Breath
Consciousness awoke to a strange rhythm of breathing, as though it filled the entire mind. It was so loud, so overwhelming.
And yet, the breath remained steady and calm—like a perfect clockwork mechanism, each piece in its place, each serving its purpose. Perhaps small, perhaps insignificant, yet vital, together they formed this… "Breath."
Velaris Drelis, once of House Telvanni, considered himself a skilled mage, an artificer, and above all, a man of will. Thus he was not surprised by his awakening—though later he would learn it had come far too soon—upon the… "Machine," as he chose to name the place-ship-organism.
He was met by the gaze of amber eyes. They belonged to an "octopus" of sorts, though closer in likeness to the servants of Hermaeus Mora than to anything Velaris had encountered in his wanderings through Oblivion. Its skin was gray—or perhaps violet; the darkness made it hard to tell. No fat, only bone and muscle on a lean frame. The skull stretched back unnaturally, the forehead protruding, as though the very brain itself pressed against the skin.
Eyes, hidden deep in the shadows of their sockets, flowed not into a nose but into four—perhaps six—tentacles that reached almost to the waist. Strange as it was, the sight no longer struck Velaris as unnatural; instead, it seemed almost normal.
The creature's armor—or clothing—resembled more a daedric cuirass of Kyne than anything else, emphasizing the head with shapes that mimicked tentacles stretching backward. The red material, veiled beneath a gray layer, draped around him like tendrils, forming curious "leaves." Velaris could think of no other word for it.
The "octopus" spoke no word, made not a sound—at least none Velaris could comprehend. It merely studied him, trapped as he was within some kind of cocoon-capsule. From the outside it seemed transparent, enclosing almost his entire body.
Behind the creature stood an egg-like reservoir, supported by gray chitin—the same material that made up the dark chamber around Velaris. The place was a vast hall, filled with strange vessels, capsules, or cocoons, and at its very center stood that reservoir.
The octopus-being drew something from the reservoir, letting it slip between its fingers. Velaris felt an immediate revulsion—whatever it was, it resembled a worm, squealing shrilly as it writhed in those long, sharp fingers.
He cursed inwardly that he had not been more diligent in adapting his schools of magic to this new Plane. Transposing the arcane arts into the reality of a new Realm was difficult enough, but tonal Dwemer magic—Sound and Resonance—was subtler still, almost impossible to carry across. And now its absence vexed him more than the cliff racers had during the waning years of the Tribunal's divinity.
The worm, bristling with countless tiny teeth, was pressed by the creature straight into Velaris's eye. Agonizing pain and shock followed, so violent that his very being began to fade. Even as he slipped into unconsciousness, he felt the loathsome squirming within his right eye, crawling deeper into the brain of this new body.
The last thing he remembered before the darkness claimed him was the shrill squeal of that foul little parasite, a sound he continued to hear even without awareness.
…
"And yet, this was no nightmare of Vaermina…" Velaris thought with a trace of sorrow as his eyes opened once more. He found himself staring at the same gray chamber, its walls fashioned of jagged, elongated chitin—more like the realm of Hermaeus Mora, where tentacles and other grotesque biological forms dominated every shape.
Given that the "Machine" upon which Velaris now found himself was a living organism, these could well be its natural features—though perhaps artfully cultivated by the Octopus-beings.
The world swam before his eyes, his mind unable to settle on a single thought. Then, through the haze, an intense orange glow emerged—a figure leaning lazily against the glass-thin chitin of his capsule-cocoon.
"Wasn't the chamber dark, lit only by amber gleam?" A more lucid thought surfaced, slow and heavy—only to be replaced at once by something sharper, brighter, and far more urgent.
The Machine was under attack. By something that breathed fire and roared loud enough to shake its living walls, striking blow after blow against its very flesh…
An explosion followed. Shards of chitin and torn red muscle slammed against Velaris's glass vessel. The left side of the hall collapsed, torn open by the blast, and through the jagged wound fire spilled inward. Smoke drifted out into whatever void lay beyond.
With great effort, Velaris managed to gather his scattered thoughts, his mind pulsing like a weary muscle. A bad sign—but one he pushed aside as new sights claimed his attention.
A swarm—red and dark—seethed before him. Living, with souls, if the faint whispers of Alteration he sent forth did not deceive him. The simple pulse of his own soul took half a minute to reach the swarm, and in that time one of the neighboring capsules cracked open, releasing…
It was hard to see. But Velaris caught flashes: green skin, too sharp ears for a mer, and a nose oddly set, jutting higher than he was used to. His shifting vision revealed gleams of metal armor, perhaps adorned with rubies, clinging to what was unmistakably a woman's form.
"More like an Orsimer than any mere elf…" Another fragment of clear thought broke through the fog. Velaris suspected the worm—that parasite lodged within him—for the strange connection, for he could feel its echo pulsing from within his own skull.
A distracted scan of his own body revealed it had nestled somewhere near the "crown" of his brain. No more details came—perhaps he simply ignored them as he watched the orcish warrior pry herself from the capsule. She first glanced at the burning breach, and then…
"Dovah?!" The panicked thought jarred Velaris to sudden clarity, just long enough to catch sight of a crimson dragon streaking past the broken wall.
"Cursed body! Useless, unfit to even lift an axe, let alone weave the threads of finer magics!" he cursed inwardly, striking feebly at the chitin-glass of his cocoon. He clawed for a mechanism, any means to open it from within—but of course, the device was not designed to free its prisoners. That was the point. The victims of flying tentacles were never meant to escape.
His blows were so weak they barely made a sound. Perhaps muffled by the wind, or by the roars of the crimson dovah. Within the cocoon, only a muted mix of noise reached his ears. His palms thudded silently against the glassy surface, lost in the greater chaos.
The green-and-silver warrior—his blurred sight painting her as a bright blot of color—drew a greatsword from her capsule. A gray, straight blade, glinting faintly. She did not even glance at the other pods, or perhaps Velaris's poor vision deceived him. She only paused to survey the burning chamber before charging toward some red blur in the depths.
"Daedric hybrid of Hermaeus's spawn and the Dwemer themselves!" Velaris swore, straining to call forth magic more complex than petty bursts of energy. He cursed the fool he had been two weeks ago, cast adrift in this strange new Plane of Reality, so far from Nirn.
Even then, he had begun to suspect the danger of shaping rituals and forging artifacts upon the broken teachings of the last Dwemer. The divine disease had scarred both Yagrum Bagarn's mind and his own—and Velaris now paid the price for it.
Alteration yielded nothing. The capsule was alive, immune to such childish probing. Illusion failed, for whatever mind the pod possessed—if any, thanks to the Octopus-beings—was beyond comprehension. Destruction was useless, his mastery too shallow to conjure more than fireballs, lightning, or crude drainings of vitality. Conjuration could not aid him without coordinates for the Machine, and the alien body denied him its pathways. Restoration was his weakest school, never studied beyond necessity.
Minutes slipped past—five, perhaps more—while Velaris tried everything he knew. At last, desperation drove him to one final attempt. His mind still drifted and swayed, pulsing as though he had drowned himself in Dagoth's strongest brews. But he no longer cared.
"My Tone may not be as pure or subtle as the Dwemer's, but if this really is some hybrid of their lost kind and these Octopus-beings…" The thought trembled through his hazy mind as he prepared for a most perilous and exotic form of magic.
