shattered on the air a metre away from his head but he didn’t twitch or move in the slightest. Those loyal Rangers who were free of the melee were firing arrows as quickly as they could, but not a single one of them seemed to be able to penetrate the boiling waves of magicka filling the air around us.
Surrounded by the last of his own Rangers and veritable sea of death and fighting Eregor seemed stately and serene as he glanced over us. the Altar was only a couple of metres wide, and he stood there alone and dressed in the cursed, dread armour that he had killed so many for. His cultists were dying by droves all around but with a triumphant grin he stood there before us, holding the final piece of the armour in hands streaked with blood and bodily fluids.
"Graithlan!" Shrieked the female Bosmer standing right at the base of the Altar behind the ring of fallen Rangers. "Collect your bones long since dust! Gather your limbs separated by eternity! Shake the soil of Aetherius from your flesh!"
Her arms raised to the heavens, hands streaked with the blood and gore of cutting open the sacrifices and the look on her face was of utter devotion to the man standing before her. The pulsating energies throbbed like the heart of a skooma addict, the waves of energy being felt as physical impacts against our bodies that knocked some of the weaker cultists to the ground.
Even as we pushed forward we all knew that there was nothing we could do as Eregor lifted the last piece of the armour he held in his hand, the helmet carved into the snarling maw of some monster I had never seen before. With complete and utter reverence and in time to the chanting calls of "arise!’ from his mate and fallen clan he raised it high, before placing it over his head until it slotted into the armoured breastplate.
The pulsating energies ceased as though they had never existed but I had the momentary sensation of them being sucked into the central altar and the armoured being standing atop it. All fighting died away as the cultists dropped to their knees or otherwise prostrated themselves towards the armoured figure standing triumphantly at the centre of it all. Even the Rangers loyal to Malulain had stopped, all looking inwards with various expressions of horror or failure etched deep into their ash and blood streaked features.
Eregor stood proudly, looking out from the depths of the roaring skull helm from between its fanged jaws but as one second turned into two and time slowly passed it was obvious that nothing was happening. There was no discernible change that any of us could detect in him, and after the first few seconds of nothingness it was obvious that he realised the same thing.
Some of the cultists lifted their heads in confusion, looking at their leader dressed in the massive suit of armour that I could now see more of the details. Especially now that I wasn’t fighting for my life against a group of insane wood elves. The armour itself was obviously too large for Eregor and had made for someone who was at least six foot in height and weighing more than what I did. Every piece had been made from some metal that I was unable to identify, perfectly carved and polished to appear like blackened ivory. Every curved piece was fashioned into the shape of skulls of men, mer and beasts. Some of the creatures that the skulls had been fashioned in the likeness of I doubted had ever strode the lands of Nirn, or possibly even oblivion itself. It was horrific and discomforting to gaze upon, but was comical in the way that it hung loosely and haphazardly over the mer who currently wore it.
Silence descended upon the ruins, broken only by the groans, cries and moans of the wounded and dying. From their positions beside their mistress, a pair of towering daedra rose to their feet while looking about at the mortals before them with something akin to confusion on their features. The daedra were dressed in little more than loincloths, and were heavily muscled like no man, mer or even orc could ever hope to match. Both were well in excess of two metres in height, weighed at least two hundred kilograms and had only been hidden from view by the way they had both been sitting cross legged as part of the ritual. They too seemed confused and I knew that a confused daedra was only a few short steps away from an angry and homicidal daedra.
"You failed!" Shrieked Eregor, twisting and pointing a gauntleted finger carved into a bony talon at his startled mistress. "I will crush your pretty face and the mudcrabs will feed upon your corpse! I will-"
The sound of splintering bone was audible over his hate-filled rant and it cut him off in mid breath, stopping him entirely in mid motion and making everyone who heard it jump. The expression of agony that consumed his features was as terrible as it was sudden and there was a second snap as he dropped to his knees. Deep and terrible, the pulse of dark energies began to build once more until all present could feel them. It didn’t take long for the energies to build, and within those few seconds Eregor went from kneeling on the altar to screaming in soul-rending agony.
His body began to writhe and shift in a combination of pain and spasms and I winced as I saw and heard how his left arm straightened out, folded back onto itself before twisting back into shape once more. The armour gripped around him, squeezing as the seizure held him tight and his limbs contorted in impossible ways. A leg seemed to snap half way up the shin to create a second joint when no man or mer ever had one, before the entire limb straightened out again to a howl of agony from the tortured woodelf.
