Skyrim - Alone in Solitude

By CXVAnime

With the light of the twin moons, Masser and Secunda, shining down over Tamriel the streets of Solitude are surprisingly bright at night. In the darkened skies above grey icy clouds drift across the firmament, the stars blinking like distant jewels, radiating aetherial light, twinkling as if to taunt the mortals of Nirn with the glories of whatever afterlives they believe in. 

A frigid north wind blows through the city streets, creaking window shutters, blowing flags, and rustling hung up laundry drying between tall, silent buildings. Along the main street the hanging signs of shops and inns near the market district swing on rusted chains, clacking and squeaking above locked doors and dimmed windows. Fire braziers sizzle and pop, pluming faint curtains of wood smoke up into these chilling gusts, sending a most pleasant aroma across the way. 

High above the occasional night bird swoops and squawks, looking for the nocturnal rodents which emerge to feast on the detritus of another busy city day. The market itself is always a mess come nightfall. Far below Solitude, beneath a colossal arch of stone, the docks still bustle with life, illuminated by torches moving in the mist drawn in from the mighty Sea of Ghosts. Work down here never truly ends as ships arrive at all hours of the day. Despite the war the East Empire Company and Imperial transports berth and unload their cargo, heavy crates, barrels and chests of whatever is needed scraping across the wooden jetties and piers to be stored under heavy guard. Or at least that's the idea. Just recently one large sloop arrived from Cyrodiil and within days The Winking Skeever was promoting new kegs of Colovian brandy, fresh off the boat. Solitude may not be Riften, but as this war drags on, corruption seeps in like a poison everywhere. 

But the spectre of black markets, backroom deals and the newly ascendant Thieves Guild is not the only poison recently arrived in the capital of Skyrim. A new shadow lurks these frosted streets, a presence no one yet has truly grasped. Or if they have, no one speaks of it. 

A beam of warm orange light blazes from the heavy doors of the Winking Skeever and for just a few moments, the sound of joyous merriment, music and drinking floods out into the street like a spilled tankard of mead. Olvus, the orc bard from the local college can be heard singing inside, one of the same old songs it seems every music-man in this province knows. Heat flows from inside along with the song, bringing steam as if the building itself had just exhaled into the cold night air, and the inn spits out one of its overly-drunken patrons.   

An Imperial soldier, some lowly infantryman, staggers from the warmth, the doors slamming behind him with such force they could wake the dead, and he trundles down the cobbled road, careful not to trip over his own two feet. His young face is flush and red, his eyes foggy, and a strand of drool hangs from his lips. A bunch of the men training up at Castle Dour had saved up enough pay to have a night out on the town and what a night it has been. There are many bars and taverns in Solitude, but the Skeever has always been the best one. His friends and fellow comrades remain inside, determined to not end their night until the General sends people to come and end their frivolity, however for this particular recruit he’s had about as much ale as he can stomach. He should get back to the barracks quickly.

Guard: Staying safe I hope.

One of the Solitude city guard says with a sarcastically mocking tone as the lonely drunken soldier passes by, the sober man's torch shining on the cold steel of his sheathed sword. Even in his inebriated state the soldier knows not to cause trouble. He’s seen these faceless men break up one too many drunken brawls to dare mess with the night-watch. He swears by the Eight some of them are braver than even other recruits he knows. Maybe he should have joined up with them instead of The Legion. He’s heard their pay is better. 

Vester: *Hick* Sure am, officer.

Guard: Good to hear it. Between you and me Tullius is about to send Rikke down here, so I’d get a move on. No lollygagging. 

With a cheeky laugh and knowing smile the soldier, Vester, tips his head to the guards parting advice. He’s seen that firebrand woman tear into enough raw recruits to want to stick around. He’d sooner face a dragon than cross tempers with her, so it would be best if he hurried up back to the castle. Stumbling along, almost comically swaying and nearly falling several times, Vester meanders through the deserted streets of Solitude with only the skeever pups watching from the sewer grates and the guards on the tall city walls above as his witness. He snorts and hiccups, rubbing his weary eyes as he attempts to sober up. The doormen at Castle Dour will surely smell the party on his breath, but they’ve always been good about that. Still, Skyrim’s cities can be deceptively large, and it's a long trek back to his waiting bunk.   

Vester: The mead’s wearing off. Getting nippy out here now. 

