Plight of the Havocrel

Following the events of the battle between the Havocrel Sarkynoth and the Grievous Twilight Zaslamar, the reachman vampire Skovir find that his mind and the daedra's are linked and they can see key events in each other's memories.

Contains: Violence, mild gore, briefly implied sexual assault.

Go forth!

    Wind. Cold, biting wind that carried sand to sting his skin, his face. Sarkynoth felt buried. A blanket of a powdery substance covered him. He was laying down on his back. He slowly lifted himself upward into a sitting position as he opened his eyes. The powdery substance was ash, and it was all around him like a sea. The sky was a red sea of stars and other cosmic shapes. Jagged rocks dotted the landscape around him, but more than that, hundreds of red-skinned people were sitting up at the same time as him. He looked down at his hands as he started to stand up, his naked form the same fiery red as the others around him. At least half of the people were flaming on their heads and arms, many hairless, but others with long, brown or red wispy hair from their heads. 

The flaming ones screamed, either in pain or in rage it was hard to tell from the chorus of torment. They charged into the others, flailing with their open hands, fists and even teeth, their footsteps through the ash thunderous. One, a male with blazing red hair to accompany his fire ran screaming at Sarkynoth. He screamed in return, raising an elbow to block the fist of his assailant before delivering a torrent of his own deadly blows. The blood splattered on his face and arms steamed hotly in the cold dry air. Another grabbed him from behind, a female, holding his head in her elbow as her hand tried to find purchase on his jaw, either to tear it off or twist his neck. He reached down to grab her legs before launching himself upward, the ground shaking beneath him. They crashed back down on her back with a shattering boom, ash flying around them in a blinding cloud as the stone beneath cracked. She loosened her grip just slightly enough for him to wriggle free, beating her to a pulp just as he had the other. 

He realized he must have looked not too dissimilar from the flaming people now with the red blood coating his skin and the steam rising off him like smoke. Indeed, as the wind blew the cloud of ash away, he saw that no longer were the flaming people simply at war with the others, but all were fighting each other. A giant, horrifying free for all, the ash turning to red mud.

Sarkynoth ran away from the others, diving in between brawls and executions, the thunderous footsteps and crashing drowning out the sound of tearing limbs and shattering bones as he blindly ran past them. The sounds grew further away as he ran towards rocky outcroppings in the distance. More footsteps seemed to follow. He looked back over his shoulder, his long brown hair partially blocking his vision as another red person ran staggeringly towards him, his left arm a bloody, jagged stub. Sarkynoth dove behind the outcropping, hiding behind it as he desperately tried to catch his breath. He heard voices next to him, and saw several tiny people. Dark skinned with horns, they spoke with words he didn’t understand. Unlike him, they wore clothes and armor, though in his mind he didn’t understand as much. They seemed to regard him cautiously, holding various sharp objects towards him, but they didn’t attack. 

The flaming, one-armed red person finally caught up to him, screaming with hatred made manifest as he raised his arm to strike. Sarkynoth rolled forward out of the way as the flaming person’s hand crushed one of the small horned people. They screamed in response, uttering more strange words before slicing their sharp objects at the person’s legs. He staggered forward as he flailed out towards them and Sarkynoth both. Sarkynoth took the moment of distraction to lash out himself, grabbing the flaming head of the one-armed person and slamming it against the ground repeatedly. The little people seemed content to just watch as he finished off the other red person before standing up. 

He panted for a moment as he regarded the little people, the tallest barely reaching past his knee. The little person made a gesture that Sarkynoth assumed was one of respect, so he tried to replicate it before standing up straight and looking around. The terrain was hellish and seemingly endless. Was this the beginning of a world, or the end of one? Was this his beginning, or had he merely forgotten everything else?

