Chapter 1
November 18, 2023 at 1:25 PM
You are the fucking dumbass motherfucker Who was so deaf to all the shit i told And here you go - you got a stool leg in your gutter As if it was the hardest lot you got.
(c) The Misty Shit
Its power allows it to persist outside the human body, even after death. If a monster defeats a human, they can take its SOUL. A monster with a human SOUL... A horrible beast with unfathomable power... There was silence in the Proudspire Manor — it was late in the evening of a long and busy day, and the inhabitants of the estate were mostly snoring in their beds. Only the owner of the house could not sleep, who was spending the evening in the living room with a bottle of spiced wine in his hand. The softly crackling hearth cast dancing shadows on the scarred face of an elderly man, whose right cheek was decorated with a tattoo in the form of an uneven swollen spiral. The flame picked out the floors of a good-quality caftan from the shadows, covering the legs to the tops of fur boots made of sabre cat hide. Sitting in an armchair, the man from time to time raised his hand to the freshly shaven crown and began to scratch furiously. An artificial trill of "Ragnar the Red" cut through the air of the living room, and a rectangle of light flickered on the table next to the man. Stretching out his hand, the man took a buzzing and flickering plate slightly larger than his palm, smeared it with his finger and put it to his ear. "Remoran here," he said in a low baritone. "Hello," the plate boomed. "This is Asgore. I'm sorry, did I wake you up?" "Not at all, Your Goatjesty," Remoran's voice brightened. "I wasn't sleeping right now. Damn scabies is too exciting, but restless, I didn't want to wake my wife." "Maybe... use something moisturizing?" after a short silence, Asgore asked. "Too exciting, I'm telling you. What exactly you need?" The silence dragged on. The human heard the snuffling of his interlocutor and imagined how His Goatjesty pressed the same shimmering plate with a huge white paw to his magnificent golden mane. Their voices are carried over the world by the power of technomagic, without delays and interruptions, breaking the walls of separation. It was worth letting them into your world just for the sake of it… "I need some advice, Ferg," Asgore interrupted his thoughts. "It would be nice if you came to me, but if you are uncomfortable…" "It's not about my inconvenience, but about the situation at court. I don't think the royal scientist will like that you turn to me too often." Ferg gritted his teeth from the surging dislike that flared up in him every time it came to the royal scientist — and even more so when his low bone figure appeared in Ferg's field of vision. To tell the truth, there was no reason for their mutual dislike, obvious to an outsider. Except that because of the scientist's species affiliation - as a Meridia follower, Ferg naturally disliked the undead… "Yes, I understand. Sans is too... close to my wife, and I also don't want him to tell her about my mistakes once again… Can we discuss this at your place?" "Of course," Ferg agreed without hesitation. "Come at least now." "Oh... and I here already…" A second and a half later, Ferg was already standing at the door, letting in his immediate and very large guest with a low curse. Asgore was wrapped up in a long frock, which could have served him with a stretch for disguise, if not for the white horns that pierced the hood. Ferg could barely restrain himself from collapsing on the floor with laughter, watching His Goatjesty trying to solve this problem. "Okay, that's enough," he said after catching his breath and took out a knife. "Don't twitch, you're going to wake up the whole house for me now. " At any other time, he would not have been confused by this, the children liked Asgore, and his wife did not mind the presence of a huge goat-like monster at dinner (especially since in such cases Ferg usually cooked himself). But it seems that today the extra ears will be out of place ... Asgore obediently bent down to the man, allowing him to gently release his head from the frock. The fabric cracked, and a handsome goat's face stared at Ferg with a slightly guilty smile. "Please forgive me for this," said Asgore a bass voice as quietly as possible, straightening back to his full height, the tip of his beard was just at Ferg's eye level. "I really have no one else to go to…" "Settle down by the hearth," the human interrupted him, gesturing to follow his advice. "Take a little break, then we'll deal with your problem." Asgore smiled gratefully and gently stomped to the hearth. Refusing the offer of a drink, he sank into one of the chairs and stared at the fire with some bewilderment. Ferg returned to his chair and took a bottle of wine in his hand. He felt that Asgore was doubting his decision to tell him his immediate sorrows. Of course, the wine would have easily loosened his tongue, but the man was not going to force the monster king to drink. Although Dovahkiin had been a reliable adviser