I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

Ibnor and Erandur made their way through the ruined temple and once inside, the air is thick with the dust of ages and the faint, lingering scent of something acrid. Erandur led the way, his steps hesitant at first, then growing more confident as familiar landmarks appeared.

The working shrine of Mara, a small alcove with a flickering candle, stood in stark contrast to the surrounding decay. Ibnor paused for a moment, a flicker of respect in his eyes, before continuing on. Erandur stopped before a large, ornate carving on the back wall.

"Give me just a moment, and I'll have this open," he murmured, raising his hand. A faint purple glow emanated from his fingertips as he cast a spell. The carving shimmered, the stone turning a deep violet, and then silently swung inward, revealing a dark doorway beyond.

They passed through the opening and onto a balcony overlooking the tower's inner sanctum. Below them, bathed in an eerie, ethereal light, rested the Skull of Corruption. It sat atop a pedestal, pulsing faintly, like a grotesque, organic heart.

"Now I can show you the source of the nightmares," Erandur said, his voice hushed. "Over here. Behold, the Skull of Corruption, the source of Dawnstar's woes." He observed it for a brief moment before continuing, "We must reach the inner sanctum and destroy it. Come, there's no time to lose."

They descended a winding staircase, the air growing colder and heavier with each step. At the bottom, two Orcish invaders stirred from a stupor, their faces contorted in expressions of perpetual torment, their eyes wide and unfocused. They wore tattered remnants of armor and clutched rusty weapons, their postures stiff and unnatural.

The fight was too brief to be called one. The orcs, trapped in their nightmarish state, fought with a frenzied, uncoordinated desperation. Ibnor's blade moved with practiced ease, dispatching them quickly. Beyond the fallen orcs, a shimmering, translucent barrier blocked their path. It pulsed with a faint energy, humming with a low, resonant frequency.

"Damn it," Erandur cursed softly. "The priests must have activated this barrier when the Miasma was released."

"Looks difficult to breach," Ibnor commented, examining the shimmering field.

"Impossible actually," Erandur replied, his voice laced with frustration. "Hmm, I wonder… there might be a way to bypass it, but I'd need to check the library."

Ibnor turned to Erandur, a curious look on his face. "How does it feel coming back here after so long?"

Erandur hesitated, his gaze shifting to the floor. "I suppose there's no point in concealing the truth any longer. Yes, my knowledge of this temple comes from personal experience. I was a priest of Vaermina."

Ibnor remained silent, acknowledging the confession with a steady gaze. Erandur shifted uncomfortably, the silence hanging heavy between them.

"Well, aren't you going to say anything?" Erandur asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.

Ibnor took a moment, studying Erandur's face. Then, he spoke, his voice low and measured, "And what would you have me say? Condemn you for following the misguided teachings of a mad Divine? Accuse you of stealing memories from children? Curse you because when the orcs attacked, you were only concerned with yourself? Feel disgust because you fled… and left your brothers and sisters behind to die?" Ibnor paused, his gaze hardening.

"I know you have spent the last few decades living in regret and seeking redemption from Mara. And you believe by Her benevolence, you will right your wrongs."

Erandur stood silently, his head bowed, his expression etched with pain. The weight of his past pressed heavily upon him.

"How is the Skull affecting Dawnstar?" Ibnor's tone softened slightly, though his gaze remained firm. 

"Lore holds that the Skull of Corruption has a constant hunger for the memories of others," Erandur explained, his voice barely a whisper. "Untouched for so long, I fear it's gained the ability to reach out and feed on its own. What it does with these stolen memories… that's conjecture for scholars."

"I still have my key to the library. It's this way," Erandur said, pointing down a narrow corridor.

"What for?" Ibnor asked.

"To see if there's a way past this barrier," Erandur replied.

"No need for that," Ibnor said, a sly grin spreading across his face. "We just need to find a potion called 'Vaermina's Torpor.'"

Erandur's eyes widened. "How do you…?" He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. "Never mind. Right, that potion allows the taker to use dreams to travel short distances in the real world. But as a priest of Mara, I can't use it. You, however…"

"The potion would be in the laboratory, then?" Ibnor said, gesturing forward with both hands in a mock-formal flourish. "Lead the way."

Erandur stared at him, speechless, a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and a flicker of apprehension on his face. He simply turned and continued down the corridor, his mind reeling. 

Erandur led the way down a narrow, winding corridor, the stone walls damp and cold. The air grew heavier, tinged with the metallic scent of old blood. They reached a large chamber, clearly a laboratory. Alchemical equipment cluttered every surface: alembics, retorts, and crucibles sat alongside shelves overflowing with ingredients and potions in various stages of decay.