Suddenly the ground shook, the terrain moving on its own as if a sandcastle being moved by a giant, invisible hand. As mountains rose and parted, Sarkynoth saw a giant person that stood high above them all. A male, with red skin very much like his and other other normal sized people, but unlike him, this giant had four arms, and a crown of horns like the little people. The giant seemed to be raising his hands, gesturing around at the terrain as if shaping them from afar. He looked down at Sarkynoth and the battlefield behind him. A sound like a growl escaped his lips, echoing endlessly through the place before uttering words that for some reason Sarkynoth understood.

“Such Havoc. Children of blood and flame. You are ruination. Be blind for now until your purpose is realized…” The giant said as he waved one of his hands towards the battlefield.

The ground opened up, hot air and sulfur shooting up to clash with the cold wind. The ash twisted up into tornados as lightning crashed across the sky and into the ground. And suddenly his vision went black. Cries of confusion and pain echoed across the battlefield. Sarkynoth stumbled forward, desperately feeling for the ground as it rose up around him like waves. A deafening crack nearly made his ears bleed as the feeling of the ground splitting underneath him. He heard the sound of the little people near him screaming and falling downward, his own form scraping and sliding as he lost his grip. He fell as well, his sharp fingernails digging through the stone, some of them snapping or tearing off each time they caught on a little ledge. Eventually he caught one large enough for his fingers to actually hold onto and his shoulder dislocated. He screamed in agony and despair. Was this his life? Was this all he was to be?

His fingers slipped on his own blood, and he fell down again, clear of the walls he couldn’t see. He despaired, and tears fell down his face, not only for his own meaningless existence, but for the little people who he helped and who helped him as he heard them fall down around him. Whatever came next. He would find them again and make sure they were alright.

***

Sarkynoth blinked. He was dreaming, but aware. He did not dream. Never in all the years of his many cycles of life did he ever dream. Was this an affect of Zaslamar’s machine? Of the merging of his mind with the vampire Skovir’s? Skovir. The thought seemed to conjure the hulking, primitive vampire. The reachman looked over towards Sarkynoth in a sea of black his form shifting and difficult to look back at.

“Was that your origin? Your beginning?”

Sarkynoth didn’t know if he even could answer at first. After a moment he found he had a mouth after all.

“Perhaps. It is… how it existed in my mind’s eye. I cannot say anymore if that was my beginning or the origin of my race. Maybe. Maybe it was just the origin of some of us. Maybe others had a different start. I reformed after this. I cannot remember ever seeing normally with my eyes again.”

Skovir nodded. “Hmm. You are born of pain and sadness. I’m sorry for you.”

Sarkynoth blinked. The daedra in him wanted to ask why. Why be sorry for something you’re not responsible for? Why feel sympathy? Why pity a creature out of sadness? But, there was something more to him, for he had dreams like this more lately, where he saw Skovir’s memories and key life events. He understood empathy on a fundamental level, and knew it was something that would be inexplicable for most of existence outside of Tamriel. Was it his turn now, to share his memories with Skovir? The memory they just witnessed felt new to even him, as if only just now recalling the event. Had his mind been made blank by the event?

***

The Cinderbane Heart. The crowning jewel of Sarkynoth and the Cinderbane clan, the island fortress of arcane research. The Cinderbane were a clan of Dremora native to the Deadlands, the domain of Mehrunes Dagon. They were champions of his cause, fighting against all who would challenge his nature or influence. Sarkynoth was their leader, but he was but the apprentice of a harvester named Varsilla. Sarkynoth approached her within the center construction of the fortress, drawing his pair of swords before kneeling before her.

“Ah, my child…”

“Master…” Sarkynoth said, his head still lowered, his blind eyes dull and white.

“This place is indeed impressive. It has the makings of being a truly mighty stronghold one day, once I take full command.” Varsilla’s tone surely wasn’t one of disdain or disappointment.

“I have done as you asked and more. The fortress itself is not even a small piece of the work I have done here.” 