The magic of Sound. The magic of the Tonal Arts. Even when taught directly by Yagrum Bagarn himself, the last of the Dwemer, Velaris had struggled to grasp its subtleties. To reproduce it now—in a Plane both like and unlike Nirn—was nearly madness.
And yet, to his surprise, the Tone emerged. Drawn from the very soul, carrying the vague command open, it resonated more easily than it ever had on Nirn. Too easily—simpler even than his attempts in the old body that had endured corprus, touched the Heart of Lorkhan, and grown mighty through relentless arcane pursuit.
Nevertheless, the tonal command worked. The wall of the capsule split, letting in fresh air—if air carrying the acrid tang of ash could be called such—into Velaris's lungs.
His body, still reeling from the parasite's ritual surgery, barely obeyed him. He collapsed ungracefully onto the hot chitin floor, warmed by distant flames.
He saw red sinews torn apart to his left, firelight spilling over the dark chamber of gray chitin growths, jagged walls, and strange clustered mounds whose purpose he could not guess.
On trembling bare feet, Velaris rose, finally noticing the sound of wind and fire—muted before by the ringing in his ears.
The corpses of the Octopus-beings lay burned, shriveled, almost fused with the chitin. A collapsed platform from the "second level" hung broken, while the only intact shape was the amber, egg-like reservoir—the source of the parasite-worms—surrounded by crude parodies of chitin "petals."
Clutching his aching chest, Velaris stepped carefully across the rough floor, drawing closer to the shattered reservoir. Within it floated the glowing shard of a chitinous column, still smoldering.
"Strangely reminiscent of Falmer design…" he thought, recalling the vanished race of mer who, in their despair, had turned to the Dwemer for salvation. Transformed into blind beasts, they were driven to inhabit caves and the ruins of their masters, building with materials that bore an uncanny resemblance to this chitin.
Such thoughts did not distract him from his inspection of the parasites and the reservoir's inner walls. Adapting Life Detection from Alteration, simplified for such small targets, Velaris sent out a pulse of primitive magic. It revealed what his eyes already suspected: all the worms were dead, the walls themselves crumbling before him.
"Most vexing… my pocket space is sealed, and I lack tools or containers to preserve these specimens," he muttered in frustration, rising from his knees and brushing the surface of the reservoir.
It collapsed inward instantly and exploded, flinging Velaris backward. The blast was small—perhaps mercifully so, or it might have ended him outright.
"Daedric spawn… sminggi," Velaris groaned, his voice rasping oddly like his former one—though it still felt unfamiliar in this new body. Staggering to his feet, he swayed as another tremor shook the Machine, his vision slowly sharpening as he searched for a way out.
"Is that… a sphincter?" The absurd thought broke his focus, leaving him frozen in disbelief. He had seen many grotesque and surreal landscapes in his travels across Oblivion, but this? Even Sheogorath, Prince of Madness, had not shown him anything quite so obscene… though Velaris admitted he might simply have chosen not to know.
Scanning the chamber once more, he noticed a shell-like structure lined with tentacles, their tips blunt and softened, glowing with a strange blue light. It was no magic he recognized, yet it carried no sense of hostility either.
Shaking his head, Velaris made his way toward the "exit," if such a living muscle could be called that. He paused only to search one of the Octopus corpses—but found nothing. No tools, no notes, no scraps of use. The tall, gaunt violet body lay in its armor, unmarked by any wounds Velaris could discern.
Cursing under his breath, he stepped into the opening muscle. It drew back to reveal another chamber, sealed behind him as he entered. At least this one was intact, sparing him the burning, ashen air that filled the halls outside.
The room mirrored the same grotesque style as the last: a semicircle of chitinous claws and tentacles, layered like grotesque vertebrae and petals stretching outward. To one side lay a blood-stained chitin "slab"—a table of sorts.
And upon it… the body of a goblin, or perhaps a scamp.
The small, light-brown body resembled a Scamp — one of the common creatures of Oblivion — far more than the green-skinned brutes of Cyrodiil.…Velaris understood well: the Machina, this colossal living vessel, was under assault by the crimson "dova" — dragons, no less dangerous than daedric beasts. And yet, curiosity would not let him pass by.
Drawing closer, he noticed a slab lying beside the body. The moment his hand touched its surface, his mind flared with visions.Structure, anatomy, the very essence of these "goblins," as they were called across many Planes, unfolded before him. Pain pierced his head like a sharp needle, but with it came knowledge. Upon the chitinous "petal"-table lay the dissected form of such a being.
Slowly, Velaris withdrew his hand from the black slab marked with pale blue-white symbols. And then his gaze caught on three more slabs — resting on the table to the left of the corpse.
The pain in his temples sharpened, and at the edge of his awareness a high-pitched voice whispered. Velaris pushed it aside, focusing instead on what truly mattered — the language and images carried within these "knowledge cells."
The Dwemer had possessed similar "slabs," though theirs were fashioned as cubes, read by their machines. That memory helped Velaris parse the flood of shifting images with relative ease.
"Githyanki… the race of that warrior woman…" He extracted the key fragment from the three slabs. Velaris was about to turn his attention to the strange crimson sphere when the voice returned — clearer now, high and soft:
"Go. Help us! Free us!"
It rang inside his mind, empty, stripped of the familiar resonance of any known magic. Not Alteration, not Illusion — something entirely other, both alike and unlike anything he had studied.
The call repeated, insistent. It came from above. Velaris realized that the platform beneath his feet had begun to ascend, lifting him toward the source.
The chamber revealed above was lit in crimson, its walls packed with oval spheres entangled in chitin. Within them floated brains, tendrils… and—
"An elf." Velaris observed coldly, circling. The body was grotesque: the upper skull gone, neither alive nor truly dead, its soul shifting and unstable. Caution held him at a measured distance as he studied it.
"Friend! Come. Free us!" — again that strange energy, so reminiscent of the Dwemer's tonal magic… Velaris could not at once determine its type or source. It radiated from the elf's brain, though—
"The brain is calling me?!" he noted with a flicker of surprise, circling the half-naked corpse. Elf or half-elf, Velaris could not yet tell the difference. His attention fixed on the pulsating brain, throbbing with that uncanny energy.
The force was invisible to the naked eye, yet Velaris could see and sense it through Alteration — each ripple striking his mind like a vibration across hidden strings.
"This magic, though similar, demands something more complex than mere surges — a method unlike the schools of Morrowind, Cyrodiil, or Skyrim… Is it more 'strict,' or 'impoverished'?" Velaris pondered, his gaze fixed on the nearly-split skull, from which the brain writhed like a worm.
"Save. Save us from this prison!" came the almost childlike voice again, clearer now with proximity. The brain quivered, trembling in excitement, like an over-eager child about to run off to play.
Velaris had questions, but… to ask this thing? Could it even answer? He hesitated.
"Quickly. Before they return! They will return. Dangerous! Painful!" the creature pleaded, its energy flavored with the same strange resonance as the tentacled "Octopi."
Velaris suspected it to be a kind of thrall — or perhaps a mutated familiar bred by these beings.
His hands carefully lifted the skull, while his mind raced through ways to extract the entity with the least harm. One of the first lessons any novice of Conjuration was taught: never engage in direct mental communication with a summoned being — or anything beyond the veil — without protection.
Not out of malice toward the entity, nor wizardly naiveté, but sheer precaution. Such a rule was meant to sink into a mage's very essence, to keep him alive during his experiments. Velaris could not shield himself from this "brain's" voice, nor gauge the limits of its influence, so he chose not to communicate further. Its emanations held no threat or command, only the humble plea of a laborer begging release.
