I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

"Barbas? Is that you?" Ibnor asked, a note of disbelief in his voice.

The dog's eyes widened, a flicker of confusion crossing its features. "Did you… did you just say my name? How do you know me? Who are you?" The questions tumbled out in a rush.

"Skyrim is now host to giants, flying lizards and two-legged cat-men… and you're surprised by me? Yes. I just said your name.And I'll say it again: Barbas." Ibnor chuckled and responded with what was originally Barbus's line with slight modification. 

"What the… I was starting to get bored, just messing with the locals. I didn't expect… this." Barbas's tail drooped slightly.

"You're waiting for the dragonborn huh? Well, good luck with that," Ibnor said, turning to leave.

"Wait! Hold on. Maybe you can help me instead. You see, my name is–well, you already know that. And I have a problem I thi…" Barbus doesn't get to finish what he's saying when Ibnor cuts him.

"You think I can help sort out. I'm afraid I'm rather busy at the moment."

"I know, I know… Wars to fight, dragons to confront, guild business to conduct. Listen, when you're ready to do someth…"

"Something useful, I can find you outside Haemar's Shame, in Falkreath." Ibnor cuts him again, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Barbar now only gives him the stink eye. 

"The Dragonborn will pass through here… someday… maybe… probably. You could just wait. Or… perhaps try patching things up with Clavicus. That might be a more productive use of your time."

"See ya, Barbas," Ibnor said with a wave, leaving the dog sputtering in indignation. Barbas watched him go, a mixture of annoyance and bewilderment etched on his canine face.

Finally arriving at the entrance of the Twilight Sepulcher, Ibnor entered the iron door with anticipation. His footsteps echoed through the vast chamber, the only sound disturbing the silence. Before him stood a spectral figure, clad in the distinctive Nightingale armor, its translucent form radiating a faint, ethereal glow. This was the Nightingale Sentinel, guardian of the Sepulcher.

As Ibnor approached, the sentinel's spectral head turned, its empty eye sockets seeming to pierce through him. A voice, hollow and resonant, filled the hall. 

"I don't recognize you, but I sense that you're one of us, at the same time, you are not. Who are you?"

"I'd ask the same question of you," Ibnor replied, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space.

"The last of the Nightingale Sentinels, I'm afraid," the sentinel responded, a note of profound sadness in its tone. "I've defended the Sepulcher alone for what seems like an eternity."

"The last? What happened to the rest?" Ibnor asked, a sense of foreboding creeping into his voice.

"We were betrayed by one of our own kind," the sentinel explained, its voice tinged with bitterness. "In fact… I'm to blame for what's happened here."

"How are you to blame?" Ibnor pressed.

"I was blinded," the sentinel confessed. "Blinded by dark treachery masquerading as friendship. Perhaps if I had been more vigilant, then Mercer Frey wouldn't have lured me to my fate and stolen the Skeleton Key."

"You are Gallus, right?" Ibnor asked. The sentinel's spectral form seemed to stiffen slightly. 

"I haven't heard that name in a long time. How do you know of me?" 

Ibnor reached into his pack, withdrawing the ornate Skeleton Key. The faint light of the Sepulcher glinted off its intricate design. 

"I have the Key."

The sentinel's spectral eyes widened, focusing on the artifact in Ibnor's hand. 

"The Key! You have the Skeleton Key! I never thought I'd see it again. And Mercer Frey…?"

"Dead," Ibnor stated simply.

A long silence hung in the air before Gallus spoke again, a sense of finality in his voice. 

"Then… it's over. My death wasn't in vain. I owe you a great deal, Nightingale."

"I did this to get rich," Ibnor stated bluntly. A faint smile touched Gallus's spectral features.

"Were I able to provide it, I'd shower you in wealth for what you've done." He then added, a hint of regret in his voice, "My only regret is that you had to undertake this task alone."

"Karliah helped me."

"Karliah… she's still alive? I feared she'd met the same fate, another victim of Mercer's betrayal."

"Then take the Key and right all the wrongs," Ibnor offered, extending his hand.

"Nothing would bring me greater pride than to return the Key to its rightful place," Gallus replied, his gaze fixed on the artifact, "but I'm afraid it's impossible. From the moment I arrived here, I've felt myself… well… dying."

"How can a spirit die?" Ibnor asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"The Sepulcher isn't merely a temple or a vault," Gallus explained, his spectral form flickering slightly. "Within these walls lies the Ebonmere… a conduit to Nocturnal's realm of Evergloam. When Mercer stole the Key, that conduit closed, severing our connection to her. We are sustained by that connection, and without it… we fade."

"Then I'll have to proceed alone," Ibnor stated, a sense of grim determination settling over him.

