Nick De Moss

Summary:

This story follows the misadventures of a Breton named Nelar Granir. One of the last Vigilants of Stendarr roaming Skyrim. He always strived to help others in any way he could; even to his own detriment. Be that curing disease or purging undead along with other abominations. The world changes underneath his feet during an eventful return home. This takes place before and after the events of the Dawnguard DLC. What starts as a quest of revenge and atonement, reveals motives and players beyond fathoming.

“It is folly to deny that Daedra are more powerful than Aedra. Yet they know nothing of sacrifice like the Eight do. Still, Daedric worship persists and continues to be the most malevolent force on Nirn; for their zealots believe might itself is reason enough to worship. And they in turn would give anything to be worshiped. We serve others, not ourselves, and that is how Stendarr will prevail over the corruption.”

-Nasius the Candid, Vigilant of Stendarr and Hall Scribe

Chapter One: The Beating Path

After our investigation of a supposed necromancer den near Dawnstar turned up empty, I accompanied Tolan back home to the Hall of the Vigilant.

“Granir? Do you think Keeper Carcette will be upset with us?” 

I shrug at him “Perhaps, but I’m not going to scour all of Tamriel for one hearsay accusation. Keeper Carcette is a good sort. Remember how she had us lead those orphans to Riften after their parents perished in a cultist raid? Besides, we have more important things to worry about.” 

He raised an eyebrow “Like dragons?”

I bellowed with laughter at that. Finally, I collect myself enough to answer:

“Gods no! You heard the greybeards shout earlier? That’s their problem now. We just need to focus on the undead, daedra, and all other manner of abominations. Simple! I’m more worried about the earful about shirking our duties from Nasius.” 

That seemed to satisfy his questions. Good, he’s been cagey this entire wild horker chase.

We trudge uphill with bitter Skyrim winds keeping us awake through the exhaustion. Luckily we had the good sense to pack the nice hood with the fur tuft on the inside.

“It’s starting to get dark. Don’t you think we should make camp?” Tolan asks. 

I consider his words before replying “We’re close. If we push on we’ll have our bellies full of mead by a warm fire. Let’s power through.” 

Tolan gives me a hesitant nod. He is hunched over his pack trying to reach for a torch when a bolt of light strikes him in the back with a loud crack. Tolan yelps while I cackle mischievously, my hand extended and glowing. 

“By the Nine! Warn me next time!” he shrilly shrieks. 

The mage light sticks to Tolan’s balding head before hovering above him. 

I raise my hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t want you to waste a torch now. Plus we of all people should know to be ever vigilant.” 

The humorless Vigilant ignores me for the next hour.

Our route goes from being cobbled to dirt as it progressively takes us off the main road. In the distance, a loud roar is heard to the east. I motion Tolan to stay low as we carefully approach. 

As we’re passing underbrush we hear shouting close by “You remind me of my cousin’s cat. Killed that too!”. 

A Khajiit caravan is being ambushed by a fallen tree. A cart is tipped over and beginning to burn. One Khajiit is lying face down in the mud. Another is bleeding clutching their stomach against a stone.

A large figure in Nordic carved armor with a steel horned helm is wielding a battleaxe, preparing to cleave a disoriented Khajiit bodyguard in half. Not having time to close the distance, I drop my mace in favor of using both hands to drive ice spikes into the bandit’s spine. When in doubt, always cast an ice spike. One goes wide and the other hits his hip. 

“Watch out! He’s right behind you!” Tolan yells redundantly to the Khajiit.

“Let me worry about the bandit. You see if you can help the wounded.” I snap at him.

How can one bandit cause this much devastation? Surely if the ambush was sprung more would have popped out by now. There’s simply no time to wonder about that. I charge as fast as I can toward the bandit still focused on the ice spike inside him. I throw a familiar spell to my side as I sprint. A howl echoes through the night. The armored Khajiit recovers and attempts to counterattack with a slash from his sword. Unfortunately, he only manages to land a superficial blow at the bandit’s leg. The bandit unleashes a guttural battle cry before smashing into the Khajiit’s shield causing a large split. Barely able to dislodge the shield from the axe, the bodyguard is wide-eyed and backing away. It’s clear he was shaken by the battle cry.

