We approach the bridge leading to the Reaver Citadel and catch the tail end of an argument between Vanus and the Dremora, Lyranth. Like most sane people, Vanus is not terribly fond of Dremora.


    “You’re the one I met in Shadowfen, aren’t you?” Theryn asks when she spots the Dremora.


    “Ah, the mortal remembers me,” Lyranth says. “How nice.”


    “Shadowfen, huh?” I say. “What’s the story, there?”


    “The Dominion did terrible things in Shadowfen,” Theryn tells me accusingly. “I’m working with this group to stop the Planemeld, but I won’t forgive the deaths of innocents your people caused.”


    “I’m afraid I don’t know much about what’s been going on outside of Dominion territories,” I say. “I’ve been busy dealing with Worm Cultists, Sea Elves, racist bandits, and weird magic.”


    “A High Elf alchemist was using weird magic to replace people with copies,” Theryn says.


    “I hate weird magic,” I say.


    “And he murdered a bunch of Argonian eggs and was trying to attack the Hist,” Theryn says.


    I scowl. “I definitely don’t condone killing children, and I have great respect for the Hist. Tell me you killed this fetcher.”


    Theryn stares at me intently, then gives a sharp nod.


    “Good,” I say. “I would have had to behead him myself and stick his head on a pike otherwise.”


    “I… didn’t put his head on a pike, though.” She looks at me consideringly. “Why are you the only one of the Alliance leaders who came to Coldharbour? Why did you come?”


    “Oh, it’s personal,” I say. “I might even eventually tell you the story.” (Or at least a highly edited version of it, considering how devout she is toward the ones who murdered me. Unless, of course, she comes to her senses, but I won’t count on it.)


    The citadel we’re about to storm is, unsurprisingly, another city that got pulled from Nirn. It’s a little distressing to think how much of Nirn has been yanked into Oblivion. Okay, not a little, but I have things to do, I can’t stand around being distressed. We need to find a way inside. They want to launch an attack from the guildhalls in the city, which will require subverting the wards.


    Get someone inside, deactivate the wards, and open a portal straight into the guildhall, completely bypassing the defenses on the walls. I should conquer every city this way. If I were so inclined to be conquering cities, that is. I am, after all, a meek and peaceful person with no war-like inclinations whatsoever.


    Up ahead, Lyranth is casually waiting for us, leaning against a half-crumbled bit of masonry. The Orc, Skordo, is watching her, because someone told him to watch her, and he is doing exactly that even if she’s not terribly entertaining to be watching at the moment.


    Lyranth wants to help us, and just as casually tells us about a breach in the walls we can use to slip inside unnoticed. We find it near some of the shipwrecks that fell onto the cliffs rather than into the basin to the east, and might have completely missed it had we not been specifically looking for it. In fact, Lyranth shows up again and mentions she hid the gap with illusions to make sure the other Dremora didn’t notice it.


    “Why are you helping us?” Tom asks.


    “I’m betting she wants revenge on the Deathbringer clan and Valkynaz Seris specifically,” I say. “And I’m betting she can’t attack him directly so she’s just putting us on a path that will result in him being in our way.”


    “Hmh,” Lyranth says. “You are surprisingly well informed, little mortal.”


    “You wrote a book and left it laying on the ground,” I say. “Or is it lying? Whatever, I can never keep those words straight.”


    “Why would she be hoping we’d fight other Dremora?” Theryn asks.


    “The Dremora aren’t a cohesive unit,” I say. “Like, say, Bosmer clans, or Dunmer houses, they’re as likely to be bitter rivals as allies.”


    (At least, I assume Dunmer houses are just as friendly with one another as Chimer houses were. Theryn is nodding, so I guess so.)


    I have a theory that the Dremora weren’t originally Daedra, but were once a mortal race who sold their souls for immortality or something and became Vestiges. There’s no evidence of a Dremora-like race ever having existed on Tamriel, but there are continents on Nirn we still know little about. Not to mention that if certain mythological texts are accurate, Nirn was not the only world of creation. Twelve worlds were created, smashed up, and merged into Nirn. The Hist were from one of those other worlds, weren’t they?


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    What if the Dremora, and perhaps some of the other Daedric races, were inhabitants of those worlds who took refuge in Oblivion to survive? Or even, didn’t survive, and now the ones who worshipped the Daedric Princes are living out their eternities in their realms. I don’t have any way of knowing, really. Unless I can convince a Dremora to talk about where they came from, assuming they even remember.


    Maybe I’ll write my own rambling, speculative mythological tomes. Many of them sound like they were written on drugs anyway. Whether the Dremora originated from Oblivion or not, their time in it has not done them any kindness. If all the Orcs were to die and become Daedra of the Ashpit, would they fare better? The constant influx of new souls ensures that they don’t stagnate, but I could see them slipping were they to have literally nothing to do but fight all the time.


    “Neri?” Eran asks.


    “Just making some notes and considering some plans,” I say.


    Eran smirks. “Yep. I’m sure you were. Are you ready to go yet?”


    “Yeah, yeah. Alright, let’s split up,” I say. “Merry, Ilara-daro, and Farry, find some elevated positions you can rain arrows and fire down from. Tom and Eran, see if you can secure the Mages Guild. Theryn and Gelur, you’re with me. We’re going to secure the Fighters Guild.”