"I'm afraid so," Gallus confirmed, his voice growing weaker. "I'm weakening, fading. The years without the restoration of my power have taken their toll. The damage can only be corrected by following the Pilgrim's Path to the Ebonmere and returning the Key."

"The Pilgrim's Path?" Ibnor inquired.

Gallus's spectral form flickered more intensely. 

"I wish I could help you, but I've been a prisoner in this chamber for the last quarter-century. The only clue I can offer is the remains of some poor soul who attempted the same journey. Perhaps his journal can offer some guidance."

Ibnor scanned the chamber, his eyes falling on a skeletal figure slumped against the east wall, level with the stone pillars in front of the grand staircase. Beside the skeleton lay a weathered satchel. He approached cautiously, the only sound in the vast hall the crunch of his boots on the stone floor.

The skeleton was clad in tattered robes, remnants of what might have once been fine priestly garments. Ibnor knelt beside the remains, carefully examining the satchel. It was made of sturdy leather, worn but intact. He opened it to find a tattered journal, its pages filled with cramped handwriting.

Ibnor began to read, deciphering the faded script:

[I don't know why I let Anders talk me into this plan.] The journal began.

[He said the place would be full of riches, but I have yet to see even a single gold coin. To make matters worse, I think the other priests are beginning to suspect we aren't who we say we are. If they discover we're posing as priests of Nocturnal, I'm sure they're not going to simply ask us to leave nicely. I'll have to watch my step.]

[As an "acolyte of Nocturnal," I've been assigned a mentor. Old dark elf fellow by the name of Lythelus. Maybe if I act the part, I can pry some information from him about the Pilgrim's Path. Anders swears to me that all of the temple's wealth is stashed within their inner sanctum, which supposedly sits at the end of the path, so my job is to get us through the obstacles alive.]

Ibnor turned the page.

[Lythelus was easier to coax than I expected. Gave me a wealth of information on the Pilgrim's Path, but he was speaking in riddles. I'll try to record what I remember here and share it with Anders after he's done with his mentor. The only thing Lythelus seemed clear about was that there were five "tests" on the path. This what he said about each:]

["Shadows of their former selves, sentinels of the dark. They wander ever more and deal swift death to defilers."

"Above all they stand, vigilance everlasting. Beholden to the murk yet contentious of the glow."

"Offer what She desires most, but reject the material. For her greatest want is that which cannot be seen, felt or carried."

"Direct and yet indirect. The path to salvation a route of cunning with fortune betraying the foolish."

"The journey is complete, the Empress's embrace awaits the fallen. Hesitate not if you wish to gift her your eternal devotion."]

[He also mumbled some nonsensical phrases like "night is the new day" and how he was the "ghost of the sun." I have no idea what these cryptic sentiments mean, but hopefully during tomorrow's ritual, Anders and I will put everything we've learned to the test.]

Ibnor closed the journal, within those cryptic riddles lay the key to navigating the Pilgrim's Path. Ibnor looked back at the fading form of Gallus, feeling apologetic for the fact he couldn't do anything for him.

"Some things are just not meant to be…" He sighs.

Ibnor, clutching Nystrom's journal, steeled his resolve and ventured deeper into the Twilight Sepulcher. The first test awaited.

The first chamber stretched before Ibnor, a large space patrolled by two spectral Nightingale Sentinels. One stood motionless in a side alcove, standing beside an alchemy lab and a door that was cleverly concealed behind a sturdy table. The other Sentinel paced restlessly near the foot of the grand staircase, its spectral form shimmering slightly in the dim light. 

"Shadows of their former selves, sentinels of the dark. They wander ever more and deal swift death to defilers. It clearly refers to these Nightingales. So, I'll just avoid them?" he thought.

Relying on his stealth, moved like a shadow, slipping past the watchful spirits undetected. He pressed onward, down a long hallway. His keen eyes scanned the floor ahead, searching for any sign of danger. He spotted it, a subtle discoloration in the stone, a faint outline indicating the presence of a pressure plate. Ibnor carefully skirted its edge, avoiding triggering the trap. At the top of the next flight of stairs, another Sentinel stood guard, facing away from him. The stairs themselves were shrouded in absolute darkness, like a void that seemed to absorb all light. Remembering Nystrom's notes, Ibnor resisted the urge to use any light, knowing nothing good will come from it. He ascended the stairs slowly and silently, his hand trailing along the cold, rough stone wall for guidance in the darkness. He reached the top without incident, the Sentinel remaining oblivious to his presence.

The next chamber was a jarring shift from the oppressive darkness he'd just navigated. Pools of intense light, emanating from unseen sources high above, illuminated sections of the room, creating a stark contrast with the deep shadows that clung to the walls and floor. 

