I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

The echoes of their earlier conversation still lingered in the air, a phantom counterpoint to the oppressive silence that now filled the chamber. Loki's declaration – "To return" – hung between them, a statement made which strangely resonated within her. It was such a simple two words but it conveyed a wish, a desire… a belonging. She knows not of his circumstances but the words he uttered contain nothing but the truth. She can feel it.

Suddenly, Loki sensed a shift in the temperature. The arrival of the vampire's reinforcements was heralded not by a grand entrance, but by a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere. The temperature plummeted, the already chill air becoming biting, raising goosebumps on Loki's arms beneath his torn tunic. A palpable pressure descended upon the chamber, a feeling of being watched, of being hunted. 

The faint scent of dust and damp stone, so characteristic of the crypt, was abruptly replaced by a metallic tang, the unmistakable aroma of fresh blood, thick and cloying. It was a scent Loki knew well, a scent that always preceded violence. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, his senses sharpening, every fiber of his being screaming danger.

Then, they materialized from the shadows, not as individuals, but as a cohesive force of darkness. They were not the same ragged, feral creatures they had encountered earlier in the crypt. These were powerful, ancient vampires, their features refined, almost aristocratic, yet twisted with a predatory hunger. Their eyes burned with a cold, crimson intensity, glowing like embers in the dim light of the chamber. They moved with a fluid grace that belied their inhuman strength, their dark clothing – rich velvets and dark leathers – whispering against the cold stone.

At their head stood a figure of imposing stature, a vampire whose presence radiated an aura of ancient power. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his face etched with deep lines of age and experience, yet his posture was straight, his movements controlled. His eyes, pools of deep crimson, seemed to pierce through Loki's very soul, assessing him with a chilling detachment. A heavy, ornate ring adorned one of his gauntleted hands, catching the torchlight and casting a fleeting crimson gleam. The air around him crackled with unseen energy, a testament to his immense power.

Loki glanced at Serana, who was still recovering from her long slumber. She swayed slightly, her hand going to her head. "I..." she murmured, her voice weak. "I don't think I can..."

"You need to hide," Loki interrupted, his voice urgent but low, not wanting to alert the approaching vampires to her presence. He gestured towards a shadowed alcove behind a crumbling pillar. "They can't get the Scroll. Not while I can still stand."

Serana looked at him, her amethyst eyes filled with a mixture of fear and reluctant understanding. "But..."

"No buts," Loki said firmly. "Go. Now." He met her gaze, his expression leaving no room for argument. "This is about more than just us. If they get that Scroll..." He trailed off, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air.

Serana nodded weakly, her movements still unsteady, and quickly moved towards the alcove, disappearing into the shadows.

The fight was immediate and brutal. There was no pretense of parley, no exchange of words. The vampires moved with coordinated precision, their attacks swift and deadly. One lunged at Loki with inhuman speed, a blur of dark clothing and outstretched claws. Another targeted Harin, his movements a fluid dance of death, his rapier flashing like silver lightning. A third moved to flank them, cutting off any chance of retreat.

Loki, drawing upon his enhanced speed and agility, danced between their strikes, his fists and feet a whirlwind of motion. He felt the sting of a claw raking across his arm, a searing pain that he forced himself to ignore. He retaliated with a swift kick, sending one of the vampires stumbling back. Harin fought fiercely at his side, her daggers flashing like silver lightning, drawing thin red lines across the vampires' exposed skin. But even her considerable skill, her years of training and experience, was barely enough to hold back the tide of their attackers. The vampires were stronger, faster, their movements imbued with an unnatural power.

Loki saw it in her eyes, reflected in the flickering torchlight: the unwavering determination, the fierce refusal to yield, the burning loyalty that made her stand by his side even in the face of overwhelming odds. But he also saw the dawning realization of their predicament, the subtle flicker of fear that betrayed the bravado. They were outnumbered, outmatched. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that they couldn't both survive this onslaught. He had to make a choice. A choice that would weigh heavily on his soul long after the echoes of this battle faded.

A vampire, momentarily staggered by a well-placed kick from Loki, stumbled back, creating a brief opening. It was a fleeting opportunity, a sliver of time in the chaos of battle, but Loki seized it without hesitation. With a swift, precise movement, he delivered a sharp blow to the back of Harin's head, just hard enough to knock her unconscious. He caught her as she fell, lowering her gently to the ground.

A pang of guilt, sharp and immediate, pierced Loki's heart. It felt like a betrayal, striking down his ally, but he knew with chilling certainty that it was the only way to ensure her survival. Every second they remained engaged with these powerful vampires diminished their chances. He had to act, and he had to act now.