Only after he had extracted the brain did Velaris, cautious not to startle the subdued creature, pour a trickle of his own magicka into it, placing a crude mark. Now he could attempt to command it — or harm it — should it turn against him.
Velaris cradled the elf's brain, studying the convulsing body it had left behind. But then, the thing slipped from his grasp, swelling abruptly to nearly twice its size. From its pulsing mass sprouted four spindly legs tipped with sharp black claws, and across its flesh dangled twitching tendrils like loose, writhing strings.
Velaris no longer heard the creature's exact words. He had sealed his mind behind a crude "mental shield," woven hastily from simple spells. It dulled the strange magic of words, allowing him to sense only intention and motive — or so he hoped — while parsing the "colors of speech" the thrall emitted.
The being called him somewhere. To a center, or perhaps to aid someone.
Velaris simply nodded, ignoring the harmless creature, turning his attention instead to the body before him. A simple Conjuration spell — one that should reanimate a corpse without disturbing the departed soul… It worked, though only halfway. The body twitched, struggling to obey, but without a brain it could do little more.
"Not even fit for a skeleton — the spell is too complex for me right now. Unless…" Velaris mused, leaning close. He released a pulse of dark-violet energy from his hands, spreading across the corpse.
In an instant, the body withered to ash, which swirled into Velaris's palms, bleaching his hands pale. Where once his skin had been dark-violet, it now bore a familiar ashen shade, faintly creeping up toward his forearms.
The thrall-brain, which had stood silently nearby, pulsed again with the same insistent plea. It wanted him to go — to act.
Velaris gave only a nod and followed, watching the creature's movements, noting its speed, posture, and the strength in its twitching limbs. He weighed his chances should it — or others like it — turn hostile.
They descended once more into the hall, moving toward a corridor nearly torn open, its walls ripped apart to reveal strange spires, gray mountains, and the same "black-crimson" storm-cloud of souls. A second presence stirred behind them—
Velaris whirled, unleashing a crack of lightning from his left hand toward the source, while his right gathered the ashen dust into a pale-violet sphere of Conjuration.
The lightning struck nothing. The attacker had leapt past him — a swift figure glimpsed only at the edge of vision. Velaris twisted back, dodging a familiar cleaving arc of a greatsword, his conjured sphere almost complete. He clenched his left hand, lashing out, trying to clip the nimble female form.
Gold-green eyes fixed on him, unflinching even as lightning hissed by. She watched every movement, every shift of his body, her blade cutting down again.
The violet sphere finally burst open — necrotic power spilling forth to shape a skeletal minion. Velaris's temples flared in pain, his untrained body strained by the effort of maintaining even this meager construct.
The "orc-woman's" pupils widened; she twisted her strike to parry the skeleton's claws. The clash bought Velaris only seconds. With three quick strikes she dismantled the conjure: severing its brittle wrist, then shattering ribcage and spine, scattering it back to ash. A final swing took the skull clean off. She turned her golden-green eyes back on Velaris.
He had retreated three paces, hands raised: his left weaving a crude Calm, his right compressing flames into a Firebolt, hoping to strike her head—
Pain pierced his skull. His spells unraveled. The same agony struck the warrior woman — her charge faltered, driving her to one knee.
Velaris could have pressed the advantage, torn the blade from her grasp, or thrown her down. But he was no better off. His mind vibrated, thrumming with the same resonance he had sensed from the thrall-brain and the slabs of knowledge.
"A parasite," came the last flash of clarity before alien visions drowned his sight.
A raid. Another strike against the hated ghaik…
Green hands, armored in the steel of her people, carving through enemies, soaking her frame in blood.The wing of a dragon — its fire searing a ghaik ship as it tore her free.A silver blade…A dark-violet face, white-haired, with piercing blue eyes. Battle. Surprise. Necromancy. Pain—
The vision ended. Velaris opened his eyes once more.
"Like the dreams and visions of Vaermina's cult…" flickered a stray thought as he studied the githyanki warrior clutching her head.
A yellow-hued face. Brown hair pulled into a knot, adorned with silver trinkets. Black lines arced beneath her eyes, framing tear-shaped markings. Across her brow, pale brown spots trailed inward, almost to the bridge of her nose. A sharp nose, tipped upward, scarred along the left side and through the line of her red lips. Long, pointed ears — dark yellow, ridged with small spines of flesh — completed the strange, unfamiliar visage of the githyanki.
"Tsk-va. You… you are not a slave," the githyanki exhaled, quickly regaining her breath. Her voice was hoarse, yet surprisingly feminine. She swayed slightly but rose with remarkable vigor, still gripping the hilt of a plain-looking claymore — the kind Velaris had seen sold in the markets of the city he had visited.
"Then it will be easier for us to escape the ghaik ship together." Golden eyes swept over Velaris once more, her tone more commanding than suggesting. Velaris was familiar with such manners, and if what he had just seen were indeed her memories…
"That would certainly be better than simply killing each other." Velaris nodded, recalling the thrall that had frozen a few steps behind the githyanki. "And what made you think otherwise?" He crossed his arms, pulling back the threads of his magic while watching the rushing scenery outside.
Velaris was glad that somehow he could understand the languages of the peoples of this Plane, but since his first day here he had marked a note for himself — to discover the reason for this strange, instantaneous comprehension. Written words, however, remained meaningless to him.
"Parasites." The githyanki tapped her temple. "We have ghaik parasites in our heads. They will turn us into one of them." Her tone sharpened as she caught his gaze. "If we don't escape, if we don't cleanse ourselves, our fates will end — our bodies and souls twisted into unholy transformation." She added, seeing something flicker in his eyes, "We have only days to find salvation."
She glanced back for a moment, eyeing the thrall-brain that had followed them. "If we don't rid ourselves of these parasites, we will become ghaik. Illithids." Her face betrayed real emotion, vivid and unrestrained.
"Once we're out of here, I might be able to examine these larvae and try to pull them out," Velaris said, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. "I'm a mage. My main field of study is the body, sensation, and dealings with the otherworldly. A rather good one, mind you." He smiled faintly, a nervous laugh escaping as he caught a fleeting twitch on the githyanki's face. "But for now, we need to get out. Do you know how to escape this flying machine?"
The githyanki nodded, immediately turning and pointing toward the far end of the ship.
"We must reach the nautiloid's helm. There, we can use the ship's nerves to escape this place," she said curtly, her expression twisting as she glanced at the thrall. "This creature…" she hissed, glaring down at Velaris, standing half a head taller than him.
"It grew right before my eyes. It's supposed to lead us somewhere — 'to help,' or so it believes." Velaris explained, already studying the next chamber. Inside were red-skinned goblin-like creatures. Six winged imps fluttered about, shrieking as they tore into human corpses.
"It thinks we're slaves," the githyanki muttered. "As long as it fights with us, let it. It will be useful." Her golden eyes narrowed on the group ahead. "Imps," she added.
"Hostile?" Velaris smirked faintly, earning an irritated nod. "Then let's begin." With ease, he conjured firebolts in both hands. The githyanki raised her claymore again.
"Velaris," the elf spoke quietly, launching two flaming projectiles at the nearest imp. The first struck its head, making the creature shriek in pain, its jaws opening wide just in time for the second bolt to sear straight into its throat, killing it instantly.