Without a single word or gesture Malulain, myself and all of the other Rangers surged forward instinctively as the leader of the cult screamed incessantly. The cultists for the most part remained on their faces or kneeling, not resisting as we cut and stabbed our way through their number with little hesitation and no mercy. The instinctive realisation of what was happening drove us onwards even as the corrupted Rangers surrounding the Altar surged forward to protect their new lord.
Clad in their corrupted and defiled armours, covered with foul wrappings of flesh and hair twine that signified their new master they were easily identifiable in the sudden brutal melee. As Eregor’s elite they had given themelves over to Molag Bal entirely, dressing themselves in symbols of their allegiance but also having their bodies twisted like their souls. No longer were they the tan skinned and weather-beaten Bosmer of the south, but cruel mockeries of their former selves. The all may have been wood elves in stature and build but was almost the only thing they shared with the loyal kin. Scars had been carved deep into their flesh, scouring the marks and tattoos of their former lives and their pointed ears had been twisted, studded with bone and metal and turned into scraps of gristle and scar tissue. The first who I crossed blades with had eyes bloodshot with corrupted veins and its skin was a mess of darkened lines like the roots of a tree digging deep into the earth. No longer did it have the bronzed tan of a being who had spent a lifetime outdoors in the elements, but was a pallid and almost decomposing image that seemed to have been starved to the point of death. Their skulls were deformed, twisted and wretched and more than one seemed to have studs of horns pushing through the skin where it was peeling and stripping away.
My own charge forward stopped in mid pace as I recoiled from the hideous form of my attacker, slicing upwards clumsily with Sunchild and feeling the blow jar up my entire arm. Their armour at least proved to be of no match for a weapon of Sunchild’s make and while my opponent hissed in agony I speared it in the throat. It fell to its knees, brackish blood pumping from between its fingers as it tried to stem the pulsating flow and I was overwhelmed with disgust and a cold rage burning within me. All around me, the several dozen rangers loyal to Malulain slaughtered their way through their fallen brethren while Malulain and his veterans fought by my side against Eregor’s chosen.
Dressed in his detailed armour, one of higher ranked Rangers shrieked in agony and the sound felt as though it had been delivered to my brain with a point of a sword. One who had spent most of the battle so far fighting by my side, fell quickly under the corrupted blades of the brethren. Even as I deflected a thrust with the flat of Sunchild’s blade and speared another on its edge, I could see that death was coming for the loyalist quickly, as he was surrounded by a number of them, their blades rising and falling with an unholy fury.
Three of them quickly turned to face me, hissing and spitting bile and daedric curses even as they danced just outside of my reach with fresh blood covering their foul armour and faces. They looked like an amalgamation of daedra and mer, loathsome and evil but the smell emanating from them was another thing entirely. The burning taste of stomach acid hit my tongue from the merest hints of it. It seemed to bypass my mask and even ignore my inhalations to strike right into the back of my throat.
The battle in the ruins raged anew, but now it was Ranger versus corrupted Ranger and both sides were paying a heavy toll in blood. Double edged bone daggers and single edged swords of ivory cut through leather, silk, cloth and flesh and the brutality of the kills were something that only the vampire within me could match. Bellies were ripped open, groins stabbed deeply, legs shattered and teeth punched clear of skulls. Eyes gouged and throats punched and for a large majority of the Rangers it soon turned into grappling and clawing at each other as their relative equality of skill left them using anything and everything at hand to kill. I even caught a glimpse of a loyalist holding a chunk of broken masonry in both hands, driving it down hard on the snarling visage of a cultist until the fallen Bosmer’s face look like it had been made out of half molten wax.
One of my own foes screamed painfully as it dropped to the floor gurgling blood and with as its organs looped out of the massive gash in its belly. The stonework under my feet suddenly turned slippery in the wash of blackened blood. Everything about this Ranger clan had been totally and utterly corrupted, and even through it was blood, fresh and tantalising, even the beast within me recoiled at the dark taint infused into every scrap of their flesh. They were Molag Bal’s now; mind, body and soul and there was no saving what they had become.