Indeed as the month of Frostfall draws to an end even the normally icy conditions of Skyrim are becoming treacherously cold, especially at night. Every morning the Karth River has more sheets of ice built up on its surface, and the gutters and puddles in the alcoves of Solitude have begun to freeze solid by daybreak. Vester’s warm breath erupts from his nostrils like the ash of Red Mountain, and he thinks to himself for just a moment it's almost as if he could Shout. Like the Greybeards, like Ulfric. Like that Dragonborn he heard rumours about just before he joined up. But, little came of that. There was some hope back then, but news of that hero’s whereabouts dried up long ago. 

A sudden blast of wind almost sends the poor soldier flying and a very large cloud drifts across the face of Masser, plunging the street into an even deeper freeze. Vester grabs at his sides and rubs his flanks, trying his best to warm himself up. He could go and stand beside one of the braziers for a while, but he’s running short on time. As he looks up into the starry void above he contemplates that maybe he should have just stayed with his pals back at the tavern. Walking home with some companions would have been warmer than this. Or maybe he could have walked off with one of those serving girls Sorex Vinius employed recently. 

With so many young men, fathers, sons, and brothers lost in this endless civil war there are a great many number of women now aimless and lost. Poverty and homelessness has soared day after day, and it's becoming harder for a single widow to make even enough coin to buy bread. He’s heard the General make mention of widow’s compensations, but he’s certainly not met any woman who speaks of such a thing. That is why the Skeever has taken on so many new “working girls”. 

They infest the taverns these days like spiders, clinging to every desperate traveller and randy mercenary who passes by. Some have taken up their work on the docks, or even set sail aboard departing ships. What debased and defiled fates await those poor souls, Vester ponders. What would Lady Mara think? These are certainly godless activities, but no god has ever put gold on the table. The soldiers of The Legion don't seem to mind the increased attention either. In fact Vester has started to wonder if the command here is allowing such things to happen on their own. He’s heard vague stories from the east of the province of what the Stormcloaks do when they move into town. It's doubtful the powers in Windhelm have enough infrastructure to control their militia like the Legion does its trained soldiers. 

It's tragic. Vester has no sympathy for the rebels, none at all. Not after several of the men he knew in the recruit class above him were slaughtered in an ambush near Morthal a while ago, but he does have concern for his countrymen across the mountains. 

However, thinking of such things, of those women back at the tavern, has Vester suddenly rather bothered. Maybe it's the drink getting to him but he sure would’ve liked to talk with that one Redguard girl near the stairs. The women in his village were never as good looking as the locals here in the big city. There’s all kinds of variety, from all across the Empire. He remembers, although only barley, some other men taking beauties away into the guest rooms. Vester missed out, and he groans in annoyance, knowing he was too focused on the mugs of ale at the time to think about his more basic needs. He spent most of his wages tonight, so such a chance won't come again. Maybe if he preys really hard to Dibella he’ll have good fortune and find a local wench who’ll put out. Oh yes, it's certainly the drink talking. 

Or is it? Vester has always considered himself a good man. He grew up in the backwaters of Skyrim, far away from what some would consider civilization, and he spent more time learning about potatoes than he cares to admit. He would always prey and make his devotions to the Eight every night back home, especially to Kynareth for good soil. Before this damned war he would never have such thoughts. He respected every girl in his village, and other than a bit of fooling around in his youth he’s not embraced a woman in years. He’s the son of a farmer through and through. This world of cobbled streets and taverns without thatched roofs is as alien to him as a trip to Morrowind would surely be. This new life is messing with his head, making him think these thoughts about women he does not wish to entertain.

Vester adjusts himself drunkenly and gives his face a few slaps. No, even if his comrades partake in such lustful activities back there he couldn't bring himself to engage… Although, maybe he still has a few Septims he could spare?  He stops, contemplating as he looks back down the dark empty street from where he came. 

The sound of music is long behind him, so far it isn't even carried on the wind. The gentle light from flickering candles emanates from the closed windows of homes, and the creaking wooden strain of the Solitude windmill can be heard turning from over the rooftops. The smell of wood smoke is still faint in the air, but is now more overpowered by the stench of a nearby sewer grate. Half iced water flows down into the sodden tunnels below where the wind echoes like moaning ghosts, and the sudden ringing of a ship's bell passes over the city walls from the docks down the cliff. 