"Lae'zel," the githyanki answered in turn, stepping toward the creatures. "Htak-a!"
And she charged the enemy, her warcry rising above the uneven shrieks of the remaining imps.
But Lae'zel did not see the strange mage falter. Perhaps he used the most primitive spells, but they were enough to deal with two imps and aid his companion — Lae'zel.
"You can hold your own." Lae'zel nodded, lowering her blade and sheathing it. "Commendable for your kind." She allowed a touch of praise into her voice, which, it seemed, went unnoticed by the drow.
"Dunmer are dangerous and versatile, ser-a Lae'zel," Velaris replied in kind, a faint smile lingering on his face. His eyes — blue, unusual for a drow — glimmered with strange energy that Lae'zel could not quite place. Shaking her head, she quickly found the path onward, leading her companion forward.
"'Dunmer'? What sort of name is that, elf?" Lae'zel grimaced slightly, letting out some of her pent-up stress.
"Is that not how the people of Morrowind are named in your tongue?" Velaris's eyes widened briefly before he composed himself again — commendably so. "It seems my dialect and homeland are far more distant than I thought," he mused, gripping the illithid walls as he climbed the living structure. "What do you call my people, then?" he asked, his tone strange, slightly irritating Lae'zel.
"You are drow. A people of cruelty and barbarism," Lae'zel nearly spat, but forced herself under control. "A race serving your foolish goddess, blind to a more civilized, proper way, trapped beneath the earth in fear of the sun and your enemies, like worms unworthy of honor." She spoke as if lecturing a dim-witted child. She saw only incomprehension in his eyes, a lack of knowledge that angered her even more.
Yet her words did not seem to trouble him in the slightest. He only nodded thoughtfully, climbing the ship's fleshy "vine" clumsily, grimacing at the stench of burning flesh.If this drow is even half as capable as his people's nature suggests, he might survive — and be of use to me, Lae'zel thought, walking behind Velaris, trailing just after the intellect devourer, ready to dispose of either should the need arise.
…
Velaris Drelis. A Dunmer who had become a Drow, torn with mixed feelings about it.
"Four thinking beings ahead, along with several thralls," Velaris raised his palm to halt the group. His gaze pierced forward, where he perceived — or perhaps sensed — faint gray wisps, more like points, and dimmer white ones.
He had learned to distinguish them thanks to Lae'zel's example: she appeared as a gray silhouette, while the brain-creature behind them glowed white. If there was any good in his abduction by these mockeries of Hermaeus Mora's servants, it was the extreme practice in spell schools — though it came at no small cost to his body.Just like the days of his wanderings through all of Vvardenfell…
"Are you certain?" Lae'zel asked darkly, standing at the rear to close their makeshift column. They were in a tunnel, a living organ of the nautiloid's body.
"More than certain," Velaris nodded, using simple breathing techniques to channel his soul's magic, whether for better or worse.
He had already regretted ten times over not studying Restoration beyond the bare minimum — especially coming here unprepared, without considering the possibility of losing his body and being forced into a new one.
"Can you sense what lies in the helm, if…?" Lae'zel scanned the living corridor, more recalling familiar patterns than actually seeking details. "If this ship is like the ones I know, then the control center should be close." She frowned, her gaze fixed on Velaris's back, occasionally flicking to the mind flayer spawn walking beside him.
Velaris did not answer at once. Closing his eyes, he tried again to send out a pulse of Alteration… Four thinking souls nearby, along with darting white wisps of intellect devourers, gathered in the very next chamber. Beyond that… northeast of them lay a much larger room, judging by the cluster of beings within. Several illithids, floating anthropoid squids radiating an energy eerily similar to what Velaris felt from himself and Lae'zel, when their parasites… connected?
"Several of these 'ghaiks' northeast of us, accompanied by beings clearly stronger than those red-skinned goblin flyers. Thinking ones, too." Velaris grimaced, sensing something from the red shapes… something wrong. Worse, somehow, than daedra. "I can't say the exact number, but among them are creatures like those we've already fought — and others besides."
Lae'zel muttered a curse in her own tongue but said nothing more. The intellect devourer shifted impatiently on its legs, sending Velaris alone — if he read the pulse of violet energy correctly — the urge to move forward.
As they advanced through the tunnel, blocked at the rear by rubble, they came to another… muscle-door. As it peeled open, Velaris and Lae'zel stepped inside. The brain-creature he did not even count as sentient scurried in with them. The chamber before them was… almost pleasing to Drelis.
"Looks like a research laboratory," Velaris nodded, slowly approaching a strange fleshy "console." Glowing with brain-like nodules, it sprouted pairs of fleshy "cables," if he had the dwemer terminology right.
To their right, another shell emitted a blue glow with pale tendrils. Further still, another table — Velaris spotted a new tile there at once. At the chamber's center rose a strange spire with a round top, a tube-trunk bleeding something red into a sphere, from which long spikes stretched, each as tall as his leg.
The sharp column was surrounded by four chitinous chairs. In two of them, to the left of the entrance, lay bodies—motionless, showing no signs of life—yet within them still flickered souls… in some strange form.
"Ghithyanki machines… never make any sen—" Lae'zel nodded, scanning the chamber and keeping their thrall within sight. But her words were cut off by a sudden cry, echoing from further into the hall, off to their left.
"Damn it, shit!" came the voice from another illithid pod, this one encircled by strange red runes, swirling around it like living flame. Inside, a dark-haired woman in armor pounded her fists against the glass cocoon."Cursed filth!" she shouted, striking the vessel again and again.
Drelis cast another glance at the strange panel—its chitinous design matching the rest of the ship—and slowly began moving toward the rune-lit pod.
"What are you doing?! We don't have time for anyone else—the ship is under attack!" Lae'zel hissed loudly, though she still followed the elf. "If we don't hurry, we'll be buried along with it…!"
"She wears armor, and this pod holds a weapon," Velaris replied evenly, already preparing to call upon Illusion magic to improve his odds of survival. "Even if she cannot fight, in the worst ca—" He was cut off by the very woman they spoke of, whose pointed ears became visible as they drew closer.
"You! Please, help me out of this filth, I beg you!" cried the elf woman, her voice distorted by the pod. Her green-gold eyes pleaded with Velaris and Lae'zel—until recognition flickered in them. Her pupils widened, her tone shifting from desperate to cautious. "There's a panel nearby. I saw those creatures do something with it…" She nodded leftward, toward a chitinous device almost identical to the one by the entrance.
"We cannot waste time figuring out some strange contraption, especially—!" Lae'zel snapped, glaring into Velaris's eyes, which refused to meet hers. "Are you even listening to me?!" she roared, baring her teeth in fury.
"Please!" the elf woman cried again, her muffled voice carrying fragile hope as she looked out from the pod's edge at Drelis's figure.
Velaris gave no answer, his focus fixed on the contraption before him—a bizarre thing he could not call anything but machinery.
Something between Dwemer mechanisms, the trinkets of mages, the machinery of the Kyn, and the twisted crafts of the Falmer… he thought, reaching out and brushing the panel with hesitant magic, dragging the energy painfully from his body.
"Hurry!" Lae'zel barked, glancing back at the waiting intellect devourer while keeping wary eyes on the prone bodies and the skittering brains darting through the chamber.
The device clearly responded to that strange energy. Perhaps this orb was its key… Even the parasite—ahh! Velaris's thoughts were cut short by pain, not in his flesh but in his mind. The tadpole writhed, squirming with revolting insistence, bringing not only discomfort but also…
An intoxicating sense of power.