to the king until now, he was not surprised by such a cautious attitude. He voiced too harsh and unpleasant truths, his words were too different from the illusions of the court rabble. And their dislike for him grew even more because of how accurately his gloomy predictions came true. Yes, they got what they wanted. Freedom, hope for an even brighter future, the stars overhead are real, not an improvisation of glowing crystals on the vaults of the Underground. Not an angel, but a hero who has saved the world more than once, came to them. Dovahkiin, the devourer of dragon souls, the embodiment of the deceiver demiurge, clad in steam-whistling armor and armed with a rattling chainsword. In the role of the enemy of the existence of monsters, he looked much better than a scared scratched child in a striped sweather. And he saved them... almost. The surface did not accept the monsters with open arms. It's not that someone purposefully hunted them, but this world was called the Arena for a reason - and even the most "merciful and loving" were not given indulgences here. Bandits, marginal sorcerers, gangs of vampires and Daedra worshippers, wild creatures and undead of all stripes — for fragile monsters, every step outside their safe haven was a deadly risk. But the shelter — a large picturesque island connected by portals to other safe places in the world — was not suitable in the long term for permanent life. Too small. Too introverted. Too much like the Underground… "What?" Ferg realized that he had spoken the last sentence out loud. If he knew that there would be such a conversation, he would have done without wine today… "Just a habit," he said, putting the bottle on the floor and making a soothing gesture to Asgore. "When you travelling around alone, wherever you get, sooner or later you will start voicing your thoughts out loud." "Oh... and why are you traveling alone then?" "Sometimes it gets boring to wait for your companions to catch up with you. And you have to wait often… Gods, sometimes it seems to me that I am something unique. " Dovahkiin chuckled. "Something that can jump over obstacles, and not bypass every counter stump for half an hour." Asgore nodded understandingly — in general, as Ferg was convinced at the time, he understood him well. Perhaps because he himself was on the verge of surrendering to the flow of his power and striking with a word and a trident without hesitation and pity, or perhaps because he dreamed about it, but was too soft to follow his dream. Ferg did not know, and was not interested, leaving Asgore the right to live in his own way - as long as he did not stand in the way of his sword… "Why, Ferg?" Asgore asked. The firelight played on his beard, and it shimmered in waves, like a wheat field under the wind. "Where did we go wrong? Where did I go wrong? (Ferg said nothing) Instead of rejoicing in their newfound freedom, the monsters are pressed back into the ground. Instead of admiring the stars, they are stuck in gadgets. UnderNet is crowded, but there is not a soul on the streets…" "That's the price of continuing," Dovahkiin sighed. "Maybe they never really wanted freedom, or they just couldn't accept it for what it turned out to be. Or are only your children able to understand this? Although, probably, it is — monsters, as I noticed, are far from thinking. You don't need to think a lot, hiding in a hole and waiting for a lost person came to pounce on him. But, unlike the Falmers, you monsters are trying to find an excuse for yourself." "We're not in the Underground anymore, Ferg. Monsters don't attack people." "I'll take you at your word, big guy. But you're right, we're not in the Underground. Monsters could live in a new way, any other race could try, my world knows similar examples. Although, this is not a quick matter, perhaps we are expecting too much and too soon?" "I'm afraid it's something else." Asgore shook his head. "This world is not our Surface, not the world from which we were expelled. This continuation idea was a mistake. It was necessary to leave everything as it is." "It seems that the children and the royal scientist don't think so," Ferg said after a while, a heavy caustic anger began to flare up in his soul. "I wonder just why? Maybe because they are the only ones among you who could remember why it was started in the first place? You don't seem to remember exactly, so let me refresh your monsteres memory. It all started with the fact that your world had nothing to offer the Puppeteer outside of your tiny Underground. Your son told you what he was doing when he was a flower in idleness, I know, I know that you were horrified, but you forgave him. The Puppeteer is something else. He is outside our world, in comparison with us he is as powerful as a god, and more capricious than a Daedra. He liked your limited world, and he diligently led you to a happy ending. But a creature of this level does not tolerate attempts to limit it. He, like Asriel, at one time became curious — and he began to turn your world inside out. He