"Above all they stand, vigilance everlasting. Beholden to the murk yet contentious of the glow." Ibnor muttered, eyeing the brightly lit patches ahead. "Stay in the shadows. Got it. No need to test what happens in the light. This isn't the game. No save points here."

He moved cautiously, hugging the edges of the shadows like a fugitive seeking cover. His eyes darted across the floor, searching for any telltale signs of traps. He spotted the first one just as he reached the small landing after the first flight of stairs. A thin, almost invisible thread stretched taut across his path. He stepped over it carefully. 

Two more tripwires lay ahead, their positions strategically placed to catch the careless. One just before the second flight of stairs, almost hidden in the transition between light and shadow and another before a narrow wooden bridge. He navigated them with practiced ease. The final tripwire awaited at the bottom of the last set of stairs. He bypassed it and proceeded into the next hallway. 

The hallway opened into a chamber dominated by a towering statue of Nocturnal, her serene, enigmatic features barely visible in the dim light. A contorted bandit corpse sprawled at its base—a stark testament to the Sepulcher's dangers. Before the statue, a simple wooden tray held a meager offering: a few glinting gold coins and dull soul gems. Ibnor recalled the riddle. 

"Offer what She desires most, but reject the material. For her greatest want is that which cannot be seen, felt or carried." Ibnor's gaze swept the chamber. Darkness. He knew what to do.

He ran his fingertips along the cold, rough-hewn stone walls, the air thick with dust and damp earth. Behind the flickering torches flanking the statue, his fingers brushed against something metallic. Two heavy chains. He grasped one and pulled. With a groan of rusted metal, the nearest torch sputtered, its flames shrinking to embers before dying, leaving a wisp of smoke. He pulled the other. The second torch followed, plunging the chamber into near-total darkness, save for the faint glimmer from the hallway. A low grinding echoed through the chamber as a section of the wall behind the Nocturnal statue slowly slid open, revealing a dark passage.

The newly revealed passage led to a long corridor. A direct path led straight to a door at the end, but Ibnor immediately noticed the numerous traps: two pressure plates and a menacing pendulum swinging rhythmically. He also saw the glint of metal near the end of the pendulum's swing – another pressure plate, likely triggering more traps. 

"Direct and yet indirect. The path to salvation a route of cunning with fortune betraying the foolish. Direct is the trap. So, not direct." Ibnor scanned the surroundings. "A hidden passage." He dismissed the obvious path. 

To his left, just before the pendulum trap, he spotted a master-locked door. Drawing the Skeleton Key, he effortlessly unlocked it and slipped through. The door led to a small chamber guarded by two more Nightingale Sentinels. Again, Ibnor used stealth to pass them unnoticed, continuing through the connecting corridors until he reached the door to the Twilight Sepulcher Inner Sanctum.

The doors opened onto a chamber with nothing inside, except a deep well. 

"The journey is complete, the Empress's embrace awaits the fallen. Hesitate not if you wish to gift her your eternal devotion. What riddle? Isn't this just simply telling me to jump?" Ibnor thought.

Ibnor dropped into the well, landing with a roll that absorbed most of the impact. He rose, brushing himself off, and noticed the skeletal remains scattered nearby. It had to be Anders, just as Nystrom had described. But as he began to examine them, the ground beneath his feet gave way with a low rumble, plunging him into darkness once more. The well floor was a hidden lift, descending into a secret chamber. When the motion stopped, a soft, ethereal glow illuminated the chamber. Three colossal door-like portals, each a swirling vortex of vibrant blue energy, within the space, their surfaces rippling and flowing like celestial rivers. And there, at his feet, was the circular lock—the Ebonmere.

Ibnor slid the Skeleton Key into the lock with a distinct click, and the Ebonmere activated. A wave of icy air washed over him as a swirling vortex of darkness opened before him, a gateway to another realm. From its depths, Nocturnal, Empress of Shadows, materialized, her presence not a simple arrival, but a gradual coalescence of shadow and power. An aura of ancient, otherworldly might radiated from her, silencing the chamber and animating the shadows, which writhed with unnatural sentience. The Pilgrim's Path has been passed.

"My, my," Nocturnal murmured, her voice a silken whisper that echoed with agelessness. 

"It's been… a measure of time since I've graced your world with my presence. Or perhaps a fleeting instant. Such distinctions blur, you see. So, once again, the Key has been… misplaced, and a 'champion' returns it to the Sepulcher. Ebonmere is restored. You stand before me, expecting… accolades? A pat on the head? A kiss on the cheek?" A subtle shift in her tone hinted at amusement. 

"You mistake the nature of this exchange. Your actions were foreseen, a mere fulfillment of your… agreement." She paused, her gaze sweeping over Ibnor, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. 

"Don't mistake my tone for displeasure, after all, you've obediently performed your duties to the letter. But we both know this has little to do with honor and oaths and loyalty. It's about the reward; the prize. Fear not. You'll have your trinkets, your desire for power, your hunger for wealth." 