Velaris… Something wanted him to release the parasite's pulse—to let his mind command.
Clutching his brow, Velaris gritted through the ache, forcing himself to resist that alien compulsion, focusing instead on past experience with illithid pods.
Last time, the Tone worked. If I assume they are similar… His thoughts drifted sluggishly, as though each was dragged beneath the parasite's weight.
But through sheer will and a veil of Illusion magic, Velaris managed to lull the parasite into stillness. Its writhing ceased, and the elf finally exhaled in relief.
"How much longer?!" Lae'zel snarled, hand already on her blade's hilt, the leather strap across her shoulder holding it firm in place.
"Half a minute," Velaris hissed, bracing his hands on the panel and wiping the sweat from his brow. "…damned n'wahs…" he muttered, forcing himself to steady his mind with Dwemer meditations.
Intent formed, command shaped: OPEN. He thrust the thought not into the orb but into the device itself, trusting Dwemer magic to find the way.
A low laugh escaped Velaris as the heavy air—thick with the stench of burning flesh and metal—filled his lungs. Then, with a hiss, the pod's lid opened. The elf woman tumbled out onto the floor. Instinctively, Velaris reached forward, helping her up, recalling too well the weakness of such confinement.
"Thank you…" she murmured, clutching his hand as she steadied herself. "Let me… let me take my gear, and I will be ready to move." She pointed toward a small pack, slinging it over her shoulder. From inside the pod she retrieved—
Velaris narrowed his eyes.
The elf produced a dark polyhedron etched with glowing orange runes. She grasped it tightly, almost protectively, before stowing it swiftly into a pouch at her side.
"I am Shadowheart. A cleric." She nodded to Velaris, who returned a sluggish nod of his own. His dunmer—no, drow—eyes flicked over her figure, noting every detail.
Long black hair, tied into a tail bound with silver in the shape of a flower. Small ties wove the tail into a thin braid, while a silver circlet with a dark gem crowned her brow. A sharp chin, high cheekbones, and a refined nose marked her features; across her right cheek ran a horizontal scar. Her dark-lined brows and green-gold eyes shifted warily, first to Velaris, then to Lae'zel. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
She was shorter than Velaris by several spans—though the difference was hardly notable.
A violet tunic lay beneath a steel chain shirt, covered by a brown vest reinforced with a steel plate patterned in intricate rings and half-circles. At its center gleamed a golden emblem—sun, or perhaps a setting sun. Matching ornate pauldrons adorned her shoulders. Brown bracers, a knight's battle-skirt of chain and violet fabric with gold trim, and well-worn boots completed her attire.
A battlemage? Velaris was hardly versed in the ranks of the Imperial Legion or the Justiciars of the Thalmor. Perhaps this Shadowheart truly could contribute in battle.
"Velaris. Mage of House Te—" He grimaced as another wave of pain struck his skull. The damned parasite—Shadowheart seemed to have one as well, for she clutched her head too, violet energy radiating from her brow just like Lae'zel.
Visions came in flashes. Strange walls. A mission. Others. Brothers and Sisters.The task. An artifact.Githyanki who had not yielded what was demanded.Battle, theft, and…
This time the images were fleeting. Only Lae'zel frowned as the two elves struggled to catch their breath.
"…It's good to meet someone who shares your fate." Shadowheart's lips curved faintly, her gaze shifting toward the githyanki's back. "…And what name does that githyanki go by?" she asked more coldly, her earlier smile gone.
"There is no time for idle chatter—the clock runs out!" Lae'zel barked, finally turning to meet the freed cleric's eyes. "We must reach the ship's helm and switch its nerves, or we'll be buried alive!" Her teeth flashed as she snarled, nodding toward the muscle-door at the far side of the chamber.
"And who gave you the right to command?" Shadowheart's brow creased, her hand brushing the mace at her hip.
"If you want to escape alive, you will follow my orders," Lae'zel hissed, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "If not, you may rot here." Her lips twisted in a thin smile as Shadowheart flinched.
"You know that unless we get these things out of our hea—" Shadowheart began, only for Velaris's voice to cut her short.
"…The helm is under assault," Velaris said, his tone sharper now, eyes fixed on the far wall. "Whoever it may be." He shrugged, earning Lae'zel's nod of approval and Shadowheart's confused glance.
"You can sense life?" Shadowheart asked slowly, studying Velaris as though seeing him for the first time. "Forgive me, but you hardly seem like someone who could… be a proper mage. Especially as a drow." Her brow arched as her eyes lingered first on his worn shirt, then his face.
"What's wrong with being a drow?" Velaris asked earnestly, meeting now two puzzled stares.
The newborn intellect devourer waited patiently at Drelis's side.
"…You mean you truly don't know that the Underdark drow raid villages, slaughter innocents, and sacrifice survivors to their spider goddess?" Shadowheart asked as if speaking to a fool—or a child. Her brows rose, her eyes narrowing into his thoughtful gaze. "A cruel culture. Harsh laws. Hatred for all others. It does little for your people's reputation."
"So that's why they ran—or called the guard…" Velaris mused aloud, stroking his chin.
…
Shadowheart, cleric of her goddess, recently freed alongside a drow and a githyanki. She knew much was missing from her memory. It was her mission, her burden. But to forget even the simplest truths, things even an infant would know with its mother's milk?
Her eyes scrutinized this so-called "mage." A hedge-wizard at best, not a true practitioner schooled in the arcane arts. No proper robes, no mark of tutelage—just a self-claimed sorcerer wearing rags.
Shadowheart's gaze fell once more on his shabby garb: a plain shirt, loose trousers that barely reached his ankles. She could more easily believe he'd been born with raw magic, cast out from his dark city by some matron, or perhaps fled as a deserter, lying boldly about his status—rather than…
"The drow can conjure lightning and raise skeletons," Lae'zel declared, arms folded, her tone dripping with defiance toward the cleric. "His fire slew several imps in an instant, and his mind-magic shattered the rest." She smirked at Shadowheart with insolent pride.
"…I don't doubt a hedge-wizard could manage as much. What I meant was—" Shadowheart waved irritably, only to be interrupted once more by the strange drow.
"We must move, or the illithids will be overrun… whoever is assaulting them." Velaris's face tightened as his eyes flicked to the walls beyond.
"Finally, a sensible thought." Lae'zel nodded in satisfaction, her tone making Shadowheart's cheek twitch. She fell in beside Velaris, her gaze sliding warily to the githyanki trailing just behind them—and to the intellect devourer skittering after.
"What does that say?" Velaris asked absently as they passed the main panel opposite the entrance.
"…'Activate,' it seems…" Shadowheart replied slowly, trying to make sense of the strange, unfamiliar script."Ghithyanki machines, never—" the githyanki muttered again, trailing off when Velaris suddenly pressed his hand against the strange orb-like button.
Nothing seemed to happen at first, but Shadowheart… she felt it—deep in her mind, likely through the parasite—a familiar surge of energy.
"So… these bodies are alive?" Velaris asked thoughtfully, stepping closer to the reclining forms."As alive as they can be, given their condition," Shadowheart replied, walking beside him and quickly noting their faint, shallow breaths.
"What now?" Lae'zel barked impatiently, still doing her part by keeping the illithid thrall in her line of sight."I want to try something…" Velaris whispered, his hands beginning to glow with green light.
