Chapter Two: The Dead Don't Tell

Carrow crouched down at the small campfire the bandits had raging, idly playing with the ladle and moving the rabbit stew around in circles. Taking off his helm, he put the ladle to his mouth and took a sip.

"Yep, that's stew." Carrow affirmed, satisfied that he'd not lost his taste in undeath. His posture and body language was relaxed and casual, a total opposite to his guest's own body language that spoke nothing more than wanting to get away from the deadly warrior. Despite being undead, Carrow showed very little signs of being such a thing.

The only denomination of his status as a Draugr would be his durability and strength that went far beyond any mortal race, and his softly glowing eyes. The eyes glowed softer than most other Draugr, as they had their entire eye glowing blue.

His eyes merely glowed in the iris. But, considering the rather edgy and dark nature of his ebony armor that was molded into an ancient Nordic fashion, and the location that he was currently in, logic dictated that he was indeed a being of undeath in some way or fashion.

This did not put the former captive Altmer at ease. Iirelae Aelsinoth, a young Altmer girl of twenty five years of age was the daughter of a Thalmor Soldier and moved to Skyrim to live with said father after her mother died. She arrived at the Dawnstar Harbor, and would then take a few small caravans to Helgen where she'd meet her father.

Yet, a bandit raid ruined those plans. One might think that a Altmer would easily be able to fight off a few bandit scum and escape, yet Iirelae was no seasoned warrior or adept or even apprentice mage. Altmer were often over estimated as it was hard to tell when a mer was twenty years old or a hundred. The difference in combat ability was often rather astounding.

Iirelae knew the flames and sparks spell, along with Clairvoyance, but was really nothing more than a novice with somewhat decent magicka reserves. She might light one bandit on fire, but a charging bandit with a banded iron shield was something that would counter that plan of action. She was no warrior, she was civilian child in comparison to most other Mer, and was Iirelae was currently scared shitless.

Iirelae knew of Skyrim from nothing more than a sailors gossip and folktales. A frigid land dotted with tombs of the honored Nordic dead. A land that boasted the ever versatile trolls, hostile wildlife, a bandit epidemic, and giants with their roaming wooly mammoths. It seemed fantastical to Iirelae, a girl who knew nothing else other than a lonely and simple life in the Summer Isle. Her peers and elders would espouse that the Nords and men were foolish barbarians and their culture was nothing in the face of Altmer superiority.

As she knelt down and serviced the unwashed barbarian, she believed them. Hate bubbled in her heart as her pride was crushed and demolished by a greater need and desire to live. But just as quickly as that hate was born toward all things that inhabited Skyrim and its people, it died a just as quick death.

She heard stories and legend. She heard myth and monster. She saw death, and the embodiment of it. Black polished ebony molded and forged by nothing less than a master blacksmith, segmented plates overlapped each other denying any entry to a possible attack. Each plate was engraved and marked with ancient Nordic markings and strange patters or letters that resembled claw marks. The armor took the dominance of the Nordic armors and twisted it into Imperial full plate, capping off the figure with a helmet shaped as a skull. Its black cranium and twisted features of woe were only punctuated by the twin lights of blue that glowed within the two eye sockets of the helm.

The warrior's arm snapped at an odd angle, carrying with it a greatsword of night. The blade passed by the neck of the scum closest to the warrior, removing his throat. What followed was an execution that made the warriors and soldiers of the Thalmor look like children playing with wooden blades and sticks.

Iirelae wasn't a warrior, but she'd seen her father fight, and she'd always thought nothing could ever defeat him.

This warrior wouldn't defeat him. This warrior would slay her father with abominable ease that sent her stomach into spirals.

As the execution continued, the warrior slew the bandits in a succession of moves that reminded her of a masterful Triangle Chess player. When he released his left hand from the greatsword and turned to fleeing bandit, she thought he would let him escape. That thought left her as a blue mist coalesced in his left palm. A needle of ice grew and skewered the bandit back to chest.

The battle ended as the warrior ended the surviving bandit with a brutal kick that splattered himself and her in a rain of gore. He was obviously disgusted as he tried to remove the gore, only to smear it. Taking a seat across from her, the warrior used the fur rags that the bandits called armor as a rag to clean himself.

She decided to join him. Walking over to the bandit without a leg, she started removing some of his armor. It smelt like sweat, but it was better than being naked in this freezing tomb. She checked several other corpses and eventually found one that hadn't soiled themselves as they died. Putting on an inverted loincloth and fur skirt to preserve her dignity.

Finishing with collecting some garments for wear, she sat on a log and watched the warrior intently, before asking a question.

"Are you a Draugr?" Iirelae asked, her mind still catching up to events.

Carrow paused at the blunt question, before smiling, "Aye." He affirmed, "Took a right good nap before I woke up in this musty crypt. Wouldn't happen to know where we are, would you lass?" Carrow spoke in a rather well done accent that no-one would know in Tamriel. To Carrow he was speak and hearing in English, yet as him mouth moved and words left his mouth the Dream auto corrected his speech into Common Tongue.

Iirelae paused as she thought about the question, before answering. "I was apart of a Caravan that was headed for Whiterun from Dawnstar. We were attacked a mere few hours into our journey and the-" She paused to find the right words, "-journey to this crypt took a rough hour, likely less." After answering, she asked another question. "Why are you not attacking me?"

Tension grew in the tomb entrance, before being cut by Carrow. "Would you like me to?" He asked with a smirk.

"Ah." Iirelae was caught off guard by the question. "No?" It was more of a question than answer.

"Then I won't." Carrow nodded his head and took another sip of the rabbit stew. Silence stewed over for a bit, only broken by the bubbling of the stew and crackle of fire. "What's the date if I can't ask?"

"Um, 4E 201, its Morning Star, and its the uhh-" She paused using fingers and focus to count back the date, "-the tenth I believe." Carrow hummed, drumming his fingers on his thigh nodding as he went into deep thought.

'Shit, that like, THE date. Although I'm pretty sure the war also started in the same year, and Morning Star is the first month of the year, so the war is likely about to start or has already started.' Carrow thought. 'This body died in around 4E 194, or at least that how long my memories extended for. What do I do? Prevent the war? No, that's boring. Kill some Thalmor? That would be fun, maybe start another war with the Empire and Dominion? Nah, I'm getting ahead of myself, destiny and Dragon Breaks first. Kill Alduin, Slay Harkon, and generally stay the fuck away from Miirak, cause fuck that guy. Then there are my Drawbacks that I took. I didn't take Vigilant of Stendar, so I'm safe there until my nature starts getting rumors spread around, speaking of rumors.'

Carrow drew himself out of his introspection and lifted his hand to point it at the High Elf girl.

Lightning flashed between his fingers and a bolt of plasma obliterated her skull.

Completely ignoring the smoldering corpse he just created Carrow returned to his thoughts, 'Aight that's taken care of, now I did take the Black Sacrament, but I'm utterly immune to poison and bleed damage along with a massive Frost Magic resistance so most things that can kill a warrior I have resistances or immunities against.' Carrow nodded as he got up before looking at the now ruined stew with fragments of skull and blood inside of it. 'What a waste.'