The Elder Scrolls: The Untold Sacrament

[Lillian Gray]

It has been decades since the last whisper of a true Dragonborn, the old and withered Greybeards atop the Throat of the World had given up on the hopes of ever seeing another decedent in their lifetimes. The doors of High Hrothgar had never been open to begin with, but to the neighboring members to the East, it felt as if they shut after each year which passed.

Since then, more time has passed until the booming invitation of their voices called down in the hopes that their new apostle might recognize the power of the shout. Alas, they were let down, and the child with the talent they had sought out went unnoticed, unknown, until another twenty years had passed.

She was an innocent thrown into the tides of war, left to grasp at whichever hand was nearby to save herself from drowning. Be it an Imperial or Stormcloak, Dwemer or Nord, the faces never mattered. Survival was embedded in her very bones due to the nature of war, and it was not long before she yearned to greet the men of solitude up on the lonely mountain. It was too late for such wishful thinking. She was dragonborn, both her life and death were wanted.

So begins the tale of a ritual performed, the Black Sacrament, and the life of the Dragonborn was at the hands of the Dark Brotherhood.

---

So you wish to summon the Dark Brotherhood? You wish to see someone dead? Pray, child. Pray, and let the Night Mother hear your plea.

You must perform that most profane of the rituals - the Black Sacrament.

Create an effigy of the intended victim, assembled from actual body parts, including a heart, skull, bones and flesh. Encircle that effigy with candles.

The ritual itself must then commence. Proceed to stab the effigy repeatedly with a dagger rubbed with the petals of a Nightshade plant, while whispering this plea:

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

Then wait, child, for the Dread Father Sithis rewards the patient. You will be visited by a representative of the Dark Brotherhood. so begins a contract bound in blood.
​

-A Kiss, Sweet Mother​

---

​

 

[Lillian Gray]

Irene

Name: Irene Aurefield
Age: 20
Height: 5'7"
Description: Lean with a taller than average frame. Irene has short wavy locks of a dark blonde hue, which she keeps loose around her shoulders in twin braids. She is slightly tan, but still able to be considered fair skinned, with light freckles adorning her face and arms.
Race: Breton

History: Irene grew up outside the city of Whiterun on a farm which produced mainly wheat, with only a few animals to keep the family alive during the harsh Winters. She never knew much, her family was poverty stricken after the death of their mother. With one less mouth to feed, the cost of living were less stressful, but with one less worker to tend the fields which were so precious to the family, it made life harder. Irene and her older brother did what they could to push through for their father.
When Irene was a girl she remembered hearing the call of the Greybeards from the top of the mountain. At the time, it meant so little to her, but she remembered the fearful faces of her mother and father. They told her it was unimportant, but still, she could never put away their worried looks in the back of her mind. Years later she discovered what made them fret. Through a series of odd events, Irene learned she had the ability to shout. The only person who knew was her brother, but, word got out before they could put a lid on the situation. Soon, it became known that a dragonborn was alive, living somewhere near the region of Whiterun.

Personality: Carefree and kind to a fault. Irene would sooner give away the shirt on her back than see another man freeze.
Weapons/Armor: Irene dons no armor, but keeps a dagger when working the fields alone. It's old, but is a weapon nonetheless. She never uses her shouts as a weapon, as she fears the damage that could be done with an untrained voice.

"Fus." The voice was quiet, barely audible over the rustling wind in the air. Waves of grain rolled over her head, but there was just enough force in her shout that a few stalks ahead of Irene swayed with the power of the shout. She smiled at the accomplishment, it had been a while since she'd attempted to shout, even though it was little more than a murmur among the safety of the wheat fields her family grew.

It was the only word she was familiar with. There were times though, when animals came to her side without her meaning after slipping up a word or two. Irene never meant to turn her words into shouts, it just happened. There was a notebook hidden beneath her bed, keeping track of the words she assumed to be bits of powerful language, but it was getting harder to notice her slip ups, and much harder to keep control of.

"Irene?" A new voice called over the tops of golden waves. A brown head of hair, just visible among the top of the crop, came bounding towards the girl with unknown purpose. He found her, kneeling on the ground with her hands around her mouth, whispering the word over and over again.

Fus.

"Irene, you've got to stop that." He scolded. It was Roland, Irene's elder brother. He towered over her with a thick head of dark brown hair, borderline black when it was dark. A hint of a beard grew on his face, only stubble in his futile attempts at a proper grooming. "What if somebody hears you? What if father hears you, then what?"

"Roland!" She shrieked. Irene was up on her feet in an instant, brushing the dirt off her already filthy dress. The attempt was somewhat in vain, the fabric would never be truly clean.

"Come on, it's time for dinner, I've got the pot ready." Roland sighed. "I swear, you're getting worse every day."

"Oh, you don't mean that." Irene pouted her small pink lips, lines of freckles shifted in turn as she stared unhappily at the back of her brother as he retreated towards the small farm they called home.

To say she was worse wasn't a lie. Irene found that as each day passed, she was unable to keep quiet. Her voice grew louder even when she meant it to be mouthed in the dark. She didn't know what to do. It wouldn't be long before one day the Jarl found out, and in turn, all of Skyrim would know that the Dragonborn rumors of some years ago were true. Such a simple mistake caused by a moment of curiosity would be the end of Irene Aurefield. At least, because of her proximity to the mountain where High Hrothgar was, she would have the chance at a quick escape to live in solitude among the Greybeards.

It was already known that there was a Dragonborn in existence, the question being where. The shouts were all heard near Whiterun, so some speculated it was the echoes from the mountaintop. Others believed in the rumors, and pinpointed Whiterun in order to make their own investigations. Stormcloak and Imperial alike had been at the Aurefield family's door, but every time they sent them away with little more than an apology for not being able to provide any useful information.

"I heard a rumor today." Roland said suddenly.

"And what's that?" Irene asked.

"There was a member of the Dark Brotherhood spotted, South in Riverwood." Roland pushed forward on the farm house door, turning back briefly to give Irene a look of concern. "Make sure you lock the door tonight."