He didn’t see it, but the inclination in her voice indicated meager interest in her pupil. She had asked him to build the Cinderbane into a mighty force to attract the attention of Dagon for his war with Molag Bal, but so far the Cinderbane Heart was merely the foundation of a fortress, and the clan of dremora only bolstered by a small contingent of other, lesser daedra.

“Well, by all means, Sarkynoth, explain your time spent here.”

He took a moment to compose his thoughts. “I have engineered a means of accelerating the dematerialization process of slain daedra. While attuned to this place, we can revive almost immediately.”

“Immediately? Have you tested this?”

Sarkynoth set his blades down, the large weapons nearly the size of a dremora in of themselves. He then took a small crystal from his belt, the red crystal the size of a clannfear skull making a sound akin to a slow heartbeat. 

“Through this crystal, I allowed myself to be slain. I returned here within an hour. One of my dremora, Xalvir, returned within a couple of minutes. As long as we remain attuned, we cannot fall.”

He felt Varsilla’s large claws gently take crystal. While not as large as him, she was still comparable to the titans that flew through the ashy skies, dwarfed only by the colossal harvesters that roamed the Deadlands.

“I see. Is being sent here not a defeat in a sense?” He heard her words drown out the sound of magic being performed by her.

He did his best to ignore it, assuming that whatever she was doing was innocent or for their mutual benefit as usual.

“I have constructed a portal strong enough to penetrate into any other world. It draws power from the foes we slay. So, the more we fight, the more we can conquer. Isn’t it good?” Sarkynoth finally turned his blind gaze upward to raise his brow at his mentor. “Are you pleased?”

A hissing sound followed her slithering behind him. “Yes…” She rested her hand upon his shoulder, lightning coursing through his form, locking his joints and muscles. “And now that I have this attunement crystal, I can bring a real army in here to replace you and your Cinderbane clan. We’ll win this war for Dagon without you. Can’t have you taking credit for playing with your toys here…”

Sarkynoth desperately tried to open his clenched jaw enough to speak. “Why?!” His jaw jolted as he bit through his tongue.

She chuckled as his flesh started to sear and melt. “You were a tool… A very slow-witted, and slow producing tool, but nonetheless. I have my own toy now. A crown of chaos. One that unlocks the power of your race for my own use. I only need your essense for it. Not you. I need to tolerate you no longer. Goodbye… ‘apprentice’.”

Darkness took him. The vision of Skovir returned. 

“She betrayed you…” the reachman said pensively, as if he happened upon some great revelation. 

Sarkynoth chuckled. “Obviously.”

“No. Don’t dismiss it.” Skovir responded.

Sarkynoth looked over at the vampire, surprised by the command. Skovir continued.

“She was the individual who mattered the most to you. She was like family. This was an important moment for you.”

Sarkynoth paused to think about this. 

“Maybe. I don’t regard her the way I regard Vaulreth and the Bloodrose vampires, or my Cinderbane Clan. I mourn their loss and miss their company when removed from them. I celebrate being reunited with them. Varsilla was simply the one I tried to please. I derived purpose from her alone. Not my own ambition, not my clan, not Prince Dagon. Just her.”

“So… her betrayal set you free?” Skovir asked.

Sarkynoth's expression hardened as he growled through his teeth. “Yes.”

***

Though Varsilla had usurped the island fortress in the Deadlands, the portal was still of his own making, and he knew all of the strongest points he had set it to connect to. One such point was on Nirn, within the heartland of Tamriel where the elves ruled over all other races. He had taken advantage of the naivety of some cultists who thought to summon Sarkynoth and bind him through a portal of their construction. He used it to materialize faster and gather his dremora to prepare for an assault on their old home. He would sooner challenge all of the Deadlands before letting his master steal his greatest work from him.

Using the Oblivion gateway to connect to the portal, he led his clan through and into sudden battle with Varsilla’s daedra. An army of two different dremora clans and a myriad of xivilai, titans and lesser harvesters would have proved insurmountable, but the intimate knowledge of the place allowed the Cinderbane to turn the island’s defenses against the usurpers. The Cinderbane did not distinguish themselves beyond wearing red cloth in with their armor, a trait shared by many clans in the Deadlands, so they had free reign of the island as they slew the inhabiting dremora. It was only once they had started to run out of dremora to cut down did they become distinguished as enemies for the other daedra. 

