The city of Sentinel stood out like a golden jewel against the dark blue waters of the Iliac Bay beyond. There was a thick, gray cloud formation overhead—a storm was brewing—but the lights from the fires of the city made it impossible to miss—a beacon of hope for those weary from wandering the vast Alik’r. It was nearly midnight when I arrived at the gate, limping and still bloodied, but a little stronger from the night’s sweet embrace. There were two guards—no doubt members of The Order of the Candle, official protectors of the royal family. The eldest of two—a gruff, bearded man—came forward to greet me with solemn concern. He could see the pain on my face—the night could do little for me in that respect.
“What’s the matter, son?” He had a voice that I could only describe as smooth—totally different from what one would expect from looking at him. “Are you hurt?”
When I tried to reply, my voice was raspy and weak, but I managed a few words. “Ambush,” I coughed, spewing a bit of blood on the man’s brown boots. “Bandits; I’m wounded.” I indicated my back, turning slightly to reveal the bloodied rags. The twisting motion put further strain on the wound—I could swear I felt my flesh tearing further.
Both guards hurried to my aid, steadying me with their arms, one on each side of me. I felt ashamed to be at the mercy of these mortals. I couldn’t tell which hurt worse—my pride, or my back. As much as I hated it though, I didn’t have much of a choice. I needed help. All I could do was trust my life to these strangers, and hope that they didn’t find out whom—what—I really was. I doubt I could have survived another fight, even with mere guards.
“Don’t worry,” the younger one said with a reassuring smile. “We’ll get you patched up.”
They led me through the gate and deeper into the city. We passed several large buildings with golden, domed roofs, as well as several smaller huts and merchant stalls. Everything was still and silent—all of the city’s residents had turned in for the night. Something strange I noticed was that the buildings were remarkably clean and polished, especially for a desert city. The scattered marble structures glistened between their stone counterparts in the light of the torches and lanterns that lined the streets. As expected, I supposed, of the capital of Hammerfell. The royal family probably employed several people to keep the city looking proper for important visitors.
We arrived, finally, at a small, rundown shack on the north end of the city, near the ports. I remember distinctly the smell—everything reeked of fish and, much to my dismay, the sweat of the dock workers. Sometimes having a heightened sense of smell isn’t a good thing. This part of the city definitely wasn’t kept to as high a standard as the market district.
The younger guard spoke to me again as the elder rapped thrice on the wooden door. “Abah is a bit eccentric, but she is the best healer in Sentinel. Some say she is even the best in Hammerfell.”
A short, plump, and wrinkly old woman poked her head swiftly out of the door. Her eyes, beneath thick, white caterpillar eyebrows, were half shut, as if she had lost the ability to control them. She may have, for all I knew—she looked easily one hundred years old. Her face reminded me of old leather.
“What? What?!” Her voice was low and airy, yet loud, and she was obviously grumpy. “It’s the middle of the night, you know! A lady needs her beauty sleep!” She regarded the three of us with contempt, at first, until she noticed that I was injured. Before either I or the guards was able to reply, she spoke again. “Oh! Well, why didn’t you say you had a hurt fellow here with you? Come! Come! Bring him inside!”
The guards helped me through the doorway and into the one-room hut, which was cluttered from wall to wall with all sorts of alchemical ingredients and potion bottles—some empty, and others filled with liquids ranging in color ranging from a strange brown to a lovely shade of pink. I, for whatever reason, hoped I got the pink.
“He limped up to the gate just a bit ago,” the elder guard told Abah. “Bandit raid, he says. It’s a miracle he even made it across the desert. He has a nasty wound in his back.”
“Yes, yes. Very nasty.” Abah had removed the makeshift bandages and lifted my shirt, inspecting the wound with her strange, milky eyes. “Nothing I can’t fix though.” She held a warm, wet cloth on the wound, dabbing occasionally to clean it. It stung.
The elder guard then spoke to me, smiling. “You’re in good hands, lad. You needn’t worry. We must get back to the gate—we’ve been gone much too long as it is.” They turned and started out the door, the elder dropping a few coins on Abah’s small wooden table.
“Thank you,” I replied, as they went, my voice still weak.
“No trouble, lad,” The elder said, and then they were gone.
Abah finished cleaning the wound, and, still holding the wet rag against the gash, crushed up some herbs in her free hand. She added the small, green pieces to a cup of water and swirled it.
