all the joy unforgiven by this task

[preyed]

Date & Time: April 3, 2013, afternoon.
Location: Initiative Hold.
Characters: The Dragonborn (preyed) and the Last Septim (septim).
Summary: Martin and Vera meet and things don't go exactly as planned.
Warnings: Possible visceral imagery. We're talking Daedra here.



It hasn't quite been a month since Vera's arrival in the twice damned city, and she's been practically bored to tears. The apartments are far from the lavish home she'd purchased for herself back in Whiterun or even in Riften, and there isn't enough room for anything beyond sleeping. She's hardly bothered to unpack her things. Why take the risk when she can just as easily be whisked back to Skyrim to continue her fight with Alduin? It would be a fruitless endeavor.

She's fallen in with Hawke, a man who understands her more than most others care to, and despite their on-and-off escapades into bars and around the city, she's had little else to do. The library keeps her occupied, as does training, but it's still not enough. She's restless and unproductive, gnawing at the bit, keeping as close to a low profile as she can dare.

It's not enough.

The Initiative Hold is where she finds herself, more than content to work off some steam by training. She's dumped her pack in the corner and has drawn out her warhammer to lay waste to a few test dummies, none of them quite as satisfying as she needs. With a swing, off goes one of the heads, flying to the side and bouncing.

She hisses through grated teeth, agitated already. She'll need to plan for an excursion out of the city in the coming days. It really is the best for everyone. At least out in the wild, she can shout and not worry about drawing attention to herself...or being arrested for something so trivial.

Comments

[septim]

Martin isn't sure if he should be unnerved by the fact that he's been in this realm already and does not recall it, or that he's been revived twice and does not recall it.

When he chose to become the Avatar of Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time, he should've expected side-effects. But he never expected to be caught in a thread of space-time (alive and well!) outside of Nirn, again. The Nine work in strange ways, he knows that better than anyone, but he can't help but be annoyed.

At the moment, he doesn't care for the Initiative or their plight. Instead, he's focused on research—reading the network for his previous self's entries and comments, turning the library upside-down in hopes of finding a reason for his revival, and a need to get his bearings without outside help.

But there's so much learning and researching a mortal mind can take before needing a break.

Hacking off his singed locks, his appearance is different enough that no one should recognize him for the long-haired, craggy-faced healer he'd been. It's been years since he's sported short hair, the typical shaggy locks of Imperials bouncing off his forehead in a manner he'll have to re-acquaint himself with. Ironically enough, the last time his hair was this short, his life had change completely too.

Martin doesn't want to think about Sanguine and his cult. What he wants is release the magicka boiling his blood, the remnants of his fiery death and Akatosh' power surging throughout his body. The Initiative spoke of training rooms in their hold, so that seems like the natural place to let off some magic.

Until his nostrils are assaulted with a familiar odor so pungent, he nearly throws up.

Daedric magic.

His hood is pulled up as he surreptitiously advances upon its source, a heavy pack. Its owner, a woman who has to be an Imperial, is too busy shattering dummies with her warhammer. Red-pink petals jut out of her pack, and Martin has to bite his tongue not to scream in anger.

The Sanguine Rose.

This woman has Sanguine's artifact.

Viscerally, Martin casts Blizzard. A snowstorm quickly surges inside the room, reducing visibility to near zero, except for its caster. Martin grabs the Rose, tosses the pack aside and leaps out of the room, promising he'll apologize once this tool of pain and mischief is obliterated from this realm.

[preyed]

Vera's too distracted with her quarry and too arrogant to note the man who's entered the room until it is far, far too late. The shock of cold immediately gets her attention just before the room is covered in frost and snow, her sight entirely masked. But she sees someone near her pack and that's enough.

"Hey!" she shouts through the storm, though that's little enough to help her. Rushing forward, she gets to her bag and nearly stumbles over it in her blindness. It's open, of course, and she can already see what's missing; the Rose is hard to disguise inside of her bag, the memories of its owner and the night she received it still lingering every time she sees it.

And someone's taken it.

Her hand dives into the bag to grab the Blade of Woe, quickly shoving it into her belt as she rushes out the door, looking for whomever's made off with her artifact. She's never used it, has never wanted to, but it doesn't matter. No Daedric artifact should be in the possession of some stranger. It's not theirs to bear and it's too dangerous to be lost. She's rushing out after him even before she has the chance to gather her wits, shoulder colliding with the side of the door when she can't see through the storm.