wouldn't have done it if your story hadn't ended for him at the exit of the Barrier. Mine didn't end with Alduin's death, and now, it seems to me, it won't end oh so soon." "Oh, are you sure? Maybe it's not the first time you've said these words either? Maybe your Puppeteer has already done a restart for you?" Nope, I didn't, I didn't, calm down the excitement… "Is that..." Asgore jumped up in fright. "It... it was…" "Yes," Dovahkiin said calmly, leaning over the hearth and adding a couple of logs to the fire. "He occasionally mutters something from above. This made an impression on many… And even Sans, I think. My world gave a lot of opportunities to continue your story, it is clear why the Puppeteer willingly agreed to this. Believe me, you're much safer here than in the Underground. It's not easy to get close to you, but in extreme cases you have a kind of guard." "It seems you didn't think too highly of Papyrus' abilities." "What do you mean, "it seemed"?! So it was!" Ferg frowned, wondering if he had raised his voice too much. Deciding that it wasn't too much, he continued. "Of course, Papyrus in many respects is far from even an ordinary guard in any of the cities of Tamriel, but he has an undeniable advantage. With his magic, there is no need to wield a sword skillfully, and as for the rest, I have done everything to develop his potential. That's enough to protect monsters until I arrive." "That's good," Asgore said dejectedly, "but who will protect the monsters outside the city?" "And who protects the ordinary inhabitants of Skyrim?" Dovahkiin asked reasonably. "Who protects farmers from a bandit raid? Who protects the peddlers of the Reach from Forsworn attacks? Who will protect children in the forest from encountering a pack of wolves or a frosty spider? I've been all over Skyrim. I've seen human remains that have just been stripped of their flesh, bloody skulls and bones. I've seen corpses in pits, on tables, in cages, I've seen the desiccated bodies of children in cobwebs in the depths of caves—and, believe me, life is much easier in Skyrim than in, say, Valenwood, where a vampire can kill a child and take his place, feeding on the rest of the family for years. This world is an Arena, and it's not easy to survive in it. And I have no reason to think that the Surface you were banished from was a brighter place." "I understand, Ferg. But not all monsters are ready to realize this. They're waiting for decisions from their king, from me, and I'm... I'm tired, Ferg. I understand that I have no right to leave them now, but I'm tired. I want to do everything so that my people finally find happiness, but I can't force them to do what it takes. I never could." "Don't bother. Think of it as a natural disaster. All that you could — you have already done, and it's not your problem that your subjects are not intelligent enough to realize how you care about them. The main thing is that they are safe. This is the best they can count on now until they get out of this stagnation." Asgore nodded in frustration. Ferg wanted to say something else, but suddenly became alert. "What is it?" A door slammed upstairs, footsteps rattled, and Captain Aldis stumbled into the room. His black beard was disheveled, and his bulging eyes seemed to see nothing around. "Dovahkin!" he barked. "Morthal is on fire!" A few seconds later, Ferg's face disappeared under the helmet of the armor, which was retrieved from the inventory in the blink of an eye. Flying out of the house, he found himself on the fortress wall of Solitude in one leap. Confused, Asgore was still standing next to the chair — everything happened so quickly.***
The distant glow of the flames cast ominous shadows on the walls, turning the confused, frightened, angry faces of the legionnaires and the helmet visors of the city guards into copper. Almost all the defenders of the city poured out on the walls, and it was a mess, so Aldis drove the extra observers back to their posts. Dovahkiin stood beside him, the blue lenses of his helmet gleaming ominously. "This is an onslaught," he rumbled from under his helmet. Aldis resisted the urge to ask if he was sure. Ferg caught the Great War and understood such things. "Bandits? A dragon?" The captain paused before saying the most terrible thing that could come to his mind. "Daedra again?" "It doesn't matter," Ferg snapped. He climbed up on the battlement and appraisingly looked down into the impenetrable blackness of the waters of the Karth River. " Warn the Dragon Bridge, let them prepare for evacuation. Inform the captains of the ships to be ready to sail to the open sea. Wake up Jarl Elysif, let him arrange for the rest. General Tullius… "I'm here, Legate." Ferg turned and looked at the gray-haired imperial with patrician features, dressed in a gold-bound "lorica mucsculata" lined with crimson cloth. General Tullius squinted angrily at the distant glow of a burning city, his aquiline profile resembling a bronze statue. "I'll go alone, General," Dovahkiin said. "Immediately." "Exactly." Tullius shifted his gaze to him. "Whoever it was, he encroached on the lives of citizens of the Empire. Make him pay for it in full, Legate. This is an order." "Yes, General. " Smiling, Dovahkiin stepped forward and disappeared over the edge of the wall. A few seconds later, there was a dull splash, and soon a glittering gold figure appeared from the water on the other side, rushing straight to the burning city with stunning speed. "Gods, have mercy on those unfortunate who stand in his way," Tullius muttered, the encouraging cries of the guards drowned out his words.***