Two figures occupied the lab, another Orcish Invader, more alert than the previous two, and a Vaermina Devotee, clad in dark robes, chanting softly. They turned as Ibnor and Erandur entered, the devotee's eyes widening with a flicker of recognition before hardening into a look of hostility.

The fight was more challenging this time. The devotee wielded magic, conjuring wisps of shadowy energy that lashed out at Ibnor. Erandur, though reluctant to engage in direct combat, provided valuable support, distracting the orc and occasionally deflecting the magical attacks. Ibnor, however, took the brunt of the assault, weaving and dodging the shadowy tendrils while closing the distance to engage the devotee. Eventually, both enemies fell.

Continuing deeper into the laboratory, they encountered more resistance: a pair of Vaermina Devotees further down the corridor, then another Orcish Invader guarding a small alcove. Following Erandur's suggestion, Ibnor strategically retreated through the doorway after each encounter, allowing them to face the enemies one at a time, minimizing the risk. Erandur proved surprisingly adept at defending himself, using simple wards and deflecting spells with surprising effectiveness.

After the last enemy fell, Ibnor began searching for the Vaermina's Torpor. The laboratory was a chaotic mess, but after a few moments of searching, his eyes landed on a tall, red bottle nestled amongst other potions in a bookcase near the northeast corner of the room. Numerous other alchemical ingredients and potions lined the shelves, some bubbling ominously, others solidified into strange, crystalline forms.

Ibnor retrieved the bottle and rejoined Erandur, who was examining some alchemical notes on a table near the upper level of the lab. 

"Is this it?" Ibnor asked, holding up the red bottle.

"Yes," Erandur confirmed, his voice grave. "Take the potion if you're ready."

Ibnor uncorked the bottle, the air filling with a sickly sweet, almost cloying aroma. He hesitated for a moment, then downed the potion in one gulp. The world around him began to blur and distort, colors swirling and merging into a psychedelic haze. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and then… he was somewhere else.

He found himself in the inner sanctum, but it was different. Vibrant, alive. Two Vaermina Devotees stood near a large, ornate device, their voices echoing in the now-intact chamber. Though everything was hazy and indistinct, Ibnor could understand their conversation. He was witnessing a scene from the past, the moment of the Orcish invasion.

"Great, another one of these time travel stuff…" Ibnor muttered to himself, his voice sounding distant and muffled even to his own ears.

One of the devotees turned to him, his face indistinct in the haze. "Brother Casimir," he said, his voice echoing strangely, "are you ready to release the Miasma?"

A clattering noise echoed from somewhere beyond the sanctum, the sounds of fighting.

"I am." Ibnor, instinctively playing along, replied. 

The devotee nodded and turned back to the device. Ibnor, compelled by the vision, found himself moving, his body seemingly acting on its own. He walked down a corridor, the sounds of battle growing louder. He passed scenes of chaos and carnage: fallen orcs and priests alike, locked in eternal struggle. The air was thick with the smell of blood and ozone.

He made a left into a bedchamber, the remnants of opulent furnishings scattered across the floor. He ascended a short flight of stairs and then followed a passage to the right, navigating a winding path until he reached the upper level overlooking the sanctum once more.

He spotted it: a heavy chain connected to a large, ring-shaped pull. He reached out and grasped the ring, pulling it down with a resounding clang. A hissing sound filled the air, and a thick, purple mist began to pour from vents in the walls, filling the sanctum below. The vision began to fade, the colors swirling once more before abruptly snapping back to the present.

Ibnor found himself standing on the upper level of the ruined sanctum, the chain dangling loosely in his hand. The air was still and silent. He looked down and noticed a large, ornate soul gem resting on a small pedestal just to the left of the pull chain. He picked it up. As he did so, the shimmering barrier below flickered and then vanished, the humming frequency ceasing. The path to the Skull of Corruption was now clear.

Ibnor blinked, the swirling colors of the vision receding, leaving him standing on the upper level of the ruined sanctum. The soul gem felt warm in his hand. He looked down; the barrier below had vanished.

Erandur, who had been watching Ibnor's motionless form with a mixture of concern and anticipation, gasped as Ibnor reappeared.

"You… you were gone! Then you were… there! On the other side. It's… remarkable. We can reach the Skull now."

Ibnor nodded, still slightly disoriented. "Let's finish this."

They descended the stairs, the path to the Skull now unobstructed. The lower levels were swarming with more Orcs and Vaermina Devotees. The fighting was fierce. The Orcs, wielding heavy battleaxes, charged with brutal force, while the devotees unleashed crackling bolts of lightning and shadowy tendrils. In the earlier encounters, Ibnor had held back, testing his opponents, gauging their strength. He could have ended those fights quickly, a single well-placed blow enough to incapacitate them. But he had chosen to observe, to prolong the engagements. Now, that patience was gone.