But the hall is clear and she puts that to her advantage as she races to follow the thief.

[septim]

Luckily, the overflowing fabric of his robes provides a barrier against the Sanguine Rose. When the time comes to perform the ritual that will destroy it, Martin will have to touch it, but he'll keep contact with the artifact that killed his friends and nearly killed him to a minimum.

Is this Imperial a cultist of Sanguine? The daedric prince of debauchery only granted his artifact to those who'd pleased him. It turns his stomach to think he'd been awarded the Rose because he was dragonborn and a Septim, something he hadn't known during his youth.

Or is she simply someone caught in his need to debase mortals? Martin tries not to think of the humiliating acts she took part of for this tool of evil, pushing aside his memories of the foul ritual he performed for the Rose.

The halls are clear, she still on his trail. Desperately, he conjures a Familiar, ordering the ghostly wolf to trip her, nothing else. He doesn't want to hurt her, only help her by removing the Rose from this realm, spare her the pain he and others have suffered under the wiles of Sanguine.

An Initiative employee orders Martin to stop, but he simple runs past her, leaving behind blinding-but-harmless snowflakes. What he needs is a hiding place, somewhere he can begin the binding ritual, before his legs give out.

Martin runs out of the training area and into the city proper, hoping to blend with the natives. It is easier to be lost in a sea of people, so he ducks into a crowd, then weaves between alleyways and streets, using Restoration magic to recuperate his stamina.

Hopefully she will tire before his magicka runs out.

[preyed]

And the bastard is still running. When she catches up to him -- and she will catch up to him, Divines help her -- she's going to make him dearly wish he hadn't stolen from her.

He summons a wolf to distract her and she knows, just when he does, that he's not simply a mage. He's from Tamriel. And he knows exactly what he's carrying. Her eyes narrow as she moves, drawing her blade and sinking it into the animal as it passes her. The wolf cries out and she keeps running, around the woman that has attempted to stop him and out the door, heedless of the flakes of snow that sting her cheeks.

Out into the crowd, she loses him, the frost trail he left behind disappearing amid the throng of people. With a hiss, she scans the crowd, and then launches herself right into them. She takes a breath and releases it, along with a shout: "Feim Zii Gron!"

And, just like that, the entirety of her becomes little more than an outline, visible but untouchable, and she threads her way through the crowd with much more ease than before. Her stamina isn't affected any longer by her running, and though she's lost sight of her prey, she won't need to expend so much to find him until the spell wears off. That gives her some time.

She does, at last, catch on to where he's gone. Vera takes off in that direction, hoping she can find him before she's lost him completely.

[septim]

Martin hisses as his connection to the Familiar is severed abruptly, breathing heavily. Divines take it all, the Rose and this realm. Whoever this woman is, she won't give up.

Most of his magicka spent on throwing her off his trail or recuperating his magicka, Martin reaches to his deepest reserves, needing to conjure some water before he faints from exhaustion.

Minutes past, no one approaches. At least, he sees no one, so he inches out of the recess he's taken as a hiding place, hoping this building is as abandoned as it looks—rust and dust and dilapidation inside what must be a warehouse, molding wooden crates stacked against the walls.

The Rose is thrown onto the floor without ceremony, pointed disdain etched in Martin's features, face visible as he pulls back his hood. Not drawing a sigil to protect oneself from a daedric artifact would be considered suicide by any mage worth their soul gems, but Martin and the Rose have a personal, magical link he hopes hasn't been severed just yet.

Counter to the essence of a daedric prince is the essence of a Divine. Blood will have to do, as it did for the portal to Mankar Camoran's Paradise and the blood of Talos, scrapped from his cuirass. Perhaps it's hubris to think his blood qualifies as an essence of the Nine, but if the blood of the Avatar of Akatosh and the last descendant of Tiber Septim doesn't count, he'll gladly offer whatever is left of his soul to obliterate Sanguine's staff.