Plunging into the water and raising a cloud of silt, Ferg walked along the river bottom, guided by the compass built into his helmet. The dissected water gurgled around him, drowning out the helmet-restricted breathing. A few seconds later, his head was above the water, and the swampy shore of the Hjaalmarch domain, overgrown with withered grass and crooked trees, appeared to his gaze. Ferg bared his trusty Dwemer chainsword which responded with a hungry rattle, and ran along the compass, jumping over rocks and fallen trees, diving into pools, ignoring aggressive wildlife and several vain bandits who decided that he was a worthy victim. Their screams were left behind, and ahead, in the swirling fog, mixed with smoke, a scarlet glow flared up. He almost tripped over some snag, then turned around and examined it carefully. The snag was burnt, the color of overrared deer chop, and in an upstretched branch clutched a steel dagger blackened by soot. Straightening up abruptly, Dovahkiin looked around and found another smaller snag not far away. A smoldering rag doll was found next to her. There weren't many children in Morthal, and Ferg ground his teeth at the thought of who this charred body could be. "LAAS-YAH-NIIR!" he whispered. The world around him darkened for a moment and returned again, complemented by pinkish clouds of the aura of life and its likenesses. In the city in front of him, behind a veil of smoke and the crackle of burning wood of houses, someone's giant silhouettes were moving - something of such size that an adult mammoth next to this would seem like a young boar. And one of them went to him. When it appeared from behind the veil of smoke, Ferg almost let go of his sword. "What the freakin' crap..." he said in a strangled voice. A huge upright cockroach with a distorted face of rage stared at him and roared so that a small blizzard rose around him: "OBEY THE OVERMIND!"***
The roar of the monster brought Ferg out of his stupor. Moreover, he made him lose his temper. Finally.***
Morthal has been unlucky for a long time. At first, an ancient vampire settled near him, intending to convert the locals to his pack — and he almost succeeded, until something went awry, and his head rolled onto the stone floor of the lair from the blow of the howling Dovahkiin chainsword. Less than a couple of years passed — and right in front of the jarl's house there grew a flaming arch of the Oblivion gate, from which infernal Daedric hordes poured out — needless to say that Dovahkiin was right there? And the dragons seemed to flock to Morthal from the rest of Skyrim— of course, eventually crumbling into a pile of scales and bones at the feet of Dovahkiin, who absorbed their souls. But this night, without a doubt, was the worst in the history of the city that was previously known as Morthal. Dovahkiin knew that. He knew it would happen one day. And I was ready. He walked out onto the bridge past the sawmill, in a halo of dazzling golden light, the armored boots grating on the stones from the weight of his step. As he walked, the pommel of his hammer swayed to the beat of his steps, dusted with the remains of a slain monster, and behind him the Aurorians moved like golden ghosts, holding shining spears in front of them. They carried the holy retribution, and, reflecting in the water among the houses, huge silhouettes of monsters rose up to meet them, which they had to slay. "Burn, baby! BURN!" In the rushing reflections of the fire bursting from the grinning mouths of the houses, a tower with a peak engulfed in flames appeared. The impression dissipated in an instant when the tower moved forward, shaking the ground with jumps. A flaming whip fell from its top and passed through the wildly screaming right Auroran, the slain daedra was disembodied by a pile of twisted melted armor, the left raised a spear, and sparkling golden arrows rushed into the monster. "Hot enough for ya!?" The creature roared, ignoring the arrows embedded in something like the coils of a giant rope that replaced its flesh. The flaming peak bent down, revealing a sharp-toothed grin bursting with heat. Dovahkiin was choking with rage. This creature with his friends burned down the city along with its inhabitants, swallowed their souls, and now also mocked him — at the warrior who blinded the World Eater with his bare hands! They must still not have understood whose anger they had provoked—well, Dovahkiin would be happy to enlighten them. "Die down, you abomination," Ferg