A cat scurries between two darkened vestibules in the alley behind Vester, knocking over an empty bottle of wine which tumbles loudly, startling the tipsy man with fright. No, he mustn't give in. He needs to get back to the castle. But it is still such a long way. Maybe if he cuts through this alley he’ll shave a few minutes off his journey. He’s still getting used to navigating this massive capital city, but he thinks he knows what street is on the other side of the block. It's dark and gloomy, and the light from the nearest brazier does not shine very deep into the passageway, but Vester knows there are guards about. What’s the worst that could happen? 

Swallowing his wavering, carnal desires Vester straightens his back and shakes his head free of such thoughts. That Redguard girl though… No! What has come over him? He really needs to sleep this off, so he steadies himself and plunges head first into the inky darkness of the narrow alleyway. 

Vester can almost feel his pupils grow in size and adjust to this all consuming darkness, and within seconds he is surrounded by nothing but onyx walls. There’s an even more distinct smell down this passage, a smell of urine and rot. Solitude appears modern and clean in its more open and presentable areas, the more Imperialised districts, but the city is still ancient and most of the people, especially now, are too poor for the fancy indoor toilets the mansions by the Blue Palace boast. Vester pinches his nose tight and his eyes water as he continues on. There are a few narrow twists down the path ahead, but nothing he can't handle. He should be through and back out into the light in just moments.  

Finally allowing himself to breathe, the clumsy soldier trips out of the other end of the alley, illuminated again by a nearby fire. Yes, he’s on a street he knows, one that leads to a ramp up to the blacksmith and the castle. He shouldn't be long now, at least that's what he’d hoped. 

He looks down, realising he isn't alone. He hadn't noticed her at first, sitting atop a barrel directly across from the alleyway, silent and as still as a statue, as cold as a shadow. The presence of someone new startles Vester and his voice catches in his neck, but even despite his drunken stupor he comes about quickly and realises he’s in no danger. 

Vester: Oh, hello. What are you doing out here all alone?

Vester asks inquisitively, rubbing his hands together to warm his freezing palms. Across the narrow street perches a girl, a young child of no more than ten years of age. Seeing children scurry about the streets of Solitude is quite common during the day, and Vester knows orphans and strays have become unfortunately numerous as well, but to encounter a lone child like this is rather unusual at this late time of night.  

Girl: It’s so cold out here. Mister, do you have somewhere I could stay? 

The child says with a soft voice, shivering and quiet. Her skin is as pale as snow, almost lifeless, so she must have been out here in the cold for a long time, and her thin woolen red dress clings loosely to her tiny, frail body. Another gust of wind blows in from the sea, sending the lonely girl’s chestnut hair and the hem of her dirty white skirt into a rapid dance. Both she and Vester shiver against the icy gale for just a moment, before the drunken soldier's mind can catch up to what she is asking. 

Vester: Umm, what? No, sorry kid, I don’t…

Girl: Could you spare a coin? 

She asks again, pitifully, looking across as Vester with eyes like those of a puppy. The sight of her tugs at the man's heartstrings no doubt, but while he has given gold to charity at the Temple on occasion, he only has a few Septims left. Then again he was considering throwing them away on some company just a moment ago. 

Vester: I… Ummm…

Vester’s hand inches towards his coin purse, slowly, still indecisive. Something feels not quite right here. He can't tell why, but he’s sure his fingertips are growing colder and his heart is pounding like a bard's drum. The girl, with all the poise and grace of a dancer, hops down from the barrel where her feet don't even reach the ground, and her tiny shoes clack on the cobbled street. 

Girl: You’ve come from the tavern, haven’t you? I can smell the mead on your breath. 

Vester: Is… Is it that obvious? Look… I really should be going, I-

Vester isn't sure why but all of a sudden he has a desperate urge to get away. The girl slowly approaches, deliberately, meticulously, crossing the road like a wolf stalks a deer between the trees, or a saber cat creeps through the tundra. The light from a nearby brazier catches on her white skin, and for a reason Vester finds unknowable a glimpse of aged maturity sweeps across her otherwise childish face. Closer and closer she comes, yet Vester is paralysed, stuck to this very spot like a mannequin, maybe out of fear, maybe out of curiosity, maybe even out of darker desires. He’s not sure what these thoughts are or where they have come from. He tries to back away as a sweat forms on his brow. He swallows and his nerves scream with fright. He’s a soldier for gods sake, why is he acting this way towards a mere child? But it’s as if he’s caught in a spell.