“Drink,” She commanded, handing me the cup. “For the pain.” I drank slowly. It had a minty taste, and it did wonders for my dry throat. Within minutes, the pain in my back numbed. Abah looked satisfied. “Good, good.”
Next, she placed her hands on the wound, and began to heal my back with a spell. Her hands glowed with a golden light, and I could almost feel the flesh in my back grow back together. I had a strange, itchy sensation inside the gash. She treated me with the spell for a little over five minutes—thorough, I was glad to see. She bandaged the wound with fresh, white pieces of linen, and gave me a firm pat on the shoulder when she was finished.
“You should be good as new in just a few days, just try not to go getting stabbed anymore.” She chuckled, amused with her own joke.
“Thank you.” My voice was nearly back to normal thanks to her minty drink.
“It’s what I do, sonny,” She beamed. “It’s what I do.”
I stood up, eager to be on my way. Thanking Abah again, I headed for the door.
“Wait, wait!” She scrambled to pick up a bottle from the ground—brown liquid, I noticed, unfortunately. “Nearly forgot!” She handed me the bottle, practically forcing it into my hand. “Drink this if the bleeding starts again. It will help.”
I nodded, slipping the flask into the small pouch at my waist, and I was out the door. Abah waved from the doorway as I went. “Good luck, sonny. Good luck.”
Sometime later, I found myself inside the local inn, a rather large stone building in the western section of the city. The innkeeper was a man of few words, renting me a room, but not so much as offering a greeting. I supposed that it was only natural, given my wandering up to the door in the wee hours of the night. I probably woke the poor man up with my knocking.
My room was small but comfortable, adorned with local decoration as well as other pieces that had been imported. The bed was just large enough for me, but sufficient. I had had to train myself to sleep in the beds of mortals again after my transformation. It helped keep up appearances. Admittedly, though, the bed was far more comfortable than the coffins of the lair.
I wondered what would happen to the lair, after all that had happened. I was the last of my clan—last of the great Khulari—and I wasn’t going back there any time in the near future. No, my destination was much farther away—the Hall of the Vigilants. I would have my revenge, at any cost. The lair would probably be overrun with bandits, or taken over by another of the Iliac Bay’s vampire clans. This was a disgrace to my family, of course, but it would be even more disgraceful if I did not avenge their deaths.
I allowed sleep to take me, giving in totally to the night’s wonderful embrace.
I awoke to the cruel rays of the demon peeking through the room’s small window. It burned, but thankfully it was the only pain I felt. My body was sore, but the sensation could hardly be described as pain. It was more of an annoyance. I cursed the sun as I made my way out of the inn and into the streets of Sentinel. It took mere minutes to make my way to the market district.
The place was bustling—totally opposite from the prior night. Merchants of all races were everywhere, shouting prices of their various wares at the numerous people in the streets. I practically had to force my way through the crowd as I went. I purchased a shirt—a fine, brown tunic of Dunmer make— and a darker brown pair of trousers from a boisterous Breton with a small stall nestled between two larger produce stands.
I ducked into an alleyway to change. It felt good to replace the old, bloodied garb with the fresh clothing. The old tunic, shredded by the blade, was more stained with shame than with blood. I dumped the torn clothes in the alley, behind two barrels full of what smelled like rotten, moldy mead.
Refreshed, I made my way to the docks—hoping to find passage to Skyrim, perhaps to Dawnstar or Windhelm. I hadn’t been there since the 3rd era, at least. I was eager to see how much the land had changed, what with the aftermath of The Great War and the newly risen Stormcloak rebellion.
It would be an interesting trip, to say the least.
I booked passage on a large cargo ship that was on its way to Dawnstar. The captain was a tall, energetic Nord with a thick red beard and a perpetual smile on his face. He led me up a wooden ramp to the deck, tossing and catching his newly acquired sack of gold as he went.
“Angar’s the name!” He told me. “I been the cap’n of the Maiden’s Tear here, for nigh on twenny years.” He patted the mast with pride. “We’re headed for Dawnstar here in just a few hours, make yourself at home—but don’t bother the lads. They’ve got work to do to get us outta here!” He laughed his way to his cabin, still juggling the coin purse, leaving me on the deck to prepare for the journey.
I settled down near two barrels and a few crates towards the stern, smiling cruelly to myself. The Vigilants would not know what hit them. I was on my way. And I was angry.
The Maiden left the dock and made her way quickly out to open sea.
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