growled, pulling the hammer away and going into a heavy rhinoceros gallop. Reinforced by the power of the Dwemer exoskeleton, he jumped, being on a level with the monster's grin — and roared, bringing down a side blow on it, crushing the coals of teeth crackling from the heat. Sparks flew, a scream of pain rolled in a wave of flame, throwing Dovahkiin, who landed with a clang and a clang in a hissing snowdrift. The blow almost bit his tongue, something crunched in his back. "I'm getting old," he thought grimly. "It's not posh." He got up, leaning on the hammer, stood in front of the monster raging with rage and pain. Behind him loomed two others — a swaying mountain of slime and a giant studded with ice spikes, on whose face something else slipped through the mask of rage. Doubt? Fear? It didn't matter. But behind them — a dozen more mismatched silhouettes… "Too much," Ferg said, turning to the remaining Auroran. Aurorian did not answer — he was covered by a giant paw of a raging monster-torch. Dovahkiin was left alone. "As usual," he summed up, and then he raised his hammer over his head and, shouting the battle cry of the Evermore's Knights of the Griffin, rushed to the attack. Ferg didn't like sharing the fun anyway. The hammer crashed into the creature's flesh with a crack, breaking it in two. Dovahkiin intercepted the hammer and slammed into the flaming crown bent over him, enjoying every flash of the monster's pain that spilled out of his split mask of rage. He struck again, this time with his body, pushing the monster into the water. A death roar rang out from the rising cloud of steam. A piece of ice the size of a chicken crashed into him, knocking him backwards, the hammer fell out of his numb hands. Dovahkiin only managed to get up to see ice blocks rushing into him, balls of shimmering slime and other creations of monster magic — a desperate attempt to stop him. "WULD!" The Shout carried him forward, a second before the ground behind him flew up under a hail of magical projectiles. He finally got to his feet, and in his hand was a howling chainsword. Ferg didn't like hammers anyway. The monsters roared—more out of fear than rage—and rushed towards him in a disorderly crowd. Crouching down, Dovahkiin raised the sword to his eyes, as if admiring the gleam of the ribbon of teeth flying out from under the casing. The weapon rattled angrily — it seemed that he was impatient to bite into the flesh of the enemy, and his impatience, as usual, was transmitted to the owner. He rushed forward. The first monster that approached him was a mountain of bulging flesh that changed him beyond recognition. Chainsword flew forward, howled, entering the flesh, sinking deeper and deeper, spitting out whitish crumbs. The monster's carcass convulsed convulsively, it was engulfed in flames from the enchantment that had worked. Ferg pulled out the sword, throwing out a cloud of dust, struck again, obliquely, with a broach, tearing out a piece of flesh the size of a calf and, like a harpoon, struck the sword in the hole that opened. A low interior howl cut through the air, and Dovahkiin's hands sank into the mountain of flying dust that had just been a monster. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Turned around. The monsters backed away, the rage on their faces dissolved into horror. Dovahkiin grinned. One of the reasons why he preferred to use the chainsword was the terrifying spectacle of his blows. Even inveterate bandits and dremora warriors who had seen everything in their eternal life fled screaming at the sight of what their comrades turned into from the blows of howling teeth.Monsters, even after devouring human souls and burning down an entire city, remained monsters. Determinationless. Weak-willed. Cowardly. But they not smart enough to escape in time. This decided their fate. Ferg screamed. From the grief that finally made its way out — there were enough people dear to him in Morthal, and the realization of loss hit him harder than the magic of monsters. From anger, which flared up only more at the sight of the monsters, who lost their fighting fervor. And from the undisguised triumph that filled him, nourished by grief and anger, because what he had been waiting for had happened ever since the Barrier collapsed and the monsters came to the Surface. He knew it was inevitable. He knew that there would be victims, that he might even lose someone. He knew that the child would take what happened hard, and Sans would reproach him with it for the rest of his life. It didn't matter. None of that mattered. His waiting was only a postponement of what he couldn't do in the Underground. He waited. He was right. Ferg was roaring, and that roar was his song of triumph. He roared, and his faithful chainsword screamed in unison, rising and falling. And the monsters howled in terror and pleading so that snow flew from the trees. Their very flesh seemed to have turned to tears, and they were melting in grotesque sticky piles, like melted candles. "Mercy for you?!" Dovahkiin roared. "Do you want mercy, you sons of bitches?! Did you spare them? Were you merciful?!" He slashed another monster with his sword with such fury that it literally burst, showering him with a cloud of dust. "Burn children, tear them to pieces — is that your mercy?! An eye for an eye! I will repay you!" The roof of one of the burned houses collapsed, throwing up a whole shower of sparks. The wind blew in and stirred the dunes of strange dust, which covered the snow with a thick layer. Ferg didn't like monsters anyway.***
