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Diary of A. Unval
Sybille Stentor sent word yesterday that the mark has taken the bait. That he has agreed to purge this nest of vampires, us leeches, we unholy spawn of Bal. I had to be sure of his identity so I sent that little bat of hers back straight away. It returned early this morning. Yes, the Dragonborn is coming, the Last one, so they say. Red of hair and green of eye, and evil, a Nord brute who takes pleasure in death and blood. Even the darkest corners of the world have heard of him by now. For him, butchering a peasant and butchering a vampire are the same. But I am not condemning him, no, the bloodlust is both a symptom of what he is, and the finest proof.
I'm going to enjoy this, and that's beside the power I expect his blood to provide. It will be like drinking the blood of my Lord and that of Akatosh at the same time. Perhaps I will perish in the act, but what a death it will be! As mortal as the phrase is - I cannot wait. I'm having my coven prepare most carefully for the arrival of this demigod, prepare as no mortal has prepared for the arrival of one of their petty kings. There can be no mistakes, no accidents. If there is, either he will send us to Coldharbour, or his father will. Either way, our arrival in the afterlife will be most…unpleasant, should we fail, should I fail. A thousand years of working my way into the God of Brutality’s good graces cannot go to waste because I skimped on some exquisitely expensive ingredient.
First Day
How do you stop a dragon-in-mortal-form in his tracks long enough to drain his blood and turn him into one of you? By mixing together every paralytic found on Nirn and in Oblivion and throwing the resulting concoction in his face. Tough, and not only because he very likely will be wearing a helmet. These heavily armoured warriors, it's like winkling flesh out of the shell of a golem. I have brewed enough potion to keep him in a state of vulnerability until the disease, the curse, can take hold, as well as enough for what I have to do afterwards. But if it doesn't work the first time…well, Sybille may continue to reign as the supreme vampire in Haafingar, free of worry and extortion. No matter, I must do what I am ordered to do and be satisfied with the infallible assurances of the Lord of Domination.
Later
It worked, it worked, as the Corrupter said it would. The Dragonborn, oh so confident, wrapped in his steel and his power, entered my cave and walked face first into my trap. The helmet I feared would interfere instead left a large gap for his eyes, big green eyes. I learnt from my alchemy master eras ago that the eyes provide the quickest way to get a poison into a bloodstream. When the poison hit him in the face, the Hero of Ages came to a sudden stop. If I could have held my breath, I would have. Then he collapsed, stiff as a bull, barely missing cracking his thick skull on a rock. Moments later my coven had crawled forth from the shadows and was upon him, but none were to sink their teeth into his neck, that was to be my task alone. And a dangerous task it will be. I have a cage in my private quarters, where the victim awaits me. I hope its bars will prove strong enough. He will be weak, and hopefully unconscious for the majority. Dark Father…I go now to make another son for you. Twice over, in this case.
After
It is an intimate act, to sire. Flesh to flesh, soul to soul, it binds two souls together, and it is very difficult to stop oneself from taking every last drop of blood, especially when it is sanguine ambrosia in almost its purest form. Ash and fire, that was what washed over my tongue and burnt my throat when my fangs pierced thick skin and strong walled veins. Not flavours I have ever encountered before. It gave me visions of Coldharbour indistinct from Aetherius. Of dragons. Of a city of white stone sitting on a black secret drenched in an ocean of crimson. What these meant I would have to ponder, for years no doubt. But I have time.
Any gutter leech can pass on their curse with a glancing touch or a careless bite, but in order to create a vampire who would begin his undeath as more than just a leech, rigorous procedure has to be followed. Bite after bite, in intervals, then he must be given my blood to infuse infection in concentrated layers, to let the body adjust. Poor boy, his eyelids flickered and he groaned when my teeth pierced his flesh. If my heart could beat, it would pound. My child will heal, once the process is complete, and by then I hope to be out of his reach.