"Nine Divines, hear my plea!" His silver gladius slices through his flesh so cleanly, Martin isn't pained until he clenches his fists and coats the Rose in his blood. "Long have the Daedra tormented Your children, turned their thoughts and actions against Your guidance! But through Your Covenant have we seen the light, and through Your mercy shall no mortal here suffer at the claws of Sanguine's debauchery!"

Inside a floating sphere of bloody-colored mist, the Rose levitates, blood seeping into its stem and petals until cracks and breaks start to chip away at its form.

"I, Martin Septim, through soul and blood, banish this tool of evil from this realm!"

[preyed]

When at last she hears him, feels the magic he's beginning to conjure, she's most assuredly not close enough to stop him. But Vera feels the power licking over her skin, something not simply limited to what is taught at the College. No, this is much more powerful, divine in nature, like a burn snaking down into her bones.

It's into an abandoned building she goes, and it's when she steps across the threshold that she regains some semblance of form. But he's spilled his blood and started; she can't stop what he's begun.

She has no shout to fall back on. Her eyes are wide as she rushes forward, the Rose cracking. "What are you doing?!" Destroying an artifact... Is that even possible? Her shock leaves her open, unguarded, and the sound of his name only has her staring in horror. Did he say...

No. It doesn't matter. He's using blood magic on a Daedric artifact. Vera strides forward to intercede, going for his arm. "Stop!"

[septim]

A blast of force erupts from the Rose, tendrils of sticky, viscous blood reaching for Martin, worming themselves beneath his skin. A familiar, disembodied voice accompanies the wonderful sensations of a lover's touch—nails raking across his back, kisses upon his chest and teeth scrapping across his throat—slurred speech befitting his intentions.

Marty, it's been so long!

Sanguine's essence fights its own demise, the daedric prince simulating a mockery of affection onto Martin's senses. He groans, not sure if from pleasure or pain, biting his tongue until he tastes blood.

He used to love this sort of thing! See how he's writhing? The daedric prince sighs. Such a shame to lose such a talented acolyte...

The double entendre isn't lost on Martin, nor is Sanguine's attempts to reveal more about their past than Martin is comfortable with. Enraged, his will breaks through the daedric prince's illusions. "Be quiet, Sanguine!" he hisses venomously. "Let your tool of mischief return to the fires of Oblivion from whence it came!"

Now, Marty, don't be so rude! It's not my fault you practiced irresponsible magic and forgot your wards. What would the Mages Guild say? Martin's expression twists in trepidation, blue eyes wide, as he struggles against the pull of aedric versus daedric magic.

Tch, fine. I can make more Roses, you know. This is just a slight inconvenience, and I don't feel like dealing with Akatosh tonight. But tell you what, Marty—since you're such a glutton for punishment, here's a gift from Uncle Sanguine.

Blood turns to light, the strings attached to Martin turning into shimmery dust as the Rose turns into grey ashes and vanishes into the skies. But it's a short-lived victory for Martin as memories of Sanguine's Cult flood his vision, only to form into golden, magical threads rushing past him and pooling into...

...Vera.

[preyed]

Vera is no stranger to dark magic, especially not that of the daedric princes. But she does not worship them, nor does she practice such an art. She stumbles into their midst blindly and curses herself later for her stupidity.

And she is no stranger to the voice that slips out of the artifact, honeyed and poisonous words that make her stiffen, her grip like a vice on Martin's arm and only clamping down harder when she hears Sanguine. He never insisted she use the Rose, never asked for anything beyond that one night of drunken foolishness.

That one night she can't remember.

She remains silent, the most sensible thing to do, despite her burning desire to ask how they know one another, how Martin Septim is standing before her and using blood magic, or even the nature of the cryptic words he decides to impart to them. The Rose is gone before she can push the words off of her tongue, turned to ash, and then there's shimmering golden light that drifts from her thief into her, and then all thought is gone completely.

There are lips against her throat, hands charting paths on her body. A furred tail brushes against her waist and there's an impossible heat that blankets her. Voices flit in and out of her awareness, sounds no person should be privy to by her ear. Sanguine's laughter trumps it all, familiar and sultry, indulgent, mocking, the prince watching his subjects writhe with lust and humiliation intermingled.

It's a full body memory (memories, but they're all so jumbled together that it's hard to tell where one ends and one begins) that overtakes her, floods her system, and leaves her frozen in place with her hand gripping Martin's arm, nails digging into the hem of his cassock. She lives every moment in the span of seconds, the time dragging into what feels like hours, days, a spinning cycle of pain and pleasure that weaves into her consciousness like an inescapable web.