She broke down. Succumbed to the pressure of the forces that escaped from the absorbed human souls. Her flesh was spreading, barely retaining the last accepted form. A form in which they, the monsters, were supposed to be invincible. But they were defeated. Having absorbed the soul of one human child, the son of their king became a being of incredible power, and only the efforts of an entire village of humans who attacked him with everything they had inflicted a mortal wound on him. Her friends absorbed much more—almost as much as it takes for a monster to become a god. Her friends, who crumbled to dust among the burning houses, while she, hiding nearby, felt her mind break from their terrible screams of pain and fear. They made a mistake, and the reckoning caught up with them. What was all their power worth when this man appeared! Is it exactly a human? She couldn't think anymore. She hadn't been thinking straight for a long time, most of her friends had been thinking even worse lately. They wanted more, much more, and they got more—even more than they originally wanted. Paying with the pitiful remnants of his mind... and his life. The force melted her flesh, burned from within — the will of human souls, so different, but equally rebellious. They longed to be free, but she forgot how to free them, and they trembled in her flesh, tore her apart—rebellious, independent. So foreign. She didn't realize that the screams had subsided. She could not perceive the crunch of snow under a heavy step approaching her shelter. When a figure shining with an unbearable golden light stood in front of her, she only whined and tried to close her eyes with what was left of her ears. She could fight like her friends, but in her terror she forgot how. The figure approached. And leaned over to her. She saw the face. She saw him so close that would have made out his expression if I could still. The face was human, and its expression was mocking. He asked something. Looked at her and smiled—nasty, anticipatory. She whined again. From the swirling fragments of memory, another face suddenly emerged—similar to what she once had. She clung to this fragment of the past with all her remaining strength—and remembered. Son. For a brief moment, her mind came together again. She remembered everything. Remembered why. And remembered what they did when everything went wrong.She saw what they had become. What she has become. She looked up at the human. He was no longer smiling, he was looking at her, patiently, expectantly... sympathetically. Feeling that her mind was about to leave her again, she put all her will, all her determination into one urge. In the request. Desperately exhausted, almost not hoping that the person will understand. The man understood. A blue dagger blade glowed in his hand. She didn't feel any pain. *** At dawn, a messenger from Solitude arrived at Fort Snowhawk, a few miles west of Morthal. The guy could barely stand on his feet — he ran out of the Castle Dour almost immediately after Dovahkiin left, and ran all night, across the Dragon Bridge, where he paused briefly to convey the general's orders, and then, cursing the night, the cold wind and the lack of a direct road to Hjaalmarch. They didn't give him a horse. The garrison in the fort was small, and when the city was on fire, they were able to send only a dozen legionnaires to at least try to rescue the survivors and take them under the protection of the fortress. None of the soldiers returned. Those who remained closed the gates and waited on the walls all night with bows at the ready, listening to the screams coming from the city. When the messenger brought the general's order to occupy the city, it seemed like a mockery… Until they heard that Dovahkiin had gone there. The commandant of the fort no longer hesitated — now he was sure that a sortie into the city would not be suicide. He was cleaning this fort side by side with Dovahkiin, and he remembered well the swift golden spot rushing from enemy to enemy, butchering them with careless glancing blows, and the Voice that made the walls of the fortress tremble. If Dovahkiin was there, they had nothing to fear. It was a gloomy day, the wind coming down from the mountains creaked the branches of trees, wrinkled the mirrors of the swamp water. Ahead was the swirling ghost of a conflagration, barely visible against the gray sky. The dry grass, covered with frost, crunched under the boots. The soldiers walked cautiously, with weapons at the ready, and therefore, when Morthal