I throw my hand down and my bound sword appears ready to cut into the lowlife. My familiar arrives first leaping to the back-turned bandit jaws wide; only to be obliterated in one swing of the ax. Too late to stop my momentum, I try to reach past his defenses. My blows are connecting, but the armor is preventing anything vital from being struck. 

“Tolan! I was wrong. I need your support!” I shout without breaking eye contact with the enemy ahead. 

That’s when the enemy wrapped the handle behind my head and locked me in place. Unable to stop the pain I know is approaching, I prime the healing spell in my empty hand. Steel collided against my bare forehead, followed by skin repairing itself only to be bludgeoned again. And again. An ouroboros of pure agony. I keep casting, feeling the last reserves of energy faltering as I’m unable to cast anymore. I’m turning into pulp against his helm, only standing because the bandit is holding me into place. When he suddenly stops. A steel sword is coming out of his chest. 

I use the opportunity to cast healing on myself once while using my other hand to drive the bound sword deep between his neck and shoulder. There’s a meaty twist as the sword wears off shortly after. The bandit buckles screaming one more time before releasing a pitiful whimper as he joins his victims in the mud. It matters not. I feel no pity.

I spit out blood on his corpse as I uncork a healing potion, unwilling to wait for my vitality to regenerate. My face was a ruin, my hood now a bloody rag. Thank the Eight for the Restoration School. 

“Took your sweet time Tolan.” I looked up to see not Tolan, but the Khajiit I thought was running away. 

The large cat replies “Khajiit does not know who this Tolan is, but a sweet time this was not. Khajiit owes you a great thanks.” I wince uncomfortably. 

“It was no problem. Happy to help. I’m assuming your name’s not Khajiit. I’m Nelar Granir. When I’m not banishing monstrosities I’m apparently getting destroyed by illiterate bandits.” 

The hulking feline smiles toothily “This one is right, I am Kharjo, and I-” 

Tolan crashes, a bloody heap between us. Jumping with a startle, I see a frost troll… in armor? What a damn fool I was. I thought the roar was from this rampaging Nord. Idiot. 

I shout at the beast “I don’t know how you figured out to wear armor and I don’t fucking care at the moment.”

 I raise my hands summoning a flame atronach behind the troll beating its chest while losing a fireball of my own to the creature’s groin. A horrible cry escapes the beast as metal melds to flesh, it keels in on itself nursing the wound before arching its back from the force of a firebolt to its back. This flanking with my atronach is providing precious time for those wounded Khajiit that Tolan helped to limp out of harm’s way. I uncork a Potion of Restore Magicka as Kharjo drops his sword in favor of a bow losing iron arrows into the now charging beast. 

Despite the unrelenting assault from all sides, the beast’s wounds are already stitching, except the burns. It raises its brawny arms to bludgeon me. I have no choice but to brace myself. Casting a healing spell along with stone flesh. If I did not heal myself, I would no doubt be troll shit by the next morning. Still not optimistic about my chances, I stand like a statue beneath not a chisel but a warhammer. To my surprise, I now find myself tumbling out of the way. Kharjo shoved me sideways, once again dropping his weapon, except he now holds his armored fists up hissing at the troll. 

The bloody mad cat just slugged the frost troll’s jaw causing a loud crack sound and even more impressively, it was effective! The troll swings with one arm hitting the Khajiit back. Kharjo seemed to lean into the blow and somehow cushion some of the impact. As the other arm is about to hit, the Troll staggers in pain from yet another firebolt from my atronach. Kharjo doesn’t hesitate, putting all his strength into a straight palm strike to the beast’s throat. I could swear I saw his claws protrude from the fingers of the gauntlet during the attack. The brutish thing gasps, unable to breathe. It hits itself on the throat trying vainly to take breath, but unknowingly stopping itself from its own regenerating abilities. It’s a slow death until my atronach and I release a firebolt in unison causing the beast to propel many feet in the air while careening off the mountainside. A fading horrible gurgle echoing in the wind. I pop my knee back into place and cast all the healing I can on Tolan.