Second Day
The cursed infection is progressing, sending its tendrils into the Dragonborn’s flesh, seeding fever, turning it paler by the moment. It was naturally so to begin with, and afflicted by sunburn and freckles. Now it is paling past the point seen in any living man.
I find myself curious about my new son, sitting beside the cage for long hours, watching over him. I know his name, the one below the title, but it is not enough. I want to know everything. Siring does not make me sole father, for the Dark Lord is father of us all, but especially of the one whose blood fills my veins now. No, I am more lover than father, though my dark fascination is unrequited, and I do not doubt that the Dragonborn will attempt to kill me when he wakes. I will deserve it. I was promised glory and a seat at our Lord's High Court for attempting this audacity, this sacrilege. For placing this sword above my head.
Third Day
On the third day, as the sun sets outside, my son, my lover, died. But first, he woke, his eyelids flung wide, his breath coming in an awful gasp, the precursor to a death rattle. White as the snow that coats this country was his skin, making his hair even more like flame. Long and sharp were his teeth, adorable - he didn't know how to hide them yet. His eyes though, I mourned for them then, and mourn now. Their beautiful grass green is gone forever, replaced by burning red. Red. I tire of seeing that delicious colour in the eyes of all I know, but it is one of the things I must suffer for the boon of immortality.
He woke, and heaved himself to his feet, muscle rippling under that snow white skin, shuddering involuntarily at the bones and pieces of corpses that shared his cage with him. Before he could do what warriors do - roar and attempt to escape - I stepped forward, into the candlelight.
“How do you feel? That Sybille Stentor is quite the nasty one, isn't she, to send you to me? How…unkind.” I said. Cruel. I know how he felt. Like he was dying, feverish, in pain, like there was no strength left to speak even.
“Who are you and what have you done to me?” His words, raspy as those of Sithis, were just formulae. Preamble to ease the mind into its new reality. I could see in his eyes that he knew what I'd done. I saw him touch the wounds in his neck, then check his fingertips for blood.
“Who I am is not important, save that I am your sire. Moments from now you will die, and be reborn a Child of Night. It is a gift which the Lord of Darkness has given you, his Chosen, and for this task I too am to be richly rewarded.”
“Why should I be chosen?”
“There is a power resting in you, as you know. One the Dread Lord would make use of. Do not resist. There is no point attempting to defy the will of the daedra, down that way lies only eternal torment.”
I expected remonstration, pleas, threats. But none came. He made no attempt to shield himself from my gaze. Did not shrink back from the bars. The Dragonborn stared at me like I was the one in a cage, and I couldn't decide which father, Aedra or Daedra, his reptilian gaze descended from.
I turned, as if to leave. “A piece of advice from one much older than you. A mercy. Accept what has happened. It will be easier that way, trust me.”
He said nothing, but his breathing became yet more laboured. I stepped around the corner. A moment later a long moan and the crack of bone said he had fallen, and then came a horrible sound I have heard so often, and the breathing stopped, never to begin again. Whoever he was or might have been, was gone. It has been an age since I felt grief for anything, but twice now I felt its bitter stirrings in my dead heart. I do not know why. Perhaps it is solely selfishness. A powerful creature is valuable to me, valuable to my Master, so I could more easily experience the shadows of grief for their death.
But my task was not yet done. I had to release into the wild this monster I had created. Drug him before he awoke ravenous, and drag him out of the cave, then flee, flee as far away as I could. The task was accomplished by my coven, and for a final gift I slipped a note into the rags I dressed him in for this trip. In it I said the village of Dragon Bridge was his to prey upon, that I hoped we would meet on familial terms in the future, and that I looked forward to hearing of his further exploits, that the Defiler had his eye on him and expected greatness. I did not tell him who he was, the secret half of the parentage that was missing. I was saving that for later, if Bal himself did not reveal it. I told him he might devour my coven when he went to retrieve his gear, as they had grown envious of him and I had no more need of them.
Much later, when I was far away and again safe from the ravages of the sun, I wondered why he did not Shout me to pieces when we conversed? No doubt he was too weak, though I’d like to think it was more than that.