appeared from behind the trees, they seemed to be ready for anything. But not to this. There is almost nothing left of the city. Only heaps of smoking coals and melted stone hearths where there were houses, and floating wrecks of boats and piers in the middle of the city. And all this was strewn with a mixture of dirty snow, ash, dirt... and dust. The dust littered everything around, the dus floated on the surface of the water, the dust rose with the smoke and, whirling, fell around. And everything. No survivors, no corpses — nothing else was left on this ashes in the swamps. They had nothing to occupy. The squad leader raised his hand, preparing to give the signal to withdraw. And then they heard singing. The soldiers froze. The wind died down, and it became clear that the sounds were coming from the direction of the city's grave hill. It could have been a looter, and where there is one looter, there are a couple more. Or maybe it was one of the attackers of the city? Anyway, it would be unwise to give yourself away without understanding the situation, and the commander understood this. With gestures, he ordered them to spread out and go around the hill in order to be able to catch the enemy by surprise. He himself, along with a couple of legionnaires, moved along the path leading directly to the cemetery. They walked carefully, stepping on patches of frozen ground free of snow. The singing didn't stop, and that was a good sign, so they hadn't been discovered yet. Having climbed to the middle of the hill, the commander could already make out the singer's voice — a well-modulated male baritone, full of sadness and sorrow. Climbing to the very top, he heard the rhythmic rustle of the earth and finally made out the words of the song. It was a prayer to Arkay. Between the piles of gravestones, a figure in massive bronze armor was moving. Through the mournful funeral psalm, the ringing of the spade and the rustle of the frozen earth being thrown out could be heard. Dovahkiin worked without haste, without stopping to pray and without changing the tone, without apparent effort plunging the instrument into the petrified permafrost of Hjaalmarch, gradually sinking into it himself. When he finished digging, he bent down, his blue lenses flashing, carefully picked up a small bundle of linen cloth from the ground and carefully lowered it into the dug hole. The commander came closer, looked around. A couple dozen fresh mounds of earth were swelling the surface of the hill, each was covered with a shell of stones. Just now, Dovahkiin, having filled up the grave with a few movements of the spade, picked up his war hammer from the ground and headed for the nearest rock, which seemed to have fallen under the fury of an posessive battering ram. Having collected the debris, he returned to a fresh mound of frozen earth and began meticulously lining it with stone. All this time he did not stop his sad prayer. Having laid the last stone, Dovahkiin finished the prayer, straightened up and, turning to the soldiers, took off his helmet. There were deep shadows on his pale face. The reddened eyes looked tired like an old man. "I've been digging all night," he said in a quiet voice. "And didn't stop praying all night." In his hands was a braided green bottle. He tore off the cork, drank for a long time, throwing his head back. A crimson drop slid down his chin. "I collected them all," he continued, emptying the bottle and hiding it in the inventory. "Guards, citizens, what's left of the legionnaires. You sent them, didn't you?" He waited a bit, but no one answered him. "I found everyone. And buried everyone as best he could. That's all I could do." He turned away. The soldiers surrounding him were silent. "I couldn't save anyone," he managed. "I couldn't bring anyone back. Morthal is no more. Do you understand?" The soldiers were silent. "Neither to return, not to summon, nor even to raise, as the living dead. There are none. No one. Nowhere." He raised his eyes to the sky—where the visible threads went to him alone. "Even you didn't have enough for that?" he shouted. "Or you just don't want to?" His opponent had nothing to object to. "Who did this?" One of the soldiers broke the silence. "How did it happen, Dovahkiin?" Dovahkiin shot him a blazing look. Laughed sharply and angrily. "It was a natural disaster. Not a drop of malicious intent, just catastrophic stupidity. Whoever did this didn't show any signs of special intelligence at the best of times. They only had the sense to shit themselves out of fear when I took them on, and you don't need to be a great sage to do that. Morthal fell victim to the mindless elements. I have drawn conclusions, and now I will make sure that the first... incident remains the last. So tell Tullius." Growling, Dovahkiin uncorked a new bottle of wine. The soldiers retreated — they did not dare to check how the intoxicated Dovahkiin would behave. Unfortunately, their fears were in vain. In the three years since the burning of Helgen, Ferg Remoran has been able to get drunk only once. And it wasn't today.***