With practiced swiftness, he reached into his belt pouch, his fingers closing around the tightly rolled teleportation scroll. It wasn't just any scroll; it was a carefully procured and painstakingly prepared artifact, a costly investment that could transport a single individual to a predetermined location in Cyrodiil. He had spent weeks bartering for it, navigating the shadowy markets of Skyrim's underbelly, finally securing it from a secretive merchant in Riften. He had even taken the additional precaution of enchanting it further, ensuring its accuracy and adding a layer of protection against magical interference. The destination was a small, well-hidden inn nestled in the foothills west of Bruma, a place Harin had once mentioned as a safe haven.

He held the scroll tightly in his hand, his gaze lingering for a moment on Harin's unconscious form. A swirling vortex of vibrant blue energy erupted around Harin, engulfing her in its ethereal light. The air crackled with power, a tangible wave of magical energy washing over the chamber. In an instant, she was gone, leaving behind only the lingering scent of ozone and the faint echo of the teleportation spell.

Loki's gaze returned to the vampires, his expression hardening. The brief moment of respite was over. He whispered a silent apology to the empty space where Harin had just been, the words a silent promise to return to her, a vow etched in the very core of his being.

Now alone, he faced the vampires with renewed ferocity, a cold, focused determination replacing the previous hesitation. The weight of responsibility, the knowledge that Harin's safety now rested solely on his shoulders, fueled his every move. He became a whirlwind of motion, a blur of fists and feet, dodging and weaving between their attacks with an almost preternatural grace. He no longer fought to simply defend himself; he fought to distract, to divert, to draw their attention away from Serana's hidden alcove.

He led them deeper into the crypt, using his intimate knowledge of the tunnels to his advantage. He knew the hidden passages, the crumbling walls, the unstable sections of the floor. He used these to create diversions, triggering minor collapses, sending debris raining down on his pursuers, creating precious seconds of breathing room. He set simple traps, using loose stones and debris to trip them up, slowing their pursuit. He was a master of misdirection, a phantom in the darkness, leading them on a desperate chase through the labyrinthine depths of Dimhollow Crypt.

The fight had been a brutal, draining ordeal. Every breath rasped in his throat, each inhale a painful reminder of the punishment he'd endured. Bruises blossomed across his skin, mingling with the dark stains of blood that seeped through his torn clothes. Yet, he pressed on, driven by a desperate, primal need. The scroll was his lifeline, his only hope of returning to his own time.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of clawing and biting, he broke free from the vampires' relentless pursuit. He staggered through the echoing darkness of the tunnels, his body screaming in protest with every step, his mind reeling from the violence.

He stumbled back to Serana, each movement slow and agonizing. The battle had taken its toll; every breath was a painful echo of the struggle. Serana watched him approach, her amethyst eyes clouded with a mixture of concern and apprehension. The sight of him—bruised, bloodied, his clothes ripped and stained—clearly unsettled her.

"I need your help," he rasped, his voice raw and strained. "The scroll… it can show me the way back."

Serana regarded the Elder Scroll she held with a mixture of curiosity and unease. "Show you the way back? Back where?"

"To my own time," Loki explained, a flicker of renewed determination in his voice. "I came here through it. There has to be a way back."

Serana wordlessly offered him the scroll.

With painstaking care, he unfurled the ancient parchment. A faint shimmer radiated from its surface, a subtle hum vibrating in the air around it. As he focused his will, his desperate yearning for home, strange symbols and swirling patterns began to coalesce on the scroll. They shifted and reformed, fleeting images flickering across its surface.

A jolt of raw energy surged through him, a searing pain that ripped through his body, forcing a cry from his lips. His vision blurred, the chamber dissolving into a chaotic vortex of colors and shapes. In the swirling chaos, fragmented images flashed before his eyes: a desolate, snow-swept landscape whipped by icy winds; the crumbling ruins of a fortress perched atop a windswept hill; and, most strikingly, a distinct mask. It was a Dragon Priest mask, intricately carved from a dark, wooden material, radiating an unnatural, palpable power. Its empty eye sockets glowed with an eerie, internal light, seeming to bore into his very soul. Then, a whisper, clear and distinct amidst the cacophony in his mind: 

"Labyrinthian."

The vision snapped away, leaving Loki gasping, his body trembling with residual energy. The scroll's surface returned to its mundane appearance, the shimmering aura fading, leaving only the faint, sharp tang of ozone in the air.

"What… what was that?" Serana asked, her eyes wide with concern, her hand instinctively reaching towards him before hesitating.

Loki clutched the scroll, his mind still reeling from the fragmented images. He felt disoriented, as if he'd been yanked through countless realities. "It showed me… a place," he managed, his voice still ragged. "Labyrinthian. And a mask… a Dragon Priest mask. I think… I think it can take me home."

