TheMaiaNightmareMoon

Ofan rocked back and forth on her heels as she waited for Morokei beside the statue of Shalidor. She spotted Tolfdir leading his class into the courtyard from the stone bridge and hurried to meet them. The elderly Nord's eyes twinkled when he saw her. “Ah, Ofan, it is good to see you are well!” “Thank you, professor,” she replied, looking relieved. “Brelyna said that things became rather tense...” “Nothing we couldn't handle,” the alteration teacher assured. “You seem to have made powerful ally.” “I don't think dragon priests have allies,” Onmund said, quietly. “Be careful, Ofan.” The petite maiden gave him a gentle smile. “I shall be fine, thank you.” Her mirth faded as her gaze traveled to the uppermost stone gazebo. “How fares Savos?” “Physically he's okay, but mentally he's not doing as well,” Brelyna answered sadly. “The purple priest had decided to execute him as a sacrifice to Viinturuth but the newcomer changed his mind.” “What about the other professors? And the scary

The moon was at its zenith over mighty Bromjunaar as the Nord in gilded armor stepped out onto the massive balcony overlooking the westernmost training arena. He paused to tie back his unruly mahogany tresses just in case he would be called upon to demonstrate any shouts. A few stray locks rebelled and fell loosely around his angular face, but the tall mage paid little heed and proceeded on his way. Despite his official status as an acolyte priest only, the other pupils and their teachers still treated him with deference as he confidently wove his way through the crowd. He smirked slightly to himself. It was good to be Dragonborn. His smile faded however when he discerned a sorrow radiating from somewhere nearby. His magical abilities did not lie in restoration or empathy, so this puzzled him until he noticed a familiar lanky teenager standing alone by the railing. “Vahlok,” the Dovahkiin called, brow furrowed in concern. “Hi krosis, zeymah. What troubles you so?” The boy flinched

Morokei's rich voice echoed throughout the Hall of Elements as Ofan entered the vast rotunda. “...is immaterial. If Thuri Alduin would only liberate his life force with his undeniable commands, the empowered Staff will be more than capable of bringing Durnehviir back from the Soul Cairn permanently,” the tall priest explained, facing the whirling sphere. A slightly shorter man stood beside him, also studying the Eye of Magnus. Both were clad in the traditional robes and golden armor of Dragon Cult royalty, the only differences being that Morokei's fabrics were of a dark purple and his counterpart's were the hue of a hearty pine. “Lord Morokei?” Ofan ventured, respectfully. Both priests turned around and the young mage noticed that while Morokei was content without his mask, his companion's face remained hidden. “Malvahdin,” Morokei's rich voice was a pleasant purr. “I am pleased to see you are well.” “See zeymah? You had these strange mages skulking about in terror for naught,”

Tharstan could hardly believe his eyes as Vahlok the Jailer emerged from his hidden tomb. He was truly ancient history given life! Vahlok's expression of wonder and joy at the outside world quickly turned into one of dismay. The once lush forests were dying! “What has befallen my island?” He whispered, hoarse voice filled with sorrow. Viintaas's gaze fell and Tharstan grew solemn. “The Red Mountain erupted approximately two centuries ago and has been spewing ash ever since. But the Skaal people endure despite hardship.” Vahlok's undead orbs flickered in deep thought. Viintaas keenly discerned his fellow Dovahkiin's conflicting emotions. The Guardian was proud of the indomitable spirit of his people, yet remorseful that he had been unable to protect them. The young Nord's voice was sincere, his expression earnest. “You had been dead for millennia by that time, Vahlok. There was absolutely nothing you could have done.” The ancient lich was taken aback at being read so clearly.

Viintaas inhaled sharply at the sheer size of the tomb’s massive final chamber. The floor was covered with dubious looking stone tiles and a lone ebony coffin sat before the elevated word wall on the far side. Despite himself, he felt his hopes rising. Surely the dragon priest known as the Guardian would listen to his plea. He had to. Viintaas was uncertain who else he would turn to otherwise. As he waited for Tharstan to catch up, his mind wandered over the unusual puzzles throughout the elaborate tomb. He had never seen magical bridges that were still so strong and responsive after millennia. In fact, he had never seen such ethereal paths before at all! The Word Walls had called unto his curious dragon’s soul with an allure more intense than any others he had yet encountered. Even so, it was the three plaques that had intrigued him most. A sacrifice will bring you closer to that which you seek. A clue on how to access the deeper parts of the ornate memorial, but perhaps also a

“Faas Ru Maar!” Viinturuth’s devasting voice echoed throughout the town, his indomitable command sending the mortals scattering! With mighty wingbeats he soared above the college, alighting himself on the encircling alure to the left of the Hall of Elements. He arched his neck proudly, pleased as the joor in the courtyard followed Morokei’s example in kneeling before him. “Rise, Glorious One!” The emerald dragon commanded. “Thuru Alduin is pleased with your swift victory.” He eyed the husk of Mirabelle and snorted. “Durnehviir taught you well, despite your fleeting time under aakii.” Morokei rose while the rest stayed kneeling, although Ofan risked a glance upward at Viinturuth. He was what Viintaas had referred to as a blood dragon, but the beast looming above them seemed larger than the typical blood dov that roamed around Skyrim. His dorsal fins were lined with rich black stripes and his yellow eyes glittered with cunning. “Thank you, thuri,” Morokei replied, relaxing a bit even