I smashed my way through the inexperienced guard of the second Bosmer facing me, not even using any finesse as I took its hand off at the wrist in a spray of ichor and bile. It screamed, the mask it was wearing slipping down and revealing a face so twisted with hatred and evil that it stopped me in my tracks even as I deflected another cut from its fellow. What was left of its features under layers of creasing scars and crisscrossing veins had been turned into a layer of filth months ago. Cracked lips peeled away from a mouth filled with blackened teeth that had either mutated into a maw of fangs or had been purposely sharpened to points. In the rush and even though it was missing its sword hand it leapt at me, snapping and snarling its ruined mouth even as I buried my elbow into its throat and punched it with the hilt of my sword.
An eye burst under the hammer blow, the first of three that I delivered that left it weeping with pain. Even with the will and gifts of its dark master pushing through from the void into its soul it had been mortally wounded. Its face was now nothing more than a mess of flesh with blackened bone poking through, a maw of shattered teeth and dribbling gore from the injuries. Blinded and insensible from the wounds it was unable to defend itself further as I twisted to one side, taking the throat of another away with the point of Sunchild and ripping a dagger free from its sheath on my chest. The last of my foes died with the dagger tip scraping the top of its skull as I punched it up under the jaw and giving the weapon a twist just to make sure as I pulled it free of flesh and brain.
Malulain had been attacked by a handful of the fallen Rangers and had been left bleeding from several minor cuts and gashes even as he duelled with a surviving pair. He was no swordsman but his natural skill and grace made him a deadly adversary that had allowed him to hold his own in such a riot of a battle. There was no skill or precision that usually accompanied a fight involving legionaries or other professional soldiers. It was little more than a tavern room brawl with increased lethality and knives. The fact that both sides had lost most of their forces already attested to that fact.
With my own adversaries dead or dying, I rushed to the Ranger’s aid. So focused on killing Malulain, the two corrupted Rangers didn’t notice my presence until it was far too late. The dagger spun as I shifted my grip, holding it by the blade and hurling it with sickening force into the back of a skull with a crack of bone. Seconds later, the other ranger died as I caught its descending arm, stopping it mid attack and spearing it through the torso with Sunchild. With my enhanced strength it writhed and twisted in my grasp as I lifted it up off the floor by the arm, the Vampire in me lending me strength enough to crush its forearm into splinters of bone even as its chest was cut apart on my blade.
The dying Ranger dropped to my feet in a messy pile of shredded flesh and armour, clawing and my feet even as I stomped on its head with a crunch of bone. Very few of Eregor’s clan were left alive, but the glance around the slaughter showed that the same was of Malulain’s force. Easily two out of every three Rangers he had brought with him into Cyrodiil were left strewn about the ruins, wounded or otherwise dead.
On top of the altar, hunched over on his hands and knees, Eregor’s screams changed and all eyes were drawn to him. The agonising contortions were slowing, his body forcing itself back into shape centimetre by centimetre but it wasn’t the cause for the change of the screams being ripped from his throat. The roaring bone helm framing his face in six centimetres long razored teeth had suddenly, and inexplicitly slammed shut. Muffled and consumed with terror, his shrieks and wails of pain shifted to those of damned realisation, before ceasing just as quickly as they had started.
Other than Lariel, her pair of daedric bodyguards and Eregor himself, none of his clan were left standing. The rest were dead or dying at our feet. Dozens of bodies were scattered about, piled three or four deep in places and it was this sea of death that the armoured figure rose to his feet and cast its burning gaze over.
The helm was still shut tight, the interlocking fangs of the mask locking together like a knight’s visor and hiding the face but the eyes burned with fury. A darkness was now dwelling within the armour. One that had not been present before. What I also immediately noticed was the way that he was standing. No longer did the armour appear comically oversized and hanging loosely on the short Woodelf. Now it fit perfectly, locking together in flawless skin of metal without a single piece out of place.
"We’re in deep shit." I muttered, just loud enough for Malulain to hear and to nod in agreement.
With the sound of snapping bone, the helm snapped open once more, the yawning mouth returning to frame the face of the elf within. However, Eregor was no longer the being who stared out upon the ruins. It was an elven face, high boned and almost chiselled with an almost avian like structure, but it was no Bosmer. A pair of blue eyes, cold and glowing with faint light gazed upon us all and a sneer of displeasure was permanently carved into its flesh. It was a face that I had seen the like of in several places in the previous months, a face that I immediately compared with the statues and carvings I had seen in the depths of Nornalhorst and Nonungalo.
Sounding like million tombs closing deep within the earth, the reincarnated Ayleid’s laugh rolled over us and I felt my guts turn to ice. "We’re in really deep shit..."

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