He recounted the vision to Serana, describing the desolate, wind-scoured landscape, the crumbling ruin clinging to the hillside, and the stark image of the mask. 

"It felt… familiar," he said, meeting her gaze. "Like I'd seen it before, or… been there."

"And the scroll?" Serana asked, her voice soft.

"Dormant," Loki replied, gesturing to the Elder Scroll now resting in his hand. "Like a bowstring released after being drawn taut. It needs time to recover."

"So… what does that mean?"

"It means I have what I need," Loki said, his voice firming. "The location. Labyrinthian. That's where I have to go."

Serana's brow furrowed. "And what about us? What about… them?" She gestured vaguely in the direction the vampires had retreated.

"They'll be back," Loki said grimly. "Which is why…" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "The safest thing for you… is to go back."

"Back?" Serana's eyes widened slightly. "Back to… that?" She gestured towards the now-open sarcophagus.

"It's temporary," Loki reassured her, meeting her gaze. "It's the best way to keep you safe. And the Scroll. They can't get to either of you there."

"But… What about the prophecy?" Serana asked, her voice laced with worry.

"It will wait," Loki said firmly. "I'll come for you. I give you my word." He met her gaze, his sincerity clear in his eyes.

Serana studied his face, taking in the exhaustion etched there, the bloodstains marring his clothes, the genuine concern reflected in his eyes. She gave a slow, reluctant nod. 

"I understand," she murmured, though her voice held a note of resignation.

She reached out and took the scroll back, her fingers brushing against his. A faint spark, a lingering echo of the scroll's power, passed between them, a fleeting connection that sent a shiver through them both.

"Be careful," she whispered, her amethyst eyes filled with a mixture of worry and a nascent spark of trust, a fragile seed of hope planted in the darkness of their situation.

With a heavy heart, Serana turned and walked towards her sarcophagus, her footsteps echoing softly in the vast chamber. She lay down within its cold confines, her gaze lingering on Loki for a moment before the heavy stone lid slid shut with a soft, final thud, sealing her within once more.

Loki stood alone, the silence of the crypt pressing in on him once more. He cast one last glance at the sarcophagus, a silent vow echoing in his heart. Then, he turned and began his journey back through the crypt, his mind fixed on his destination: Labyrinthian. His journey was far from over. It had only just begun. The whispers of Labyrinthian beckoned, promising a path home, but also hinting at unknown dangers and mysteries that lay ahead.

The journey to Labyrinthian was a stark departure from the claustrophobic confines of Dimhollow Crypt. Loki now traversed the vast, open expanse of Skyrim, a land of jagged peaks that clawed at the sky, swirling snowstorms that blotted out the sun, and the skeletal remains of ancient forests that stood like grim sentinels. The journey was a grueling test of endurance, a constant battle against the unforgiving elements and the lingering ache of his wounds. Though not life-threatening, the injuries he'd sustained in the crypt throbbed with every step, a persistent reminder of the price he had paid.

He encountered wandering hunters, cautious travelers, and the occasional patrol of Imperial soldiers, fleeting moments of human contact in the desolate wilderness. He kept these interactions brief, offering simple, fabricated explanations for his travels, his true purpose carefully concealed. Revealing his quest, his origins, would only invite unwanted attention and jeopardize his already precarious mission.

The whispers of Labyrinthian, once a distant echo in his mind, grew stronger with each league he covered. He consulted tattered maps, questioned weary travelers about ancient ruins, and followed faint, overgrown trails left by those brave or foolish enough to venture into the desolate region. The very name, Labyrinthian, resonated with the weight of history, a hushed testament to forgotten magic and ancient power.

The frigid air within the ruin bit at Loki's exposed skin, a stark contrast to the wind-whipped plains he'd just crossed. The scent of dust and decay was thick, overlaid with a faint, metallic tang that hinted at past violence. He moved with a practiced economy of motion, his senses honed, every muscle coiled and ready to react.

The approach to the main structure was framed by two colossal, weathered arches, like the skeletal fingers of some long-dead giant. Beyond them stood the first section of wall, pierced by a smaller, crumbling archway. As Loki passed through it, a low growl echoed from the shadows ahead. A hulking frost troll, its thick, matted fur dusted with snow, lumbered into view, its icy breath pluming in the cold air. Its eyes, small and beady, fixed on Loki with predatory hunger. Loki didn't draw his dagger immediately. He assessed the creature's bulk, its clumsy movements. He knew he couldn't match its raw power, but he could exploit its weaknesses. As the troll charged, Loki sidestepped with surprising agility, using the momentum of the troll's charge against it, sending it stumbling into the stone wall. Before the beast could recover, Loki launched himself onto its back, using his weight and leverage to force it to the ground. He then swiftly drew his dagger, plunging it into the troll's neck with a precise, forceful strike.