Sarkynoth himself was the chiefest target but also the most deadly. His size alone made him an impossible foe for the xivilai and atronachs, only the flame behemoths and titans slowed the charge of his thunderous footsteps. Armed with a pair of swords and spiked pauldrons, he ran down his foes as much as struck them with blade and flame, each step a thunderous blast. Tearing through the champions of Varsilla, he found the mistress of the keep was absent.

Stepping onto a transporter, he appeared across the lava atop the twin towered citadel where two other havocrel turned to look at him in indignation and silent fury. The three regarded each other for a moment before lunging into combat. It took a great deal of persuasion to get a havocrel to work with another after the ancient association they have with each other. The fights were always the same for Sarkynoth, ever since his earliest memory. The furious brutishness almost always failed against the careful cunning. 

The hot blood pooling behind him as if chasing him vengefully, Sarkynoth stepped out across the dark terrace, the black stone hiding the bright light of the lava far below. A large pedestal with six arches holding a small crown in stasis a few inches over it was the only notable thing. The two massive towers next to him also seemed to be attracted to this horned, metal adornment. It was far too small for Sarkynoth, and yet as he forced his hand through the stasis field, it started to change size. Once his fingers managed to finally get his fingers close enough to hook around the top of the crown, it had grown to be large enough for his head. Wrenching it free from its prison, he examined the object for a moment. It called to him, the energies within a myriad of magics mixed with his own stolen essence. 

“No!” Varsilla’s voice screamed too far away. 

Sarkynoth made no show of hurrying to put the crown on his head, taking every moment to savor this poetic revenge. Harsilla stole his creation and his essence to further her own goals, so now he was to steal her creation to empower his essence. The crown lashed out with a wave of flame, twin bolts borrowing into his forehead to clamp it onto his skull. He winced and snarled in pain, his blood dripping down his blind eyes, igniting their dull gray with luminous red. He collapsed to his knees as wings of ash and shadow erupted from his back, stretching out as he screamed like thunder into the stormy sky. Vision flooded his mind for the first time since the dawn of his existence, and it took him a moment to realize it was reality and not some figment of the imagination. The world appeared as of through thick red glass, highlighted by what he assumed were gatherings of magic.

He slowly rose and turned to face his master. She stood with one of her three arms stretched out towards him as the others shielded her serpentine body. Abject horror contorted her hideous visage as she froze for a moment before slithering to the transporter, a spell causing it to explode as her tail vanished through it. He looked up at each of his wings, their form vaguely bat-like. He felt a kind of strange resistance through them, as if capable of moving the air around him as he waved them in and out. He turned his new gaze back towards the island below, running straight for the edge of the citadel’s roof, he leapt with one massive push, his wings doubling the height and distance of his arc. He soared over the island, watching the battle dwindle out save for Harsilla’s last desperate effort to take as many of the Cinderbane out with her.

He glided through the cinderstorm with his wings stretched out, before eventually plummeting down towards the island below. Flame and red lightning ignited around him as he crashed into the ground in front of Harsilla, the stone shattering beneath him. A look of horror quickly gave way to fury as the harvester reached out to drain the souls of the daedra around her. Sarkynoth lunged forward, grabbing her by the head and slamming her into the ground with another thunderous crash. Her hard skull remained intact, but one of her two most prominent horns snapped off. She could barely utter a choked groan that could be heard over the havocrel’s blood-curdling scream.

“All I ever did…!” He slammed her head into the ground again, a sickening crack vibrating through his hand. “...I did for you!” 

He watched her gasp and choke for the ash-filled air as he felt his fury die down. He leaned down, his lips an inch from her face. “But no more… Now…” he whispered as one would to a lover, “You will serve me forever more.” 