She hears someone scream.

It doesn't occur to her that the sound's coming from her own mouth.

Vera breaks away from Martin as if she's been burned, hands trembling and eyes unfocused as she desperately struggles to come back out of the chasm she's fallen into. At last can she dare to meet Martin's face, eyes wide. "What did you do to me?"

The words are whispered and fragile. Weak. Her jaw tightens and she snarls, anger rising like the fire in her blood. "What did you do to me?" she growls.

[septim]

They were fools to think the prince of debauchery would be their safest path to power. Sanguine: it was in the name itself, wasn't it?

His lust for knowledge and power brought them all into Sanguine's Cult. The daedra laughed, bubbly and honeyed, as Martin convinced his friends to stay, reminding them that Sanguine would be easier to contact than the other daedric princes. Sanguine knew who and what he was from the beginning. But Martin hadn't, so the daedra stoked the hunger of his dragon's blood, Martin none the wiser.

To this day, when he closes his eyes and attempts to sleep, he sees the blood and entrails of his friends, decorating the walls of Sanguine's cavern. Has to be red, Marty! the demon sang, the daedra's peals of laughter chilling his bones and blood as if ice.

Nauseous but weakened at the loss of his magicka, Martin falls to his knees and retches, motions present but no contents flowing. Right, of course, he burnt to death on an empty stomach. All the Avatar could vomit is fire and smoke.

Even at a loss, Sanguine wins. If he could scream, he would. If he could cast fire to cleanse himself from the ghosts of Sanguine's magic burrowing beneath his skin, into his veins, and into his head, he would.

All he can do is curl into a fetal position and close his eyes, shutting out sound and sight and sound and everything. Vera can have her answer when he finds out the very same: what did she do to him?

Inky black, thick blood oozes out of the cut in his palm. So, that's the reason for drawing and casting wards before summoning a daedric prince—if he were anyone else, this ritual would've claimed his life. For some reason, his muddled mind decides this is the proper time to laugh uncontrollably, happy to be alive.

Her eyes are boring into his own and he foresees a strike to the face in his future, but there's nothing he can do to stop it. Doesn't want to stop it, really. He deserves it.

[preyed]

He's laughing. The sound borders on unhinged in the silence after Sanguine's departure, leaving chills running up her spine. Vera lingers to the side for a moment, watching him, her anger threatening to boil over what she can contain. But it's staunched by the lingering horror of what she's seen and felt, the realization that she had a whole night in Sanguine's company and she doesn't remember a damn thing of it.

At last, she strides towards the pathetic ball that is Martin and puts her boot on his side, shoving him onto his back. Were Lucien here, he would beg for her to put him out of his misery and to send him to the Void with Sithis.

But this has little to do with the Dark Brotherhood. It has everything to do with herself, petty selfishness and all.

She drops down in front of him (careful, too, not to straddle him and invoke more memories from what he's given her), fisting her hands in his cassock. Her eyes are narrowed in anger, her voice nearly a snarl. She'll choke him if she has to snuff out what lingers of the memories now burned into her mind. No person should be capable of passing on memories. She's not a damned sponge. The only time she's been able to do that has been with...

...dragons. "Who are you?" she growls, shaking him. "Talk, or I'll slit you from navel to nose."

[septim]

Martin yelps in pain as she grabs onto his cassock, skin on his chest sore from Sanguine's punishment, burnt from Akatosh' possession. "I've said my name," he speaks, swallowing bile and blood. "I'm Martin Septim."

Whether she believes him or not, he doesn't care. The Rose is destroyed, his task completed. Later, he's sure to regret the horrible memories he's granted her. For now, what he needs is a healer and a good night's rest. "The Rose is gone. I've spared this realm his debauchery and humiliation. I'm sorry I can't say the same for us."

[preyed]

She hisses once more, eyes boring into his. "You lie. Martin Septim is dead and has been so these two hundred years." This scraggly man, half-haggard and worn, his hair a mess, cannot possibly be the legendary emperor who became the Avatar. But Sanguine had confirmed, hadn't he? He had called him 'Marty'.

