#highrockrose

“Honestly? They’re more tolerable than most, which says a lot when you consider the quiet disdain between our families. Susette… Well, she was an admirable woman. Never have I met another with such a thorough understanding of the rules by which a game is played coupled with such an unrelenting refusal to play it. But, you know how it goes. You either play, or someone else plays you. At least she perished in her own terms, even if it was all the fault of that little fire-headed boy trying to play the lord.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ behead someone in a second here…” the bandit growls, but furrows his thick brows together in thought. “I killed Voclain already, remember? Might be I’ll send her worm’s-nest of a head back to High Rock. Don’t let ‘em say I ain’t at least merciful. I’d fuck Shey, ‘cause why not?”

Susette Voclain's body was impaled upon the ramparts of Broken-Spear Keep. A pike was put through her chest, and her blood-covered armor, still with its faint silver gleam, shone out like a beacon of warning. This was the fate of those who opposed the Black Iron Fist, be they common or highborn, farmhand or seasoned knight. 

He took to walking the walls of the fortress, observing his handiwork, gazing down upon the land that had become his. Voclain's corpse started keeping him company, even when the flies began to eat away the barely recognizable remains of her face, and the stench of death was enough to overwhelm even a hardened killer.

"Ain't very noble of y', Stag," he muttered, staring off the sheer face of the wall. "Just lyin' around all day. What would Lord Dragonling think now, if he saw y'here twiddlin' your thumbs. Oh, wait--"

He glanced down at her stump of a hand, and laughed. "Sorry to bring up a sore subject."

The mangled, insect-ridden face did not reply.

"That's right. Turn the other cheek. Nice and proper."

This is it. The twenty-third vigilant. Twenty-three lives taken from me, twenty-three lives in retribution. I approach the cowering man with another slow step, baring my rapier, watching as he leaves a deep trail as he crawls backwards  in the snow. Leg dragging, leaving a streak of red - a futile attempt at escape.

Twenty-three.

I can still name them all, the loved ones, the family taken from me. From under Sheogorath's madness, blessed minds crushed and splattered against Aylied stone. Blue-Scales-Shining, our leader and a notorious cannibal who I'd convinced to eat only the dead, to protect us all. Jillian, convinced she was a hare and cowering in the corners, staring at us all with wide eyes, eating only the grasses we offered. And my little Amalia, my sweet little foundling...

So many gone, in a single night. To reach this many vigilants had taken far longer, but my journey is finally coming to an end.

He whimpers as I kneel, placing my rapier on his chest as my boot found his throat, as I stared. He blubbers, blue eyes wide, sobbing like a babe as I drive the tip deep, deeper still.

... Like little Netta. A massive beast of a Nord man in body, with the mind of a sweet little girl, crying because her doll had fallen into the pool, clapping her hands in joy because I'd made her a new dress...

He chokes and spits out bubbles of blood, begging even now. And for a moment, in those eyes, I see Netta's. I see helplessness, innocence, terror. Had the Vigilants seen it in her?

He begs. "Please. Please. I h-h-have a family."

My hesitation vanishes. I snarl and drive the rapier deep, through flesh, organ, snow, dirt, leaning down to hiss into his ear.

"So did I."

I do not take his amulet. It is not enough. Twenty-three lives, twenty two amulets.