Killer. He didn't know who threw it. And wasn't sure if it was said out loud. There were too many persons here in the monster hideout who felt entitled to give him an unflattering assessment. He knew that none of them would dare to do it to his face. Except, perhaps, Undyne. But Undyne wasn't here. Executioner. They found out — from where? Technomagia of yellow-bellied gap-toothed trash? Ferg gritted his teeth. Solidarity of thought? Or her absence? They knew everything, but they were silent. Then who? Who is now whispering accusations to him, who is trying to pierce his armor with trivial epithets? Conscience? Funny. Paranoia? Silly. Butcher. On his belt, a chainsword gleamed with teeth. Out of the corner of his eye, Ferg could see the looks his weapons were getting. There was horror in them. He licked his lips slowly, conjuring up a gushing fountain of dust from a terrible torn wound on the monster's side. Mentally replaced white with red and smiled — it turned out beautifully. Fiend. He was walking towards the palace of Asgore, through the streets of the once abandoned city, which was now inhabited by monsters. The city was lost in the vastness of the world, and the usual way to get to it was only by sea. He changed that, even if not alone. He brought them here. He, damn them, broke the Barrier and brought them to the Surface. And now he was listening to their gratitude. Monster. *** He entered the palace, brazenly jingling his heels on the slabs of the throne room. The King, his family and retinue were already there. Ferg looked for Frisk, but the child was nowhere to be found. But there was Sans. The skeleton stood apart, as usual, with his bony palms in the pockets of a blue jacket, which he sometimes exchanged for a white scientist's coat. Their eyes met, and Ferg felt the irritation inside begin to burn him. If only the skeleton would say a word to him now… But Sans didn't say anything. He closed his eyes and seemed to be dozing off. With a snort, Ferg pointedly turned away. Right now he had more important things to do than sort things out with the skeleton. Monsters paid attention to him, he felt waves of apprehension and dislike washing over him. From the mighty handful of courtiers crowded around the royal family, there was, as usual, undisguised hostility. As numerous as the useless court rabble, crawled out of nowhere after removing the Barrier and immediately filled the court vacuum. Ferg treated them with slight disdain — he was a Breton, the son of High Rock, and any Breton, regardless of origin, learns the ability to navigate palace intrigues from the cradle. There was only one being at court he considered worthy of his hatred. All the others were cheap backdrop. It didn't matter now. The changes had already begun, and Dovahkiin was their herald. He bowed slightly to Asgore, slightly lower to the Queen. And he started talking. As he expected, he was interrupted by howls of indignation. He continued without raising his voice, taking advantage of the fact that the indignation of the monsters drowns out his words. He wasn't going to repeat it twice, and if they don't want to listen, let them blame themselves. They'll have to put up with it anyway. "Not so long ago, while preparing to destroy the Barrier," he thundered at the end, "I told you monsters, 'If one of the monsters devours the soul ... I will do with great pleasure what I did not do in the Underground.' I warned you. You didn't heed. Now you are guilty before my people. You are guilty before me. Your fate now rightfully belongs to me." This silenced them. And the two dozen warriors in red and gold armor who entered after that — to submit. After all, no one was going to send them to the Underground again.***
Of course, there was an investigation after that. Of course, Ferg headed it. As is often the case, the investigation left more questions than answers. It turned out that a bunch of monsters, having previously obtained weapons enchanted to soul trap, passed half of the province from the portal to the island to the vicinity of Morthal, where they came across a caravan of Khajiit — one of the familiar to Ferg, the caravan of the slicker Ma'dran, who at one time traded with the rebels and the Empire at the same time. His attempt to bargain with the monsters turned out to be a deadly failure. Having absorbed the souls of the catmen, some of monsters moved to Morthal and massacred there until there were not enough souls for all the monsters. When the alarm was raised in Solitude, they were already dealing with the legionnaires sent from Snowhawk. That's how it looked at first glance. It obviously looked so-so, and Ferg wasn't going to stop there. There were a lot of questions, more than were voiced, and he wasn't going to trust anyone but himself to look for answers to them. Sooner or later, he will get to the truth. In the meantime, the newly minted Maran Watchmens will make sure that this does not happen again. Unfortunately, this will not save Morthal's citizens anymore.
