Of Ragnulf the Bloodied and How He Met His Final End

It was the 13th of Frostfall and on the 12th hour, like clockwork, the warrior appeared again.

If you had told him what time it was, he would not have cared. He would not have cared if you had told him what day or year or era it was. He cared no more for who ruled Skyrim, or who warred with who. He had been here too long and his memories had long since been thrown to the wind.

He looked behind him. Somebody stood at the cave’s mouth. Visitors were rare. Sometimes a guard on patrol would loiter too far and wind up inside. Sometimes a bandit would lie in ambush, only to fall to his blade. One time, a child went missing there – Ragnulf had led him back to the town, and he had been the talk of the town.

There was something different about this man, though. He radiated power. Radiated malice.

“Ragnulf the Bloodied, general of the infamous Hoag Merkiller.” he said, in a sing-song tone that oozed mockery. His voice was like a serpent slithering through the grass. "You, I presume?"

Ragnulf...he had heard that name somewhere. Was he-

"Ended up chow for Falmer while crossing into Morrowind. Quite an inglorious way to die for a commander so brave, eh?"

The warrior raised his sword. An anger he had forgotten was boiling up inside him. The hooded man only laughed.

"And here I thought we were going to do this the hard way..."

The man pulled back his robe and, for a moment, Ragnulf stared into the grinning face of a devil.

Then the devil raised his finger and Ragnulf’s world was fire.

The ghost dissipated, leaving only a pool of spirit-stuff in its wake. Something round and pale poked out of the puddle, difficult to see through the darkness and the howl of the wind.

Dervyn Releth smiled. He picked up the skull and, holding it level with his face, planted a kiss on its forehead.

"Sleep tight, sweet Ragnulf."

Dervyn congratulated himself mentally on a job well done. Those brats at the College would need to respect him after this.