And then he sees it - the girl's eyes burning like an inferno, like dragonfire, orange and red shining like rubies. She smiles, coming right up upon Vester’s still body, her head barely reaching his torso for so small she is. 

Girl: Oh yes, I can smell a lot of things on you. Poor little man. The drink, the sweat of training, the manly desires you suppress, the fear. 

A pair of fangs catch in the light, like tiny daggers glistening within her petit, childish mouth, hidden previously behind cold, dead lips. This girl, this sinisterly provocative girl, runs her miniature tongs across these sharpened weapons in the same manner the most experienced mistresses at the bar lures men from across the room, and Vester understands what he’s stumbled upon.

Vester: V- Vampire.

He whispers cautiously, barely eking out the word. He’s heard stories, rumours, legends of these blood sucking monsters. He heard the Vigilants were destroyed recently by such creatures, but he never thought, never dreamed he would encounter one, certainly not here in Solitude, certainly not a child. 

Babatte: Don't worry, the confusion you feel is normal. Vampiric spells tend to have that effect.

So he really is caught in a spell, the mind twisting magic of vampiric seduction. These beasts, these terrible creatures of the night toy with the minds, hearts and desires of their victims like puppets, making men as pliable as clay in their clawed hands. This is no ten year old child, she’s a monster.

Vester never should have gone down that alley. He should have taken a different path back to the castle. He should have stayed in the Skeever, with his friends, with that Redguard serving girl. Wouldn't that have been fun, to spend the rest of his night in her warm embrace? He never should have come here.

A tiny hand reaches out against Vester's chest, feeling his racing heart deep beneath his ribs, and despite her size Babette pushes the petrified soldier back into the darkness of the alleyway with inhuman strength, as easily as pushing over a basket. Vester’s boots stumble on the cobbles and he falls to the hard ground with a thud, hidden by the blackness between the tall houses. He cant scream, he cant move, he cant resist, and as he watches the child, Babette, the she-devil, descend into the void upon him, smiling a hungry grin, all the soldier can hope is his death wont hurt. 

The next morning the sun shines down over Solitude, a clear, beautiful blue sky hanging above Skyrim like a soft blanket of satin. Hawks circle the peak of Mount Kilkreath and the tower of the Bards College, the bugle from Castle Dour sounds the start of the Legion soldiers day, and outside a few of the shops in the market district their owners are setting up their stalls and displays. At the Blue Palace the servant gardeners are already tending to the flowerbeds and immaculate bushes, and near the Skeever a man works with a brush clearing a patch of fallen leaves from the gutter. Carts trundle along the narrow streets, horses trotting out towards the main gate, taking workers out into the fields or down towards the massive docks. Solitude is waking up for another day.

By the time the sun is high in the sky news has already spread like wildfire of another man's unfortunate death. A soldier this time, some young recruit found stone dead and drained of blood in a festering back alley in the early hours. Upon hushed lips rumours of vampires have flown cautiously, the fear still hidden. No one yet has the courage to ask too many questions. Like sheep the citizens of Solitude are willing to let the wolves take a few victims to spare the rest of them. Not even the Palace has given a statement yet, although that might be Sybille’s doing. 

Despite the air of intrigue and suspicion the busy work of city life continues. The market as always is bustling with the clink and rattling of coins changing hands, the aroma of fresh meats and cooked foods, the hint of spiced wines, the shining polish of finely crafted armor and swords, and the beauty of trinkets and baubles turns the plaza into an overbearing circus of the senses. Whiterun may be the trade capital of the province, but nowhere has as much variety of commerce as a port city. 

The air is filled with chatter, haggling, laughter and swearing, and near the well a group of bards sing and strum their instruments, ignored by most passersby. It seems no one in this city can ever stand still. Especially not the children, as a small group of the busy rascals dodge and weave their way playfully chasing one another through the crowds. They giggle and cackle, enjoying the sun's blinding rays warming the land and their faces, but not all of them.