Strategic retreats through doorways still proved useful for managing numbers, but Ibnor's approach had changed. He no longer danced around his opponents, drawing out the fight. He moved with a focused intensity, his strikes precise and devastating. The sting of glancing blows from the Orcs' axes and the searing touch of the devotees' spells were still present, but they were now merely irritants, quickly forgotten as he dispatched each foe with ruthless efficiency. Erandur, though still providing healing and support, now found himself struggling to keep pace with Ibnor's sudden shift in tempo. He paused frequently, ensuring Ibnor wasn't moving too far ahead, a look of awe and slight apprehension on his face.

As they neared the Skull's shrine, they entered a small chamber. An Orc lay slumped against a wall, seemingly unconscious. He was larger than the others, his armor more ornate, his battleaxe significantly larger.

Ibnor cautiously approached the fallen Orc, intending to search him. As his hand reached for the Orc's belt, the Orc's eyes snapped open.

"This better be good," he growled, his voice deep and menacing.

The ensuing fight was brutal, but brief. The Orc, a formidable warrior even in his weakened state, swung his massive axe with terrifying speed and power. Ibnor narrowly dodged a blow that would have cleaved him in two, the air whistling past his ear. But this time, there was no prolonged exchange. Ibnor's response was swift and decisive. He moved with a blur of speed, his blade flashing. A single, perfectly aimed strike found its mark, and the Orc crumpled to the ground, his heavy axe clattering to the floor.

They continued on, entering the final chamber. The Skull of Corruption rested on its pedestal, pulsing with an unnatural light. Two more figures stood near it: Veren and Thorek.

"Wait…" Erandur said, his voice laced with shock. "Veren… Thorek. You're alive."

"No thanks to you, Cassimir," Veren snarled.

"I no longer use that name," Erandur replied, his voice firm. "I'm Erandur, priest of Mara."

"You're a traitor," Veren spat. "You left us to die, then ran before the Miasma took you."

"I… I was scared," Erandur stammered. "I wasn't ready to sleep."

"Enough of your lies," Veren roared. "I can't allow you to destroy the Skull, priest of Mara."

"Then you leave me no choice," Erandur said, his voice hardening.

Another battle erupted. Veren and Thorek fought with desperate ferocity, driven by a mixture of loyalty to Vaermina and bitter betrayal. But against Ibnor's newfound intensity, their efforts were futile. He moved with a speed and precision that seemed almost supernatural, his blade a whirlwind of deadly force. The fight was over in a matter of moments, Veren and Thorek falling quickly before him.

After they were defeated, Erandur stood before the barrier protecting the Skull, his face etched with sorrow.

"I knew Veren and Thorek," he said, his voice heavy with grief. "They were my friends. Is this punishment for my past? Is it Mara's will to torment me so?"

"We had no choice. They were trying to kill us." Ibnor placed a hand on Erandur's shoulder. Erandur nodded slowly.

"Yes, you're right. If they needed to die for Dawnstar to live, then it was worth the price."

"It's time," Erandur said, his voice resolute. "The Skull must be destroyed. If you'll stand back, I'll perform an incantation gifted to me by Lady Mara. First, an incantation will remove the barrier. I call upon you, Lady Mara. The Skull hungers for memories and leaves nightmares in its wake. Grant me the power to break through this barrier and send the Skull to the depths of Oblivion!"

As Erandur finished the incantation, the barrier shimmered and vanished. Suddenly, a voice echoed in Ibnor's mind, cold and seductive.

"He's deceiving you," Vaermina hissed. "When the ritual's complete, the Skull will be free, and then Erandur will turn on you. Quickly! Kill him now. Kill him and claim the Skull for your own! Vaermina commands you!"

Ibnor considered the voice for a moment, then looked at Erandur, who stood with his eyes closed, preparing to complete the ritual. He made his decision. He would trust Erandur.

Ibnor ignored Vaermina's command. Erandur began the final incantation. A surge of energy erupted from him, enveloping the Skull in a blinding light. A deafening explosion shook the chamber, followed by a wave of magical energy that washed over Ibnor.

When the light subsided, the Skull of Corruption was gone. Erandur stood before Ibnor, his expression weary but resolute. He did not betray Ibnor, as Vaermina had said.

"It is done," Erandur said, his voice filled with relief. He then turned to Ibnor, a look of gratitude in his eyes. "I… I owe you my life. And more. I offer you my loyalty, my service."

They exited Nightcaller Temple. As they emerged into the crisp night air of Dawnstar, magical motes converged above the town, moving rapidly, leaving trails like threads of light. They swirled together at a single point and then shot upwards into the clouds, dissipating into the night sky. The nightmares were lifted from Dawnstar.