She gestured towards the swirling darkness of the Ebonmere. 

"I bid you to drink deeply from the Ebonmere, mortal. For this is where the Agent of Nocturnal is born. The Oa—"

Nocturnal's words faltered. Her gaze snapped back to Ibnor, a genuine flicker of surprise crossing her features. 

"It's… you." A beat of silence. "Why are you here?" A brief flash of confusion, quickly masked by a return to her usual composure. 

"Not that I… object. It's… fortuitous. Yes, quite fortuitous. Now that the conduit is open… you should also partake. Drink from the Ebonmere." Her tone shifted, becoming almost insistent. "You must drink."

With a snap of her fingers, Karliah materialized beside her, kneeling instantly. 

"Lady Nocturnal?"

"You've done excellently," Nocturnal said, her voice regaining its usual authority. 

"The Oath is struck, the die is cast," Nocturnal declared, her voice regaining its former authority. "Your fate awaits in the Evergloam. Farewell, Nightingale. See to it the Key remains secure this time." 

A final, lingering glance at Ibnor, and Nocturnal vanished, leaving only the lingering chill of her presence. Karliah rose, turning to Ibnor.

"I'm glad you were able to bring the Key back safely. Nocturnal seemed quite pleased with your efforts."

"My efforts? Sounds like she didn't care about it one bit," Ibnor replied.

"Perhaps it's you she's pleased about," Karliah countered. "I wouldn't take that to heart. It's her way. Think of her as a scolding mother continually pushing you harder to be successful; outwardly sounding angry but silently content. I assure you, had she been displeased with you, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"You meant to say 'with me'," Ibnor clarified.

"Yes, yes," Karliah chuckled. 

"What's this about becoming an Agent of Nocturnal?" Ibnor asked, gesturing towards the swirling darkness of the Ebonmere.

"The circles at its base imbue you with powers befitting a Nightingale," Karliah explained, indicating three distinct areas. "The crescent moon represents the Agent of Shadow, the half moon for Subterfuge, and the full moon for Strife."

She elaborated: "The Agent of Shadow is the master of remaining unseen, manipulating darkness to their advantage. On moonlit nights or in darkened rooms, they become truly invisible for a short time while sneaking. The Agent of Subterfuge uses shadow to cloud the judgment of those around them, weaving darkness to manipulate nearby enemies into fighting each other for a brief period. And the Agent of Strife sends forth a tendril of pure darkness into an enemy's heart, causing great injury while bolstering their own life force."

"Why can't I be all three?" Ibnor asked.

"Nocturnal maintains balance," Karliah replied. "If you wish to change your abilities, return to the Sepulcher and step onto a different circle. But be warned, you can't reselect for at least a day."

"So, what now?"

"Now, your life as a Nightingale begins. You'll be summoned to the Sepulcher should it need defending."

"Me? Nightingale?

"The way Nocturnal treats you, I would consider you as one.

"And you?"

"The Guild has welcomed me back. A void in my life is finally filled. I hope this isn't an ending, but a beginning."

"A beginning of what?"

"Perhaps the greatest crime spree Skyrim's ever known," Karliah grinned. "There are pockets brimming with coins and coffers overflowing with riches. We may be Nightingales, but we're still thieves at heart—and damn good ones."

As Ibnor turned to leave, a shimmering figure materialized near the Ebonmere.

"Karliah?" Gallus's voice echoed in the chamber.

"Gallus!" Karliah gasped, rushing to him. "I feared I'd never see you again. I was afraid you'd become like the others."

"If not for this… person," Gallus said, gesturing toward Ibnor, "your fears would have been realized. They honor us all."

"What will you do now, my love?" Karliah asked softly.

"Nocturnal calls me to the Evergloam. My contract is fulfilled."

"Will I ever see you again?"

"When your debt to Nocturnal is paid, we'll embrace once more."

"Farewell, Gallus. Eyes open… walk with the shadows."

"Goodbye, Karliah." Gallus faded into the swirling darkness of the Ebonmere, disappearing into the Evergloam.

"Where did Gallus go?" Ibnor asked, turning back to Karliah.

"His oath is paid," she explained. "His spirit becomes one with the Evergloam—the realm of perpetual twilight, the cradle of shadow."

"So, he's gone?"

"Not gone. He's become one with the shadows. It's the greatest honor a Nightingale can achieve. In death, he becomes part of what sustains us."

"Walk with the shadows huh?"

"Absolutely. When we say 'walk with the shadows,' we ask those Nightingales who have passed to protect us. They guide our uncanny luck, placing their hands in ours. That's why the Ebonmere had to be reopened. Without it, Nocturnal couldn't allow them through."