Babette lingers near the city gate, not far from the blood stained block of the executioner's nook. There’s another killing scheduled for today, another fool who dared hand over information to the Stormcloaks. Babette is quite occupied digging through the nearby flowerbeds for ingredients, roots and mushrooms especially, but that lingering hint of blood on the air from the headsman's station is like candy on the wind. It makes her mouth water and her nostrils flare. There’s such a fragrant mix of blood, of numerous individuals, like one of those exotic cocktails she’s heard about from Elsweyr. But she had her fill last night, and she certainly can't go licking some dirty block like an animal, she isn't that desperate yet.    

Svari: Hey, Babette! What are you doing over there?

Chirps Svari, one of the local riffraff kids from the other side of town who just spotted her new friend while playing tag with the others. With a giggle Babette dusts herself off and stands to meet the child, the real child, with a pleasant, happy response.

Babette: I was just looking at the flowers. Don't you think they are nice this time of the day? 

Svari: I like the pretty colours, yeah! And they smell really good too. Hey! You wanna come play tag with us? 

Babette: Oh, I don't do all that running around. Besides, I have something I’m looking for.

Svari: Is it a flower?

Babette: Thistles and purple mountain flowers. Did you know such plants can help you resist the cold if you mix them well enough?

Svari: You mean potion making? Like Miss Angeline does in her shop? Can you make potions Babette? Can you make a potion to make mamma feel better?

Svari’s mother has secluded herself from public life following the execution of her brother. Funny, it's probably some of his blood Babette can smell just over the street on the block. Svari has been understandably worried about her mother ever since, and she seems to be getting worse. Everyone is talking about how Roggvir was a traitor, a failure of a guard, his treason, it's all too much for the woman. Some people, in quiet tones, have even pointed fingers at her. This war is pulling people apart more and more each day, and it's not going unnoticed by the children of Solitude. Svari wishes her mother would return to the Temple so much, and secretly she’s very afraid. She’s heard her mother crying alone at night in her room. It's confusing and painful for a girl her age.

Babette can see in the child's watering eyes the sincerity in her question. That wasn't some childish request, it was a genuine plea for something to get her loving mother out of her depression. There are alchemy recipes Babette knows which can sooth the mind in such ways, potions and elixirs to lift one’s spirits. Even a simple healing potion can have beneficial effects on the psyche. 

Babette sighs a breath much older than her outward age would present. Three hundred years she’s been undead, three hundred years she’s listened to stories just like Svari’s. People die, often quite a lot around Babette, and it’s so rarely the ones you would hope for. Every death leaves empty spaces in its wake, and that is something Babette knows recently far too well. Despite her vampiric curse and her mind of experience far far older than Svari, Babette can relate to her plight.

About a month ago the childish vampire returned to her Sanctuary near Falkreath after another successful assassination for her dark mistress. Across three centuries the child's life has changed time and time again, and that day was no different. The Sanctuary, her home, her found family with the Dark Brotherhood, was gone. Every single other member wiped out, slain brutally and without mercy. Astrid, Veezara, Nazir… It was only by luck she was not present at the time or she too would have certainly been butchered alongside her comrades. She thought for a while maybe that would have been a better outcome. 

Who could do such a thing? The Penitus Oculatus? Perhaps. Perhaps that was why Babette decided to come here to Solitude to seek out answers, to find the one responsible. Thousands have died before her orange eyes over the years, mainly her own victims of course, but people she’s known, family, friends, colleagues, a lover or two even. Immortality is a cruel thing indeed. 

Svari: Babette?

Svari says, nudging the girl out of her memories with a pointed elbow to her side. 

Babette: Oh, I’m sorry. I was just thinking. I know a potion that might help, but no premises. 

Svari: That's great! Can you make it? Can you show me, right now?

Svari jumps with excitement, beaming with hopeful joy. 

Babette: He he he he. Sometimes I miss the way you are.

Svari: Huh?

Babette: Nothing… I saw the ingredients we’ll need near Evette’s house. Come on. 

Babette straightens her red dress and flips her hair just above her eyes to help block the sunlight from her face. It stings a little to be outside at midday for a vampire like her, but she’s learnt to live with it well enough, just as she’s learnt to put back on her childish mask. 

People look at her now the same as any other refugee child of the war, crawling in from the wilds to find shelter in the city. That is to say no one pays her any mind at all, no one apart from the children. It was easy to make new “friends”. Normally Babette would not care for such things, but with the Dark Brotherhood gone she doesn't have much else to do.  

With an almost gallop to their step the two young girls vanish back into the shifting crowds of the city on their way across town to find the alchemical ingredients they will need.

THE END