A few gestures later—nothing happened. Then again—nothing.
Shadowheart, once more, could only watch this strange drow in bewilderment. This self-proclaimed mage—who was most likely just a sorcerer—was he… trying to invent a spell? Even she knew that to cast magic one needed…
Suddenly, one of the bodies flickered with faint green light, a thin veil covering it—only to vanish almost at once, drowned out by Velaris's quiet curse.
"What are you doing…?" Shadowheart finally asked, eyes darting from the man's body back to the drow."'Barkskin,' or a shielding spell—meant to grant protection from—" Velaris cut himself short, seemingly searching for words to describe the denizens of the Hells, when Lae'zel's growl sliced through the air.
"Devils! Demons or Devils are storming the command deck—the only way we survive this vessel!" Lae'zel snapped, spitting every word. Even Shadowheart… had to agree.
Could a drow truly not know what mothers—even among their cruel kind—use to frighten their children to sleep? They still hadn't spoken of it, and though Shadowheart hardly thought herself the best judge, even her own memory lapses weren't this severe.
"Thank you, Lae'zel," Velaris said simply, as if ignoring the venom in her words. They truly had no time to waste—and this drow…
Another flash of green light. Another flicker of the barkskin veil—yet this time it lingered, faintly shimmering.
"…Should last half a minute, maybe a little more," Velaris muttered, wiping sweat from his brow before dabbing at his nose to catch a bead of blood. "…Daedric body… That will do! Let's move!" He straightened at once and strode quickly toward the far exit.
Shadowheart, ignoring his strange curse, hurried after him, touching his shoulder and whispering softly—"Take Cure."
The words of a simple healing prayer left her lips, and Velaris exhaled in relief. His blue eyes found hers, gratitude glowing in them."Thank you, ser-ah," Velaris nodded, while Lae'zel gave a sharp, disdainful snort.
"We…" Velaris dragged the word, turning toward the githyanki."Further down this passage. There should be a way through," Lae'zel said curtly after a few steps. "What is this 'Barkskin,' and what does it do for me?" she asked flatly, forcing even Shadowheart to nod in curiosity.
"It should shield against the claws of those red flying goblins…" Velaris murmured, still staring at the wall, his glowing eyes radiating some strange energy."Imps," Shadowheart gently corrected."…Shield from claws and possibly their fire," Velaris continued, his eyes dimming for a brief moment. "…It might even stop an arrow—bruise instead of piercing flesh. Against armor, the shaft should simply glance off." He nodded at his own reasoning, moving forward.
"I don't like the word 'should,' drow," Lae'zel snapped, and Shadowheart found herself silently agreeing. Velaris sighed."The spell was altered. My body hasn't yet adapted to this strain and flow of magical currents," he said, as though it were obvious. "Normally, my effects last far longer and stronger—but after the abduction, my strength is greatly diminished."
Shadowheart's doubts only grew. This "sorcerer" was clearly self-taught, his metamagic far too unstable, too improvised…
They reached another red, fleshy door, beside which hung a chitinous pod glowing with blue light. Shadowheart had heard such things could mend wounds, but who in their right mind—unless an illithid—would willingly touch a foreign source of power aboard their vessel? She was almost relieved their so-called mage hadn't dared approach it.
"Will this hinder you in battle?" Lae'zel asked in her clipped, steady voice, eyeing both the entrance to the command deck and her two companions."No," Velaris answered firmly, his voice detached. "I'll need a minute, maybe two, to prepare three spells. I'll cast them as soon as we're inside."
"What's the situation in the command deck?" Lae'zel demanded, her hand already resting on her sword hilt, much to Shadowheart's displeasure.
Why was this githyanki leading, when their mage—?
"Battle," Velaris said tensely, closing his eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and green light flickered across his trembling hands.
Even here, several strides away, amid constant tremors, the stench of smoke and scorched flesh was joined by faint cries of pain, curses, and the wet tearing of bodies. Shadowheart's grim experience recognized those sounds all too well.
"…In the far part of the chamber, there's…" Lae'zel's stern gaze swept over both Shadowheart and Velaris with a hint of disdain, much to the priestess's irritation. "Another panel—like the one before—but this one has… the same tendrils as that pod." She pointed to the blue-glowing appendages.
Shadowheart seethed inside—"Does this toad think us children?!"—but she dared not interrupt what might prove vital.
"Connect the two central nerves, the largest, with the highlighted middle lines between them." Lae'zel traced across her yellow palm, as though lecturing infants. "Whoever reaches the panel must link and pull them both together. The nautiloid will then drag us back into the material plane." Her eyes locked strictly on Shadowheart's scowl and Velaris's detached nod.
Her gaze lingered on Shadowheart, who felt… uneasy under such reptilian scrutiny.The priestess gave a curt nod, turning away and drawing her flail. Shadowheart followed suit, pulling the weapon from her belt. Velaris stepped closer, raising his hands, green translucent cubes of energy—some large, some small—forming between his fingers.
The Intellect Devourer, as if awakened, scuttled ahead, clearing their path into the command deck…
Shadowheart whispered a short prayer.
…
Velaris Drelys, focused.Their small band stepped into what was not a battle—but a slaughter.
Before the former Dunmer unfolded a grotesque sight: the servants of Hermaeus Mora locked in deadly combat, wrapping their tentacles around daedra, crunching through skulls, leaving red-skinned corpses with gaping wounds where brains once were.
The so-called "Dremora" themselves… Winged, horned of varying length, towering, muscular red-skinned humanoids clad in strange dark crimson armor, wielding flaming swords or long trident-spears.
Velaris could not be certain, but the pair of "Devils" armed with fireblades clearly possessed finer equipment—officers, perhaps, compared to their poorer-armed kin.
They clashed with the Illithids and their thralls—pitiful humanoid slaves who threw themselves upon the spears, giving others the chance to swarm the Devils, or allowing a single Illithid to seize and slay a demon.
Yet the battle leaned heavily against the tentacled ones. There were only three or four Illithids, while nearly a dozen Devils pressed them, forced toward the flanks of the chamber.
Velaris felt the sharp mental order from the nearest Illithid, directing them toward the far side of the hall, where most thralls were gathered—now torn apart by strange beasts… bears, boars? Demon-boar-bears and imps, as Velaris named them in haste, unwilling to waste thought.
He let a weakened Oakflesh spell flow over his companions, wrapping himself in its bark-like shell as well. A minute, perhaps a minute and a half of improved survival—if his ragged breath was any measure.
Curiously, their accompanying mind-thrall had not moved, as though awaiting Velaris's intent… or simply following its implanted command to reach the helm as swiftly as possible, striking only if attacked.
"Forget the Devils and the demons—we must break through to the nodes!" hissed Lae'zel, her eyes glancing at the green sheen Velaris had cast. She spared a look at the once-Dunmer mage, to which Velaris merely nodded, crackling a simple lightning bolt in one hand and a fire dart in the other.
Shadowheart took her place at Velaris's back, eyes scanning the chaos of battle.
The Illithids wasted no time—strange waves of psychic energy hurled Devils aside, halted flying red-skins mid-charge, and plucked spears out of the air with a flick of their hands. Meanwhile their mind-thralls, with whatever arms the slaves possessed, hacked at demons. At times they even succeeded—some Devils fell, whether frozen by psionic grip or wounded by blades.