    “On it,” Eran says.


    The city might have once been located somewhere in Cyrodiil, but now it’s just as trashed as everyplace else (with one notable exception) that winds up in this hellhole. The buildings are crumbling, and full of things like soul gems and torture equipment.


    I know I saw no end of what the Daedra did to places when I was imprisoned here before. But I’d become somewhat inured to it, and it was only after seeing what things should look like in a living, breathing world that it really hit me how horrible this place is. I want to return this piece to Nirn as well, but I have no idea where I’d even begin to go about actually doing that. Even if it remained a ruin, it still deserves to be a ruin under the sun of Cyrodiil.


    I’m getting sentimental about displaced landscape. I’d best focus. There’s a lot of killing to be done and I’m pissed. Plenty of Daedra between here and where I need to be that need to be discorporated.


    Our approach mostly goes off without a hitch. Farry winds up spraining an ankle trying to jump from roof to roof and hitting a crumbling spot, so we have to get her healed up. Soon enough, though, Vanus and Colors are in charge of their respective guildhalls and our troops are pouring into the city. The disorganized Daedra are hit with a multi-pronged attack from within that they never see coming.


    In one of the more intact buildings (with a sign labeled “Bha’s Bargains”), a Xivilai (probably named Bha) wearing Imperial-style armor for some reason has set up a shop and seems disinclined to fight us, so we leave him be.


    “I prefer trading to killing mortals,” Bha says. “You should be grateful.”


    “Really?” I say. “Because you’re probably the only Daedra in the city that hasn’t been discorporated. I don’t imagine your chances would have been any better than the small army of Dremora we just ousted when we captured the fortress.”


    “They’ll be back,” Bha says. “That won’t keep them away forever.”


    “Daedra don’t die like mortals, yeah, I know,” I say. “It’s fine. I didn’t need them gone forever. I just needed them out of my way.”


    “Congratulations on your fleeting victory, then,” Bha says. “Now, do you want to make a deal, or not? I have goods for sale. Perhaps some potions to delay the inevitable demise of your fleshy bodies?”


    A note I find indicates that this city isn’t just a remnant of some bygone era, but was pulled into Coldharbour recently, by a Dark Anchor. The Fighters Guild was able to evacuate at least some of the city before it was lost. I wish someone had at least mentioned what the name of the town was.


    Beyond the upper city stands a Daedric pyramid, all spiky and black, with spiky chains and spiky crystals. Banners with Molag Bal’s emblem hang outside in the still air. Lyranth and some of my allies are waiting for me outside. (Sometimes, I’m not sure whether people wait for me because they think they’ve a better chance of success with me along, or because they think I might be sad to miss out on a fight. Probably the former. Only my friends are likely to think of the latter.)


    Valkynaz Seris is inside the pyramid with a key to a labyrinth that we need in order to get to the Endless Stair, which Cadwell says will lead us to the planar vortex. (I really hope someone has figured out a way to fix that by now, otherwise I’m going to fight my way there and stand around going “well, now what?” until I die. No matter. I’ll focus on doing my part and the magey types can do theirs.)


    Lyranth has to open the way into the pyramid for us, which requires a blood ritual with a willing offering of Dremora blood. I suppose it’s a good thing she was with us, then, or we’d have to get creative. I’m sure it would still have been possible to get in somehow, but it would likely have required considerably more time. I firmly believe that there is nothing in existence with only one way in or out of. Finding them, however, can be tricky.


    I know I can kill Seris. No problem. The challenge? Killing him before he can monologue too much about Lyranth and puny mortals. Lyranth wants me to kill him slowly and painfully, but fuck that.


    We kill Valkynaz Seris. Lyranth is quite happy, and takes over the place to the cheers of Dremora who apparently didn’t like the previous Valkynaz terribly much.


    “The key is yours, as are my thanks,” Lyranth says.


    “It’s been a pleasure,” I say, pocketing it.


    “Should we meet again, I might kill you,” Lyranth says casually.


    I grin wildly. “You can try.”


    I head back outside to meet up with my allies and debrief on the situation. Success from all corners. We’ve established an outpost on Molag Bal’s doorstep. Gelur and anyone else with knowledge of restoration magic are healing up the injured. Ilara hops down from a rooftop next to me, grinning, and gives me a nod.


    “Fantastic,” I say. “The citadel is ours.”


    “For the moment,” Colors says. “We’re sweeping the streets and buildings, and shoring up our defenses, but we won’t be able to hold it against a serious push.”


    “Fortunately, we probably won’t need to,” I say. “We need to keep up our momentum rather than trying to entrench ourselves here too much.”


    “Indeed,” Vanus says. “The Labyrinth is just ahead. Now that you have acquired the key, we can move on once we’re ready.”


    “I’m ready if you are,” I say, looking at him intently.


    I don’t ask aloud whether or not he has a plan. I don’t force him to tell me that for all his powerful greatness and great powerfulness, he has as little idea on how to fix this as I do. This isn’t saving the world. This is pushing forward, hitting everything in my way, while hoping something happens to accidentally save the world. It has worked for me so far.