#important plot

But this hardly seemed like a fortress that the Silver Hand were using to expand. Six hours of watching from his hiding spot, and he had only seen one other person: the armed door guard that the current guard had relieved. Which did mean that there were more inside, though as organized as the SIlver Hand had been recently, it was odd for them to have only one guard. Perhaps the isolation of the fort provided them some sense of security, but Tural could only hope that they were so careless.

Wait. The Bosmer’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the door guard. No, no, his luck wasn’t that good. The figure’s head began to hang down, slowly, bobbing every so often, as the shoulders relaxed. Dozing off. Tural’s fingers brushed the soft feathers of an arrow in his quiver. It would be so simple, just two quick shots and he had access to the front door. Yet, his hand froze. It was too easy. All of it. Rumors of Silver Hand in a place so remote, their presence in small enough numbers to not be overly threatening, a sleeping guard. It felt like a trap. Every bit of it felt like a trap.

Tural grinned. Well, they wanted to play a game, he was up for it. The arrow was plucked from his quiver, and nocked against the bowstring. He wasn’t so foolish as to take the front gate, that would likely lead to being stuck full of arrows from surprise archers, or some equally terrible fate. No, he would approach from a different angle.

Aching legs felt a flood of relief as the Bosmer finally moved, keeping low and moving slowly. The grass was good cover, unkempt and moving in the breeze, masking his advance. He circled around, until he couldn’t see the front gate or the guard anymore, pausing often to look for signs of anyone hiding along the top of the wall. There was nothing, it was clear. He moved up to the base of the wall, slipping the bow and arrow into the same hand as his eyes scanned over the decrepit wall for a handhold. Between the ravages of age, and Tural’s long experience with climbing things he wasn’t supposed to, it took little time to reach the top, quietly dragging himself up to crouch atop the wall. The arrow flipped around to his hand and the string again.

Easing forward, Tural tensed the string. The guard was still sitting, leaning against the wall, nodding off in the comfortable night weather. Tural drew the string back, breath letting out calmly behind the mask. The point raised into his view, and he leveled it with the guard. It--

A flash of pain, and darkness.

There’s a hand on his shoulder. It’s Tilma. She smiles warmly down at him. “You look weary from the road, dear,” she says.

He’s in Jorrvaskr, but it’s... wrong. His shield-siblings are faded, almost shifting like smoke, their voices distant and hushed. The fire, the tables, even the walls are translucent, ghost-like. Aela, or what looks like Aela, gives a hint of a smile as she walks by, heading towards the stairs.

Tural barely has time to process what is in front of him before a spike of throbbing pain hits his head, causing him to recoil.

“What th’--” he bites out, before a sourceless, echoing voice fills his mind.

“Hello, mister Amring. We’re going to play a game.”

Man. Older. That’s all Tural can make out through the distraction of the pounding in his head.

“The game is very simple. That pain in your head is going to get worse, much worse, until it kills you. The only way to lessen it is to banish the illusions in front of you. Start up here, move downstairs.”

"’M not goin’ ta--” the Bosmer starts to growl, but the pain blooms anew, cutting him off. It’s spreading, making it hard to concentrate.

“Then you will die a weak, broken coward. I had expected it to take longer.”

Snarling, Tural draws his bow and an arrow. They feel... real. More real than the rest of this looks. A quick draw, a moment of hesitation filled with screaming aching in his brain, and he looses the arrow towards the vague image of Vilkas. The arrow strikes, and with a muffled, distant yelp, the illusion fades into a puff of mist.

The throbbing recedes. A brief respite, but Tural can already feel the spread beginning again, regaining what strength the banishing of the illusion robbed from it.

He draws another arrow. He can play this game, for now. There’s a hesitation before each shot, but the ghosts of the Companions fall as he makes his way towards the stairwell. He reaches for the handle of the door.

“Good.”

As he begins to push it open, his senses fade as his muscles go numb. Darkness overtakes him.

There’s a hand on his shoulder. It’s Tilma. She smiles warmly down at him. “You look weary from the road, dear,” she says.

Again.

The images are there again, different faces, mulling about different parts of the room, but just as ghastly, just as distant.

And the pain. The pain comes back, causing him to clutch his head. “How many times?” He growls between clenched teeth, starting to reach for his bow.

“As many times as it takes for you to break. I have plenty of time.”