Lae'zel was the first to leap, charging a flitting imp. Her greatsword, carried by sheer momentum, cleaved the shrieking creature in half before it could do more than wheeze a death-rattle.
She spun, shifting her weight in a fluid motion to parry the blade of another diving imp, hurling it back into a Devil already marked by an Illithid's hand. Both exploded into gore as the squid-faced being cast a fleeting glance at Velaris's group—then turned back to hold the tide of demons.
Lae'zel moved as though in a deadly dance. She never seemed to stop, always in motion, each turn and swing of her blade flowing into a whirlwind that left no opening for imps, demon-bear-boars, or even some of the more poorly armed Devils to wound her seriously.
Velaris's spell held, turning what should have been gashes and cuts into bruises or shallow wounds—painful, yes, but nothing that slowed the githyanki in her battle-frenzy.
Velaris and Shadowheart kept pace behind her, though they could not match the warrior's ferocity.
Crossing the chaos of the hall, Velaris unleashed "primitive bursts"—slaying imps with crackling flashes of lightning or fire darts. His spells were less refined weapons of sorcery than blunt force, smashing skulls rather than searing flesh.
Shadowheart followed close, shielding the mage—deflecting stray strikes or crushing onrushing imps with her mace. When greater demons swung at them, she called out words of prayer, casting golden light that blasted or stunned the towering red-skinned figures. Mind-thralls and slaves with crude arms fell upon the staggered fiends to finish the work.
Their own thrall had long since vanished into the fray, swept toward Lae'zel and lost from sight, swallowed by the press of nearly identical creatures.
Halfway across the hall they reached the slaughter of slaves.
The fifth Illithid revealed itself there, clad in the most ornate and intricate armor Velaris had yet seen. It battled the largest demon of all, the two locked in a brutal struggle, surrounded by the hacked remains of octopus-faced kin, the scorched corpses of thralls, and the crushed brains and clawed limbs of other monstrosities—adding even fouler stench to the battlefield's cacophony.
Lae'zel froze, almost as if snapping back to awareness. She held her battle stance, ready to strike or defend at any instant, yet now she faced an opponent beyond their reach. Around them, nothing remained to distract the Devil.
She cast a fleeting, almost nervous glance at Velaris and Shadowheart, who had just arrived. At the sight of the duel between the two towering figures, Shadowheart quickly seized one of the discarded wooden shields reinforced with steel. Her stance wavered for a moment, uncertain—until she adjusted to the weight and balance of the shield, her movements settling.
Velaris, however, focused on something else.
He saw both monsters were grievously wounded, each at the edge of exhaustion. Their strikes had lost speed and strength, far less fearsome than the blows exchanged by the fighters they commanded.
We have a chance, but… The thought flashed through Velaris's mind as he exchanged a look with his companions. He never knew what triggered it, but—
Their parasites surged with energy.
This time there was no stabbing headache. Instead, Lae'zel and Shadowheart instantly grasped Velaris's intent.
Lae'zel smirked, Shadowheart gave a satisfied nod, her lips curving upward. Velaris only drew a deep breath, beginning to weave his spells. The protective green veil of his magic still clung to them all, half a minute of safety left at most.
Time slowed further—just enough. Velaris fixed his gaze on the demon's blade and the Illithid's writhing tentacles. He had to catch the perfect moment.
A sudden rush of warmth filled him. Shadowheart had cast a blessing upon him—then another—fortifying his strength, readying herself to mend his wounds.
Lae'zel stood at his side, preparing to dash forward, her blade raised to cut down the swarming imps circling above. Ten, twenty, thirty—perhaps even forty—buzzed in the air, a splinter of the vast swarm that still darkened the skies.
Velaris drew another breath. The demon's massive arm lifted its flaming claymore high, ready to cleave downward, while the Illithid gathered violet energy for a devastating blast.
A heartbeat, and everything froze.
Lae'zel leapt first, her greatsword hacking into the Illithid's legs, then slashing the demon's. Caught unprepared, the mind flayer faltered, collapsing to one knee as the roaring demon crashed onto both.
Velaris thrust out his hand, wrenching free his own magic—and the strength of others—to unleash a crude telekinesis. The flaming claymore tore free of the demon's grip, hurled skyward.
The Illithid released its violet wave, searing flesh and snapping horns from the demon's skull, its roar shifting from fury to pain. The blade spun through the air, seized by Velaris's will. Sweat poured down his face, blurring his vision.
With a cry, Lae'zel seized the claymore mid-flight, driving it into the demon's exposed throat before kicking off its body. Blood sprayed as the fiend clawed wildly for her, but—
Somehow, she twisted in the air, wrenched the blade from its neck, and flung it straight into the Illithid. Shadowheart's prayers rang out—first mending Velaris, then summoning a golden orb that slammed into the mind flayer.
Velaris poured every last shred of strength into the spinning claymore. The flaming weapon tore through the Illithid's chest. It staggered, clutching the burning hilt, its flesh seared as choked cries escaped it. With another wrench of Velaris's hand, the blade ripped upward, biting through armor and into the creature's throat. Its eyes rolled back. The body collapsed.
Velaris blinked, swiping sweat from his face—only to be shoved by a falling corpse, stumbling forward to keep his footing. Turning his head, he saw Shadowheart block a jeering imp's dagger with her shield, the clang deafening in his ears.
Exhaling sharply, Velaris summoned green light to his hands once more, translucent cubes swirling about his palms. His body lightened, faster now, and he sprinted toward the nerve-panel.
One step, two—breaking from Shadowheart's side as she swung her mace, sparing him a glance. Three steps more, and he was halfway across the chamber, near the bodies of both fallen monsters. The Illithid was dead. The demon still breathed, though faintly, blood pouring from hideous wounds that exposed torn muscle.
Lae'zel fought the imps snapping at her, her blade dulled and heavy with demon-blood.
A strike. Another. An imp's skull burst beneath Shadowheart's mace.
Pain. A quarrel from a sneering imp's crossbow slammed into her. The green ward flared, softening the strike against her armor. The bolt pierced her shoulder, shallow but bloody—painful, yet not crippling.
Velaris heard her cry a spell. The imp's laughter ended. He kept running.
A shadow loomed—he ducked instinctively. Steel scraped his flesh. His jaw clenched, ignoring the imp's blade. A crude dagger from Lae'zel struck the grinning fiend down. She took cuts of her own, curses hissing between her teeth, swinging her claymore more like a club than a sword.
Velaris glanced at his side—no bleeding, only a dark bruise. The ward had broken, scattering in fading sparks. He kept going, three long strides bringing him to the nerve-panel, lungs burning, breath ragged.
Velaris's eyes darted across the mass of writhing tentacles, searching for those that matched the description… He found them at the center—larger than the rest. Reaching out, he sought to connect them.
A tremor. The ship shuddered violently, knocking Velaris off balance for a moment. He did not look toward the massive dov, yet he heard it—felt its roar, the heat of its fire spilling across the chamber. Velaris only hoped they had gone unnoticed—or that Lae'zel's presence, if these truly were Dragon Riders, would stay the dov's wrath from killing them.
Velaris reached again for the nerves, this time managing to join them—just as the ship endured another violent strike, the impact forcing it into a sickening roll.
Cursing under his breath, silently damning Lae'zel's kin, Velaris gathered what little strength he had left. With a final surge of will, he wrenched at the Daedric knot with raw magic…!
Velaris succeeded—the ship shuddered violently. The desolate, fiery-brown wasteland outside dissolved, replaced by a surging ocean of raw energy.