He lifted her up by her head for all to see. The dremora around him started to cheer but he wasn’t done yet. He started to drag her over to one of the two outlying structures, one of which was the conduit of magicka for the entire island. An array was set up for draining power from objects and even vanquished daedra, so Sarkynoth could think of nothing more suitable for his master. He tossed her limp, barely alive form into the array. The array picked her up telekinetically, suspending her in place as it began to gradually and excruciatingly extract her essence. Still unable to scream, her mangled face contorted once again as she managed to look at him one more time before he turned to leave her, walking back into the middle of his triumphant clan.

Skovir looked from Harsilla to Sarkynoth as the endless blackness seeped in again, his expression somber and his eyes lost in deep thought. 

“You died in her place, I think.”

Sarkynoth chuckled bitterly. “Yes. My sense of purpose, my place in the Deadlands, in the cosmos as a whole. It was all gone here. Much of my care for things died. You are more observant than most. My clan didn’t understand. Dremora are… well, simple creatures at their core. They’re not capable of perceiving finer concepts and emotions. They are beings of intellect, not wisdom. They’ll never know the difference.”

Sarkynoth looked away from Skovir, blinking into the void, his red vision replaced with emptiness. 

“The power of the crown didn’t last. I still can call upon the wings from time to time, but only with great effort. Now it’s just a relic with the barest power, which made taking on more and more of the Deadlands tiresome. So I drifted. The Cinderbane didn’t care. They just wanted to fight battles for their own sake. They just wanted more victories to boast of, they didn’t care where they came from, or what they accomplished. So while I desperately sought purpose, they followed. Until one day, our nomadic travels and marauding led us to Sanguine. The Blood Prince. He gave me something more precious to care for. Mortals. Vampires. To use my great strength and cunning to beguile, ensnare and seduce the mortals for our eternal pleasure. It was such a change of pace from what we had done, and yet, it felt like what I was meant for all along.”

Their vision swirled again. Images appeared from the void.

***

Hollowvale, a secluded pocket of luxury and beauty in both Tamriel and Sanguine’s many realms. A piece of it existed both on Nirn and Oblivion, making it the perfect place for the immortals of both worlds to engage with each other. Two structures filled the craggy valley, separated by a river that gathered before seeping through the lower side of the mountains. The first was a large, charming cabin that once served as a gathering hall for balls, banquettes and other parties, filled with all the elegance to flatter both Highrock and Western Skyrim. The second was a cascading tower, spired and covered in vines. Statues and gardens dotted the landscape, but it was the massive waterfall that spilled down from the mountains that was the glimmering consort of the moonlight. 

Sarkynoth walked the grounds, his massive form replaced by that of a nord’s, his armor from the Deadlands replaced by rose-engraved finery. The sky was alight with northern lights, the moon a silver crescent like a scythe coming to reap the stars from the heavens. He did not see it in all its beauty, but he still saw the magic in it all, the darkness of the night mellowing the red of his crown-gifted gaze. He wandered along the stone walkway past the waterfall, torchlight guiding his steps past an ominous fountain of blood and a stone gate. As he started to ascend the tower, he heard a ghostly voice humming and singing wordlessly. Stepping around the stairs, he wandered towards the pool that the river branched into under the small castle. A woman, skin as pale as the moon, hair as silver as its light, sat on the stone ledge in front of the small water fountain that flowed gently out of the center of the pool. She hummed as she undid the braids in her hair and brushed them out, seemingly an individual manifestation of the beauty and chill of the night. Sarkynoth found himself staring, all his thoughts fading into nothing, unable to even assess the situation much less determine if he should speak or not. 

She suddenly looked over her shoulder to look at the daedra, his red gaze the only telling factor. She looked him up and down, as if judging him, making no effort to hide her form to him. She finally looked back towards the fountain.

“It’s rude to stare…”

Sarkynoth finally found where he dropped his voice. “My most sincere apologies, I-”

“Without permission.”

