Stoneflowers From the travels of Dro'Shirr Cold winds tugged at Dro'Shirr's cloak, flicking its edges against the black armor he wore. Slowly, he knelt down, drawing the hood and scarf from his face and exposing his nearly elven features to the elements. Snow had not yet begun to fall, but he could smell it in the air. "Friend and foe, enemy and ally, and all destined to the same fate. May your soul find its peace among the stars," he whispered, laying the deep blue petals of a stoneflower across the rocks. Somewhere underneath them lay the body of a battered dunmer, entombed within a makeshift cairn which would likely be rooted out by an inquisitive nix hound once the snows left. A poor burial for one who'd fought and died so valiently, but Dro'Shirr had no more time to spare. As if to emphasize the point, a deep voice called up after him from the shore. "Dros, c'mon, we have to leave before the tide changes!" Thoromir, the nord shipmaster who'd brought him out into this gods-forsaken cluster of rocks. But with good reason. Dro'Shirr was a white senche, a breed apart from most other Khajiit. His thick fur shielded him from the worst of the cold, but his tolerance for the climate was not why he'd been sent into the frigid reaches of a Sheogorad winter. The black armor he wore, plated with silver and trimmed in deep maroon, was the symbol of his life as a Void Assassin. While most assassins were consigned to hunting civilized people, a Void Assassin's work encompassed daedra, undead, and all manner of supernatural beings. And the last was proving an exceptionally difficult target. "I'm coming," he shouted back, turning from the dunmer's cairn. Behind him, a solitary snowflake came to rest on it, in the center of the petals he'd laid down. ~****~ The catamaran lurched into motion as soon as Dro'Shirr's feet hit the deck. He shot an angry glance at Thoromir, but the big nord shrugged it off. "What're you worried about, Dros? Cats always land on their feet." "That doesn't you should try to drop them," he replied with a dry chuckle. Then his tone became deadly serious. "The next time I'm forced to bury someone, give me the time to do it properly. Interrupting something like that is exactly why we have the problem we do now." "No," Thor snorted, "We have [that] problem because some damned fool couldn't keep his hands off a cursed chest, and it ate him." "His physical form, yes. Would that it got all of him." The senche drew his hood up and tugged the scarf back over his face. "Delsartys didn't talk much, but what he did say was very useful. Our spectre is looking for the 'Dusk's Leap' gate." This drew a shocked expression to Thoromir's face. "Dusk's Leap? Isn't that the one buried under-" "The same," Dro'Shirr snapped, cutting him off. He suspected the ghost was well ahead of them, but there was no reason to take foolish chances. Frustrated, he began pacing the deck. His tail lashed in annoyance- how long had it been since he'd left NorthHeart? He couldn't remember. Months, at least. Azirile would be missing him terribly. Still, the senche could take some comfort in the fact that she was safe within the valley. Dusk's Leap was another matter entirely. Conjuration accounted for most of the daedra that inhabited Vvardenfell, but a scant few had come by their own will through physical gates- powerful mystic doorways to and from Oblivion. Dro'Shirr knew of only three, and all were carefully hidden from the world and guarded by the most powerful and loyal servants of whichever realm the gate lead to. And the Dusk's Leap gate lead to the Daedra Lord Molag Bal's realm. Dro'Shirr felt like cursing. Of all the "destructive" daedric gods, Void Assassins had an especially bad history with Molag Bal. He suspected it was because of their role in terminating dangerous "mortal" daedra like dremoras and daedroths- common servants to Bal's destructive causes. "Ixyliar," he swore under his breath, "you will not reach that gate- dead [or] alive." ~****~ It took Thoromir and Dro'Shirr two days to reach Ald Daedroth. During that time, there was little for the Void Assassin to do. The catamaran simply was not big enough to practice his skills, and Thoromir was occupied with navigating and piloting the ship. When the morning fog at last cleared to reveal the island ruins, the senche breathed a great sigh of relief. Compared to the helplessness of waiting, even the difficult task ahead was an improvement. As the catamaran's hull ground to a halt against the gritty shore, Thoromir tossed Dro'Shirr a mooring line. "So tell me again, what if you can't catch Ixyliar's ghost before it enters the Voidstreams?" "Then we pray he cannot find a host and return to us." The tiger bound his line to an outcropping and gave it a tug to make sure it was secure. "As dangerous as his soul is, it is still a mortal soul. If he were to find a host daedra... Thor, all the void mages in Tel Diem might not be enough to banish him." "That was his plan all along, wasn't it? He meant to take that curse on himself." Thor grimaced as he began strapping a nordic claymore to his back. "Devious bastard." Dro'Shirr nodded solemnly, lifting the hood on his cloak. In one armored fist, he clutched a small pouch. With a tug on the strings, it opened, revealing the deep blue petals of a stoneflower. The aromatic scents mingled with the salt and ice of the sea, but did not hint at the grave they would lie upon. The senche sighed. "He'll be in the right wing of the ruins. Let us pray he hasn't found the entrance to Dusk's Leap yet." He tied the pouch back up and motioned for Thoromir to follow. As the oval door irised shut behind them, a thin, disembodied voice began to laugh.