Like the Dwemer machines meant to pierce the fragments of Lorkhan in Oblivion… The desperate thought flickered through Velaris's mind, and he allowed himself a bitter smirk.
Another tremor ripped through the vessel, throwing him fully off balance. He lost sight of his companions and—with a painful groan—slammed against the chitinous wall of the ship as it hurtled through the void of energy.
Turning his head, his eyes met the empty stare of an illithid's corpse, its body still twitching with each jolt, pierced through by a flaming blade. Velaris, however…
…slipped into a meditative calm. The battle was over. His companions, like him, were likely adrift—scattered across the wrecked bridge, or perhaps cast into that strangely soothing emptiness beyond.
His eyelids grew heavy. The backlash of channeling so much magic—especially telekinesis—was finally breaking through the untrained body of a drow.
A Daedric sluggard, fit only to feed Alduin or the Volkihar… His thoughts drifted sluggishly, lazily, shrinking shorter and shorter. Sound dulled, his body sagged, and his mind floated farther from the waking world.
This… will hurt… came Velaris Drelys's final coherent thought, a truth well-learned from personal experience and the countless failures of novices who burned themselves out.
Of course, it was rare for a mage with the body of a novice—or worse, a feeble acolyte—to cast spells of the Adept, Expert, or even Master's tier, however weakened…
His eyelids refused to rise again. The Nautiloid's rumble faded into silence, while the corpse of the illithid, impaled on its fiery wound, still stared back at him.
"." ?
Velaris opened his eyes.
His body hurt—not simply hurt, but HURT.
As if he were reliving the terminal stages of Corprus, after downing some foul draught of Peryite's, washed down with House Dagoth's ancient brandy… all at once, without a morsel to soften the poison.
"Daedra's ovh'kampar…" Velaris groaned, rising from the soft, too-pleasant bed in his private quarters—a tower chamber of the College of Winterhold, one of several he had claimed long before becoming Archmage… again.
The dunmer's crimson eyes, sharpened by survival and ascension, pierced the dark easily. He had lived through Corprus, after all, and risen beyond the limits of a mere mortal…
But… didn't I perform the ritual for traveling to other Planes? he thought, his feet searching for the warm slippers of silver sabre-cat fur.
Lae'zel, the githyanki… the strange elf with a stranger artifact… the squidlike ship, and those bizarre servants of Hermaeus Mora imitating Dwemer ways?
No. He was still in Nirn—his home.
A hoarse, rasping chuckle filled the broad quarters of dark wood and carved grey stone as their master dismissed the dream. Surely it was some quarrel with Vaermina, a dream curse.
Or perhaps a side-effect of his excursions into Oblivion, gathering ingredients, offending some Daedric Prince along the way. Curious that his body still ached like Corprus, every movement sharp with pain. Perhaps Peryite was displeased?
Sheogorath would never send me a dream where I kept my sanity… not unless he wanted it to break later. Could it be Azura again? Or Nocturnal? I've honored them with countless gifts, but perhaps… His weary mind shuffled through possibilities, even as his magic summoned servants to prepare food and draw a hot bath. He himself reached for a few potions from his private stores.
And yet—silence. No servants stirred. No Dwemer contraptions hummed. Velaris, well accustomed to their infernal racket, felt the emptiness gnaw.
Perhaps… it had not been a dream?
"Rubbish," Velaris muttered, shaking his head with a smile, creaking toward his potion cabinet. "What githyanki, what illithids, what new body? Only a fool would risk a ritual of a race extinguished by their own botched rite!"
It hurt to bend—knees stiff, spine burning, muscles groaning—as he tried to peer at the lowest shelves. Yet there were no shelves.
Instead, Velaris saw a shore, distant but steadily nearing. His crimson eyes shifted back toward the cabinet door, only to watch its shape dissolve into nothingness.
"Shit."
That was all he managed before the darkness claimed him once more.
Velaris's awakening was… interesting. No other word for it.
The Nautiloid—it had not been a dream, after all, as he now realized. It still flew—or rather, fell—toward land. The coastline loomed closer through the massive rupture carved, as Velaris recalled, by a crimson dovah, astride which rode one of the githyanki…
"Well then—my body aches, my sight barely discerns the shoreline ahead, and my magic hardly obeys me… Half a minute until death from the fall. Rather too much irony for such a long life's journey…" Velaris mused grimly. Attempting to smile with his new lips sent his lungs and another set of muscles flaring with pain.
No, he remembered that Bosmer Adept who had once tried to invent a spell for swift travel across Vvardenfell… The fool even succeeded—until he forgot about the landing. His body had shattered with a loud crunch, startling passersby and forcing the Mages Guild to assign a hapless apprentice to investigate such a "spectacular" incident.
Meanwhile, the Nautiloid continued to plummet, and Velaris still had no solution. With effort, he drew a shaky breath, forcing his mind into something resembling a meditative trance.
It was standard practice for enchanters, alchemists, and students of certain schools of magic…
Expending raw magical bursts now was possible, but painfully inefficient—best left as a desperate last resort.
"Wait… the enchantments woven into my body were far more effective…" A perhaps life-saving thought sparked in his mind. He tested his limbs, realizing that a small chitin plate still held him in place, sparing him from an immediate fall.
The yellow-and-blue blur of land and sea drew nearer. Time was running out.
To crash into earth or into water… Alteration might slow the inertia enough to survive…
Grunting, cursing every Plane in Daedric tongue, Velaris tore himself free from the sharp chitin, gashing both palms and scraping his elbows raw.
Perfect. Now he was in free fall—bleeding, tumbling—and the Feather spell still uncast…
Velaris exhaled again, forcing his body to ignore the instinctive terror of being so high above the ground, plummeting past the crashing mass of a giant seashell-like vessel…
A spell of the Alteration school—one that reshaped the world, even flesh, particularly by manipulating weight…
That, precisely, was his only hope. The "new" Feather spell could completely negate the damage from falling. Fortunately, it was merely of Apprentice rank. Perhaps Adept… Velaris had no choice regardless.
Die from the fall, or die from magical exhaustion.
In the second case, at least he would have a chance…
The only thing Velaris had not accounted for was the sluggish pace of magicka flow in his body—slower now than even "yesterday." The result was a Feather spell that lasted only a pitiful five seconds.
At a mere twenty meters above the ground.
He didn't feel the impact itself; instead, his ribs flared in agony from a sudden collision against a wall. Pain still wracked him—he might have broken one or two ribs—but still…
He had survived a fall from great height. The Nautiloid had crashed nearby, shaking the land with a deafening boom. Velaris remained conscious, stubbornly refusing to sink into sleep, and thus cursed with the full bouquet of pain.
He didn't even try to open his mouth; simply rolling onto his back was a herculean task, every movement punished by pain in palms, fingers, wrists, ribs, and back muscles. Even his blood seeped lazily from cuts and gashes.
Exhaustion gnawed at him. His stomach ached from emptiness, while his magical core screamed from overstrain. If Velaris recalled the healers' words correctly, he had hours—perhaps a day at most—unless he found a priest or at least some solid food.
"Wonderful," Velaris thought dryly, staring at the cloudless sky still smudged with smoke from the fallen living ship, while his body remained a symphony of pain.
The only thing left to him was to funnel scraps of magicka into Restoration, patching himself enough to walk—hopefully without constant agony in his spine.
…