Beyond the troll's frozen corpse, a flight of crumbling stone stairs led upwards. From the top, Loki surveyed the sprawling ruin. Levels rose and fell around him, connected by precarious stairways and crumbling walkways. Below, the main path continued, but a separate set of stairs also led to a raised area on his left. He opted for the main path, the circular structure ahead drawing his attention. He moved with a fluid, almost catlike grace, navigating the uneven terrain with ease.

The entrance to the circular building faced northwest. As Loki approached, he noticed a skeletal figure slumped against the inner wall. It was a Breton, judging by the remnants of his clothing, his bones picked clean by scavengers or the passage of time. An Orcish dagger protruded from his ribcage, a grim testament to his final moments. Beside the skeleton lay a tattered note, its ink faded but still legible.

Loki crouched beside the skeleton, his movements precise and controlled. He carefully picked up the note, his fingers brushing against the brittle parchment. The crude, almost illiterate scrawl told a tale of mercenary work gone wrong.

Loki's gaze fell upon the skeleton's face. There, resting on its skull, was the mask. It was crafted from dark wood, intricately carved with swirling patterns and stylized facial features. He reached out and his fingers brushed the cool, smooth wood of the mask. 

The moment his skin made contact, the mask shimmered, then dissolved into a swirling vortex of golden motes. The motes danced around him in a tight circle, a whirlwind of light that illuminated the dusty chamber. 

Loki instinctively braced himself, expecting some dramatic transformation or surge of power. But instead of an external effect, he felt a subtle warmth spread through his body, a gentle hum beneath his skin. The golden light faded, the motes vanishing as if absorbed into his very being. He looked down at his hands, expecting to see some lingering trace of the magic, but his skin was unchanged. He felt no immediate change in his strength or speed. His connection to the world remained physical, grounded in his own honed abilities. 

Yet, a deep sense of certainty settled within him. The mask was no longer an external object; it was a part of him now. This was it. The Wooden Mask. He hurriedly checked his panel for the first time after a long while, and the discovery shocked him.

___________________________________________________

Ibnor

Status

Slightly Injured

Stats 

Strength

46.8

Agility

51.2

Mental

47.6

Physique

50.8

Sub-Stat

Charm

19.3

Active Effect

[Resist Frost +10%], [Resist Poison +10%], [Resist Magic +15%] 

Skills

Passive

[Enhanced Condition], [Close Quarter Combat - Master], [Parkour - Expert], [Dragon's Tongue - Beginner], [Dibellan Arts - Expert], [Choronmancy - Beginner]

Active

[Archery (74.2)], [Blacksmithing (35.2)], [One Handed (89.6)], [Two Handed (51.3)], [Block (55.6)], [Alchemy (25.1)], [Sneak (92.3)], [Lockpicking (75.2)], [Pickpocket (79.2)],

Spells

[Telekinesis], [Bound Bow], [Magelight],

Shout

[Shout (Unrelenting Force) - FUS], [Shout (Disarm) - ZUN]

Abilities

[Agent of Nocturnal], [Agent of Akatosh],

Notification

*The Passion Dancer is happy with you.

*The Mistress of Night and Darkness likes you.

*The Father of Manbeasts finds you amusing.

*The Master of Insidious Wishes is aware of you.

*The World Eater bears hostility towards you through the echoes of time.

*The Dragon God of Time is now aware of you.

___________________________________________________

His eyes snagged on something new in his Stats: Enhanced Condition. He quickly tapped the entry to view the details:

Enhanced Condition:

User's mental and physical condition is greater than that of the peak members of their species.

It was an upgrade of his previous Peak Human Condition. His heart pounded in his chest. He navigated to the [Ability] tab, his fingers trembling slightly. There it was:

Agent of Nocturnal: 

As a being favoured by Norturnal, you are free to use the ability she granted to those who entered the contract with her. [Stealth, Subterfuge, Strife]

Agent of Akatosh:

After assimilating the artifact of Akatosh, you've gained the ability of chronomancy. 

Warning: Repeated usage within a short period of time will create a Time Knot, causing user to become trapped in a repeating time loop.

Warning: Any action that causes a time fracture will draw the attention of The Psijic Order.

"Holy shit…" Loki breathed, his voice barely a whisper. 

"This is… Damn…" He was speechless, overwhelmed by the implications. "How the hell do I even use Chronomancy? Fuck!" He threw his hands up in the air, a mixture of apprehension frustration swirling within him. The power of time, now flowing through his veins, was both surprising and frustrating.