The lucky bastard’s still kicking. Once he’s breathing less raggedly, I allow myself to collapse and laugh. “Can somebody please tell me how a bandit enlisted a damn armored troll into its company? I mean seriously!” 

Kharjo collapses next to me panting as well “All I know is. I would pay much to have one of those help me guard the caravan. Assuming it knows what side it’s on, yes.” We share a laugh at that.

Kharjo graciously allows us to camp together. With the approval of Ahkari, the caravan leader of course; looking much better thanks to Tolan’s hard work. Although Tolan was sure to give me an earful about how he could’ve sworn he had a flea jump on him while healing the wounded. I am lucky that my unamused glare deterred him from sharing his theory with our allies. However, this gesture of goodwill is clearly not just gratitude, as while they have night vision, Skyrim also comes to life at night. There is nothing quite like that unspoken primordial knowledge about the safety in numbers to bring people of vastly different backgrounds together. 

I do not usually loot the dead, but vultures like this are an exception. I dawn the Nordic armor set but decide to keep my hood. The bandit also had a couple of smaller healing potions along with a couple hundred gold. I took enough for an emergency and gave the lion’s share to the Khajiit. They likely need it more than I do. There’s also a hastily scribbled note:

“Will you just trust me? You swollen hagraven! I’m not being scammed. This Gunmar fella is willing to sell me an armored troll. More muscle and less of a cut than merc’s who we’d just have to kill for their share later anyway. Course he thinks I’m just a nice hunter looking for some help in these harsh wilds. He ain’t worth robbing so don’t ask. Don’t be a meddler. Go back to our spot, Gnarled Root cave. No shortcuts through the swamp and buy a damn horse. We can afford it. Don’t be a septum pincher either! Take a carriage to Morthal before you buy the horse. It’s easier on your feet. Once I hit a couple more caravans we can lie low until people forget our faces. Then we can stop drinking rancid mead and maybe work at Morthal’s lumber yard. Or just aimlessly patrol the hold like that buffoon Benor. Seems to be working for him. Member’ when you knocked that milk drinker on his ass when he tried to brawl you? You were glorious! Maybe ol’ Trollvahkiin here can help you next time! Bah, I’m terrible at names, that’s why you get to name the little one. I… *scribble* listen *scribble* You know I’m no good with words. Just please be careful. I’m going to hit this caravan I’ve been tracking and get this letter to the next courier I see. Then straight to our spot. I will see you again soon my love. I wonder what names you’ve come up with by now. Yours always, Sighmore the Kitten-Stomper.”

I don’t know how to process this note. I was wrong. Certainly literate. Kharjo and I take shifts while the less… formidable of us rest and recover. Tolan is up now, mostly healed, but he favors vegetable soup over the harder foods.

To my shame, I was once wary of all Khajiit. Like many that inhabit this place. They’re often banned from holds for fear of letting vagrants, thieves, or worse skooma peddlers into their community. However, Vigilants live quite similarly to these nomadic cats.

It’s one of Skyrim’s greater injustices that they’re never given the chance to show that they can be more than others’ fears and prejudice. 

“Hey Kharjo, that necklace you’re fondling, it’s nice. Got some sentimental value to you?” Briefly taken aback by someone noticing, he grins sheepishly before puffing his chest in pride.

“Yes doubly so. See the moon amulet was given to me twice. Once as a cub by my mother. Then again by a friend returning it to me from bandits.” sighing wistfully he adds “I hope they are in warm sands. Away from all this”

I ask rhetorically to no one in particular: “They just never stop, do they?” I motion towards the direction of our previous skirmish.

“They really really don’t.” Kharjo nods his head in agreement. 

He proceeds to tell me about this mighty Khajiit Dragonborn that he met. Apparently, they could shout dragons to the ground, shatter bandits into ice, and control time as they cut through enemies like chaff. Culling vampire lairs, draugr tombs, and dragon priest temples with ease.

Before getting ambushed by a bandit and his trusty armored troll, I’d call the story far-fetched. I suppose it was an enlightening experience in unlikely events. I’m struck by how thick the admiration is in the bodyguard’s retelling of the story. I’m not sure if it’s because of all the Dragonborn has done for them, their powers, or that a Khajiit, who this land’s people treat like fleas, is destined to save us from the world-eating dragon. 