Vera stares down at him, lip curling in disgust. She releases him, none too gently, and stands. "All you've done is allow him to make another to give to some poor fool." And that person would, inevitably, use it irresponsibly. With Vera, it had been safe, locked away and out of any mortal hands, save her own. Now it could just as easily be plucked anew. She paces briefly in front of him like a predator, eyes fixed on his face, on his eyes. Hardly any Imperial has such bright eyes like those, icy blue and nearly shimmering.

He can't be Martin Septim. And yet, what other explanation is there?

"Even if you are who you claim to be, you're hardly more than a shambling corpse." She crouches, her blade easily in view, and she reaches over to take him by the chin to inspect him.

[septim]

"Its essence consumed, it will need to be reforged in the fires of Oblivion. It will take ages for the Rose to return to Nirn now." Martin whimpers as he lands onto the floor, keeping his injured hand splayed open as he props himself against a wall. "If you thought you could safeguarded it, you're a fool."

Martin huffs in derision, too weak to look smug but too proud not to sound it. "I don't know what tales people have been spinning about me, but I'm not as grand as my family. I'm Uriel's bastard, raised as a peasant, and if what you've said is true, revived from a two-hundred-year-old grave. I think my appearance can be excused, considering the circumstances." Sharply, he turns his head, removing his face from her grasp.

"I have nothing to prove to you, citizen."

[preyed]

"Ages for him, perhaps." Vera's personally not so convinced that time is the same for the daedra and Mundus. But that's her own opinion. "I thought it might be foolish to return it so it could be given to another with true intentions for such power." To her, it had been little more than a trinket.

"I don't care what your lineage is, Imperial," she huffs. "You'll have to pardon me if I don't particularly feel sorry for your plight." He had been gifted and a martyr, and the stories of his skill are as legendary as his title. He can't hide from her. But there's a bit of empathy in her gaze, a sharp contrast to the lingering disgust at war in her expression. There are memories there now, emotions and thoughts, and despite what she wishes...they're connected now.

Maybe that's the reason that she can't shake all of the anger.

"No, you do have something to prove to me." But she can't gain anything from him if he's doubled over in pain or dead. Standing, she holds out a hand, palm down, and allows the warmth of a healing spell to drop from her and into him. Her expression beyond the flood of light is mostly unreadable, though there is wariness in her eyes and distrust that cannot be erased so easily.

[septim]

"Ages for mortals, which is what matters." Mundus shall have a respite from the evil of Sanguine's artifact for a good while. It is enough, Martin thinks. Even if he had to bleed for it.

"It is not a plight!" Anger surfaces, teeth gritted. He sees empathy, but her words and gestures do not match it. Martin doesn't have time for his life to be referred to as some sort of charity, or for deceit. "No, I have nothing to prove to you." Bloody handprints mark the trail he walks across the walls, steps pathetic and shambling. Maybe if he waits a couple of hours in this factory, he'll have enough magicka to heal himself.

The spell isn't coming from a healer. There's the uncomfortable tugging of flesh and tendons renewing themselves, the itch of skin shifting and smoothing. What healing actually is, as opposed to the stylized skill that forms after decades of practice. "Here, for your services," he says, now able to unclasp the broken amulet around his neck, and toss it at her feet.

[preyed]

She has hardly spent enough time in Winterhold's college, in the halls or in the library. Her magic is rustic at best, simple, and though she's practiced on the injured in Kynareth's shrine, it isn't quite the same. She knows that well enough. And she hardly expects to be paid for her services, and so she cocks her head to the side in offense as he pulls out the amulet.

The moment she realizes what it is, the healing stops and she steps back as if the artifact is a frost troll. "Divines," she softly curses, eyes wide. It may be broken and scorched but she knows full well what it is. Any Imperial would.

She doesn't want to touch it, let alone look at it.

Defensive, she glowers at him. "Take it back. It's yours."

[septim]

Martin scoops it up, shoving it into a pocket inside his cassock. Her healing provided enough of a respite for his magicka to coalesce into a diminished-but-workable pool. As long as he's careful and takes his time, he'll be able to heal himself.