No. No, he wouldn’t let this game, this damn mage or whatever he was break him. The pain was beginning to spike again, and Tural pulls forth an arrow, nocking it and drawing it quickly, loosing it towards the nearest illusion. A shout, a fall, and it disappears in a puff. Another arrow, Tural is moving towards the stairs. The pain is still receded a bit when the second arrow flies, striking down an image, and granting reprieve. He makes it to the door, and pushes it open. The hallway isn’t empty, and the rise of throbbing pain drives Tural to quickly fire off two more shots. The world seems to thicken, to slow, and his sight begins to fade.

“Good.”

Again.

There’s a hand on his shoulder. It’s Tilma. She smiles warmly down at him. “You look weary from the road, dear,” she says.

The pain hits as Tural is reaching for his bow. He’s not feeling tired, despite the pain. Each time, there’s no soreness in his muscles, even in his legs from crouching for so long earlier. Four arrows in illusions in the main hall, and he starts moving towards the stairs. He pushes open the door. Three in the hallway, he strikes them down, watching the faces of each as he turns to move on. His chest is tight, but he pushes onward, refusing to let himself break. A few steps down the hallway, and the world begins to fade.

“Good.”

Again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

There’s a hand on his shoulder. It’s Tilma. She smiles warmly down at him. “You look weary from the road, dear,” she says.

This was... the twentieth? The thirtieth time? Tural braces himself the moment he feels the hand on his shoulder, the pain hardly shaking him despite it being slightly worse than he remembered. The bow is in his hand, arrows flying as his aim moves from illusion to illusion, hardly a pause between them. Ignore the yells, the confused cries. To the stairs. Into the hallway.

A brief whisper of thought pesters the back of his mind, the hallway looks just a bit less ghostly, the sounds just a bit less distant. But the thought is buried under the waves of pain, and the Bosmer moves forward, seeking the illusions. Four fall as he makes it almost to the end of the hallway. His muscles stop responding, and the world begins to fade.

“Good.”

Again.

There’s a hand on his shoulder. It’s Tilma. She smiles warmly down at him. “You look weary from the road, dear,” she says.

His bow is in his hand almost before she finishes speaking, before the pain blossoms in his head. Three arrows from his quiver, all fired off in a mere instant. Two more as cries of pain and alarm fill the main hall. He vaults the handrail to the stairs, moving swiftly through the door. Another in the first doorway. He turns to look for more. Kodlak, sitting in his room, at the end of the hall. An arrow from the quiver, drawn--

Something crashes into him from the right. The arrow looses, whistling down the hallway and shattering against stone. Tural is driven into the side of the hallway, and a flash of pain leaves spots in his vision as the back of his head strikes stone. An illusion... Farkas is holding him with both hands, dragging him up the wall until his feet leave the ground. They never... the illusions had never hit him before.

“What are you doing?!” The words that Farkas is roaring finally make it through. “You gods-damned traitor what have you done?!”

The world wasn’t fading. Tural blinked. The world wasn’t fading away again. No. No, no, no no no no no no no--

He felt his bow being ripped out of his hands, and looked to see Aela there, snarling as she took his weapon. His chest seemed to collapse with panic as he looked down the hallway. Ria, slumped against the wall, shaking, an arrow protruding from her side.

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO

How many arrows had he fired in the main hall? Four? Six? He hadn’t paid attention. He hadn’t paid attention, damn him, damn him. In utter shock, he looked back at Farkas, silent, as the mountain of a man pressed him painfully into the wall. He watched the fist rear back, he watched it sling forward, and felt the brief impact before the Nord’s punch put him under.

Farkas kept his grip on the Bosmer as he went limp, pausing to take a couple heaving breaths through clenched teeth before turning, and dragging Tural’s form towards one of the empty rooms. They were going to get answers out of the damn elf, that much he would make sure of.

"I've found you," the blonde-headed demon repeated, grinning from ear to ear. "Though, you seem relived to see me; is there a reason?"

She raised her voice. "You've killed then. Two of the most importaint people in my life. Vionna, and The Doctor. I want you to bring them back." 

"Ilena, dear. I'm so glad to hear tha--"

"BRING THEM BACK. I don't want to hear any bullshit from you or your sister, just bring them back!"

The demon flinched, and she moved closer to Ilena. "You know how it works, hunter. I agree with you, and then we seal the deal--"