Sounds like they’re no friend of vampires either. Good news for us and Isran down south. I can’t help but wonder if Keeper Carcette dismissed his warning too rashly. He didn’t help his case by coming in like a raving madman and calling us blinder than the Falmer. How did this rift between us grow so large? Carcette and Isran used to share meals and fight side by side. Now it’s hard to imagine the two sharing a room. So many of his men were infected with Sanguinaire Vampiris. We saved them from that fate asking nothing in return. If we weren’t so swift curing them the only other cure would be the mace. We had some of our patrols disappear in the Pale. Fenric mentioned something about searching for them because of a life debt. I hope he is careful. I fear what Skyrim would turn into without us.

Lost in thought we all sit close to the fire. Tolan has started speaking to me again. He thinks I should’ve listened to him earlier and camped. He was right. I shudder to think about that bandit feeding the Khajiit caravan to his troll. No, this was the better outcome despite the pain. He must know that.

As I’m taking the last watch before morning comes, I hear moaning from one of the bedrolls. I think it’s their caravan leader, Ahkari. I’m prepared to conveniently patrol the other side of the camp while avoiding seeing something I don’t want to; when I notice it is moans of pain. Grabbing my mind out of the gutter, I cast candlelight and opened the bedroll. Her breath is ragged as she clutches her stomach. Something writhes under her clothes. I pull up the robe to expose the stomach. Gutworm. One of the foul parasites peeks out of her fur. It must have been from the troll. I suppose Peryite to a lesser extent as well. The others have stirred and gathered close now. Dro’marash, another bodyguard, gasps at the sight.

Kharjo snaps into action rummaging through their packs, their stock. With panic in his voice, he cries out. “No, no this cannot be. Where is the cure potion?” 

Dro’marash eyes swell as he looks at Kharjo. “A passing adventurer bought her whole stock and sold us necromancer robes and enchanted jewelry. It’s gone. She’s…” he doesn’t finish the sentence. Kharjo curses throwing a Circlet of Archery in the dirt.

Why are they so upset? Gutworm takes a while to kill even if untreated; they just need to visit an alchemist in Dawnstar. They act like this is a death sentence. What a fool I am. No hold would allow them in. Still don’t they know that Vigilants will help anyone in need? We have always helped the sick and rid them of disease. Have they met other Vigilants that have refused to help them out of prejudice? Perhaps they didn’t even seek it, assuming we’d rather watch them suffer.

Not wanting to draw out their premature grief, I put nearly all my energy into casting cure disease. Effectively deworming the Khajiit. 

“Stendarr’s light purify you of your ills.” I chant slowly. After a deep inhale, Ahkari sighs in relief. 

“You healed Khajiit? How much will this cost us?” 

I sputter out a surprised laugh “Why would I charge you?” The entire caravan looks at me like I suddenly turned into a mammoth-sized mudcrab. 

Eventually, they accepted my good intentions and thanked me profusely. Insisting I pick from their wares to take. Tired of refusing, I finally settled on a couple of items. A silver sapphire circlet and a silver ring. I sense the Circlet will let me use alteration spells with greater ease. The ring will let me resist the cold. Tolan grabs a prize for himself too, an… Amulet of Stendarr. As if we didn’t have enough of those. I swear next assignment I’m taking a goat instead. We depart the caravan wishing each other a safe journey. Kharjo pats my shoulder. 

“Anytime you ask, Khajiit will guard your back.” I can’t help but smile and nod at my new friend as Tolan and I continue back home.

The Hall of the Vigilants is now just a mere hill away. To the east, I see an orc in the distance standing over a rabbit riddled with a comical amount of bolts. The orc is bloodied badly, a crossbow slung on his back. As if the sight wasn’t strange enough, below him there is a figure wearing hide armor and an iron helm. She’s jumping up the steep cliff. Not once, but repeatedly and it’s… working. I’m practically catching flies at the sight when Tolan stands in front of me. 

“No more distractions. We stick to the path.” For once I agree with him.

 “Let’s go, this is a silly place.”