"Not so proud, are we now?" Yet his insult lacks the venom to be considering offensive, more of a passing observation than anything else. "Lost your courage to a broken and burnt trinket." It's not a trinket, of course, but the symbol of the Dragonborn Dynasties and their demise, the prophesy made true through his death. "Akatosh brought me here for a reason, that much is certain. I'm quite sure it has something to do with you." He doesn't need to point at her when his eyes are boring into her soul, an ironic change from before. "But for now, I must rest, and meditate on why I've been chosen for this task."

[preyed]

"You call the artifact of your bloodline a trinket. A small wonder how far removed you are from them." Where he is blowing steam, she is not. The hairs on her neck are standing on edge, hands fisted at her sides. "Akatosh has no bearing here, only these Initiative fools. And if you think that He has guided you to me..." The very idea alone is enough to make her want to spit.

How dare you. "Septim bloodline or not, I don't need any charity you want to provide for me." Never has, never will, and any fool who believes otherwise can get a blade shoved into their belly. "Go find another task to occupy yourself with. It's not going to be me."

[septim]

"Do not—" Martin closes the distance in a single stride, ice blue eyes shaking in pain and wrath as his fingers grasp her chin as she did his, "—presume you have the right to talk about my family. Do not think the title of dragonborn means nothing simply because we're not in Tamriel."

He loses his grasp on her, wincing as his shoulder protests the rough motion. "Fine, you don't need my charity. If that is what you think this is, then I cannot help you."

"Let us see how long you will last, Dovahkiin. Let us pray the call of your blood won't consume you, as it did me."

[preyed]

She slaps his hand away, drawing back, her eyes burning with indignation as it flares up as readily as wood thrown on a fire. "Then do not presume to know me, to know anything about a world you no longer have a part in. You're dead. You saved your people. Your place, if any, is in Cyrodiil and nowhere near me."

The sound of her title on his lips is enough to finally incense the fire within her. Fists clenched, head held high, she hardly thinks of her actions before she shouts. "Fus ro dah!"

[septim]

No magic could prevent the force of a shout, screamed in a language that worms its way into his blood, launching his body towards concrete. He feels the wet, dull sound of the back of his head crashing with the wall before he hears it, but once the sound registers, there's no more time to process it.

Martin Septim, Emperor of Tamriel, faints, sprawled in an undignified manner.

[preyed]

Vera is the one left standing, breathing raggedly as if she's the one who's ready to drop to the floor. Her eyes stare at Martin for several moments before she processes just what she's done, and then she's moving toward him.

"Shit." Down on her knees, she reaches out to his head and pushes more healing into him, staunching the damage before anything else happens to him. It's only when she's nearly drained herself of her magicka that she stops healing him, reaching forward and somewhat scooping him up. With some care, she's able to lay him down flat on the ground, body relaxed and head turned so he's not resting on his injury. That's just about all she can provide for now.

Standing, she backs away from him and paces, hand going into her belt to remove a talisman lingering there. "I want a word with you," she says, summoning Lucien Lachance to her side. The darkness that opens up has hardly changed and the specter wastes no time in appearing from its chasm. Her eyes are narrowed and she gestures to Martin. "Tell me who that is."

He turns his gaze to the fallen emperor and she swears she almost sees his back stiffen. Martin Septim. Emperor of Tamriel.

Vera doesn't look pleased at all to hear it. "So it's true," she mutters. Dragon blooded, just as she is. "I don't understand," she whispers, for Lucien's ears alone, for the dead tell no tales and keep secrets as close as they can. "Why is he here? Why now?"

But her specter does not answer her. He takes a few steps towards Martin and it isn't until he reaches for the ethereal dagger that she realizes what he's doing. "Lucien, no." She gets in between them. "Stand down."

He is the Emperor, Listener. Too long I've waited... It would be a fitting tribute to Lord Sithis.

"No," she snaps, agitated. "Not him. Not now. We've done this before." And it hasn't brought her any peace. For a moment, the spectral assassin seems to listen to her. He hesitates and she is nearly certain he'll back down. But then he lunges, trying to skirt around her, and her blade is out before she even has the thought of drawing it. It slides easily into his stomach, an extension of her hand, and she watches with some vestige of regret as he crumbles into dust and returns to the Void.

With a sigh, shoulders finally dropping, Vera turns back to look at Martin's prone form on the ground. And then she pulls out her tablet to call for assistance from the Initiative.