Sarkynoth stopped and smiled down at her before turning around. “May I join you?”

He heard the smile on her voice. “Not with all those clothes. You’re overdressed.”

Sarkynoth considered for a moment before slowly undoing his attire and stripping down. He turned to see her staring as well, smirking slightly before turning back towards the fountain. He sat down next to her dipping his legs into the water.

She chuckled. “By the gods, you’re like a fire. I can feel your heat from here.”

“I didn’t believe you weren’t a fiction of beauty at first. You are like a manifestation of the night.”

She scoffed playfully. “There’s no need to flatter me, Sarkynoth, Lord of Cinderbane. I am already lured here and seduced by the endless indulgence of drink, music and cruelty. You need not convince me further.”

The daedra chuckled. “Laid bare in more than one sense, you cut me to the quick, little mortal. Such a disadvantage you have me at. What name could I attribute your dry candor and wit to?”

She smiled warmly at him.

“Navaarin Palewind.”

The darkness shattered like glass as Sarkynoth beat his fists into what passed for the ground beneath him and Skovir.

Skovir frowned. “Palewind… She was the same strain as Sulthaar.”

“She was Zaslamar’s first… The namesake of the Palewind strain. He was her brood mother. A means to spread his strain and torment through the mortals.” Sarkynoth gritted his teeth. “She just wanted to be free. Sulthaar was the replacement for the prodigal daughter of Coldharbour. I didn’t care to help her until she was taken. By then it was too late… Killing Zaslamar didn’t free her soul from Coldharbour’s grasp.”

The briefest images flashed before them. Coldfire braziers, daedric laboratories. Sarkynoth covered his eyes with his hands. 

“No… don’t make me watch this… Not again…”

Navaarin’s motionless body ravaged and discarded on the floor. Blood spilling from her mangled neck. Her eyes still wide with agony and terror. 

“No…” Sarkynoth’s voice echoed in the void of the dream and in Coldharbour. Flames erupted around him as he charged at Zaslamar, his cunning intellect giving way to the rage of his people. Just as was Sarkynoth’s experience, wild flailing failed against calculated fury, but not before he could bite out Zaslamar’s throat. He awoke in the fires of the Cinderbane Heart, full of rage and agony, screaming for the dremora to send him back to Coldharbour.

“No!” Sarkynoth screamed as he bloodied his fists against the ground. “Give her back!”

Skovir watched as the consciousness of his daedric companion melded with the vision, confusion and concern on his face. He cautiously approached the havocrel before laying a hand on Sarkynoth’s shoulder. Sarkynoth gasped before sighing, the visions fading before them.

“I waged war against Coldharbour for over a year. Desperately plumbing the bowels of that place for her soul. My search took me to Molag Bal himself. He killed me… again… and again…” Sarkynoth sighed. “I went to Sanguine, offering my eternal service in exchange for a means to shift the nature of vampiric souls. He gave me his blood for a potion to give to them. But… I could never save her. Sanguine insisted I call the converted vampires the Bloodrose. I have vowed to keep them safe forever.”

Skovir nodded. “Like Vaulreth.”

“Yes…” Sarkynoth nodded. 

Briefly the images of Sarkynoth falling to Zaslamar’s machine, images of Navaarin’s pale form flashing across his consciousness for what were potentially the last moments of his existence. Sarkynoth chuckled in the dream.

“After all this time…” Skovir’s mumbled words made his reachman accent thicker. “You were still thinking of her? A mortal, even a vampire, mattered that much to you?”

Sarkynoth nodded slowly. “She taught me the value of mortal life. That something so fragile could still be so precious. Sanguine did too to a lesser extent. That's why his symbol is the rose.” 

The daedra stood back up as the visions of both himself and Skovir started to shimmer away. They were waking up. “I cannot unknow how precious this world and its people can be. The Bloodrose are my family. Hollowvale… is my house. It is my curse.”