Twilight seemed to have been misinformed in regards to alcohol’s ability to remove one's dreams. Images fluttered through her mind's eye, showing her scenes she could imagine, glimpses of some far off land that might not exist. Snow and ash fell from the sky, both holding horrors her mind could only barely register. Another scene, one of green grass and ivory stone, a wonderland as beautiful as Skyrim, and no less dangerous. A man, sitting on a throne, head hung low as another man, this one in golden armor, hands him a scroll. The mare's eyes finally fluttered open after that.

She was instantly aware of Reman sitting next to her, and that the sun was a long way from rising. The spellsword nodded at her, then went back to polishing his sword. Twilight understood Imperial's treated maintaining their weapons as an almost religious obligation, and she had only the option of watching him work, or rolling over and trying to sleep again. She would have tried asking the Imperial why he was still awake, but noticed Glade was still sleeping, and wrapped in Reman's clothing to make up for the lack of warmth. The Element of Magic abandoned her pursuit of sleep for the time being, and instead focused on watching the Imperial, eager for a distraction.

Watching the man clean his blade would be boring under normal circumstances, especially in silence, but Twilight had few options. She noticed he had removed the bandages around his hands, but kept those on the splints tight, all to allow him the freedom to hold a rag. He was in a sad state, in her opinion. But, even in the tent's near-complete darkness, she could see a determined look in his eyes. Reman Tullius was a man on a mission, and he would not stop until he had completed his goal and repaid his debt to Princess Celestia.

Glade flopped over in her sleep, a half-snort escaping her as she settled. The two magic wielders had to stifle their own laughter at the undignified sound. Reman looked at the sleeping mare intently as she shuddered in her sleep, sheathing his sword the moment she came to a full rest. He nodded to Twilight, and stepped outside, into the night's cold air.

She, of course, followed, having absolutely nothing better to do. The Reach's brisk air sapped what little energy the unicorn managed to recover during her brief rest. The mare casually noted Renoir was still seated by the fire, which he must have stoked at some point, for it was much more than the embers Twilight remembered. She noticed, out of the corner of her eye, Reman removing his splints to reveal the terribly discolored flash beneath the wraps. She hadn't seen the injuries before then; she was far too shocked about killing someone to bother noticing.

The Imperial held one of the damaged limbs out, and hissed as Renoir wrapped his slim fingers around it. A look of concentration overlook the undead man's face as golden light began to glow through the cracks between his digits. The bruising gradually faded as the magic Twilight understood to be Restoration went about healing the damage from earlier that day. The entire process took about six minutes, but only affected Reman's sword arm.

“Want me to do the other?” Renoir asked, looking only slightly winded, but it may have been because he was incapable of showing many signs of exhaustion. He'd had a long day like the rest of the group, but it could only be seen within his eyes.

“Not really; I only need to be able to swing my blade right now,” Reman answered, not seeing the point in using more magicka to heal what he called his magic arm. He rarely used a shield, and was only just recovering the use of his spells, so unneeded strain on the party's healer was best avoided. “Everything else can wait.”

“You just can't stop being reckless, can you?” Twilight asked before she could stop the words, eliciting curious looks from the two males. In that moment, cold and tired, she felt very small beneath their gaze. The blazing fire seemed almost magical in its own right, rendering Reman and Renoir little more than silhouettes with twinkling, predatory eyes. Still, she did not feel she was in much danger.

“Well, I do suppose none of us here can say otherwise.” Reman hinted at something that escaped the mare. He and Renoir were dangerous to be near; it was practically part of their job description. But Twilight did not see how it applied to her, being the bookish type. “Confused, little pony?”

“Really, you shouldn’t be.” Renoir smiled at her, his fangs catching more light than the rest of his teeth. For a brief moment, the mare considered the possibility they were made of a different material than the other, but realized this was neither the time nor place. “The three of us have a single trait linking us to one another.”

In that moment, Twilight was completely stumped. She wasn't an adventurer or dungeon crawler, and she most certainly wasn't anything other than a unicorn. She looked back and forth between the two men, keeping herself in mind, and yet still failed to find the common factor. In a flash, her mind drifted to the day's event's, though both Reman and Renoir shook their heads before she could say anything in that regard. How had they known she was thinking that?

“Trust me, Twilight; you haven't done near as much as we have,” the Imperial, slightly losing the smile he had a moment before. The very shadows seemed to writhe with the fire's light, burning in their own dark flames. Snaking and slithering over everything in their reach, like inky blackness made material. Then, like a flashbulb went off, a clear image sprouted in her mind. Reman was a werewolf, one of Hircine's manbeasts; Renoir was a vampire, an unholy child of Molag Bal; Twilight Sparkle was the protege of Celestia, and an unwilling target of Hermaeus Mora.

@#@#@#@#@#@#

Blood oozed down the cavern wall, as though Nirn itself was bleeding. Cicero cackled in delight of this day, for he was once more something other than Keeper for his Unholy Matron. Duty temporarily forgotten, he could do as instinct told him, skill bred over years upon years of faithful and unflinching service.

“Cicero is loyal; Cicero listens, but why won't Mother talk?” He asked the man clutched in his grip. This one was a Redguard by the look of things, and oh how he struggled against the Jester's grasp. He tried to gargle out some words, punch Cicero in his ribs to cajole release, freedom. “You wish to escape? Oh, Cicero will grant your wish, dear friend.”

The Redguard's eyes widened as he saw the assassin's dagger, poised for a downward thrust. He struggled against the hand clutching his throat, eliciting a look of unadulterated joy from the macabre murderer. The sliver of midnight sky, twinkling as though riddled with stars, plunged into the man's chest, slicing through his breastbone with ease granted from madness and a blade sharp enough to slice steel. Still, the Redgaurd fought against Cicero, the throws and throes of death. Like lightning, the dagger slid from from his body, and stabbed again.

Each pull forced an ever weakening gout of blood, dragged from within by the knife's hooked tip. Within seconds, the only movement was the shaking caused by the motley fool's gloved hand slapping against the slain man's chest with every thrust. Realizing he was doing little more than beating a dead horse, Cicero released his grip. He couldn't even enjoy the sound of the fresh corpse hitting the cavern floor. He looked around, half admiring his work.

There had been thirteen bandits when the Jester came calling, now none of the were alive to laugh at this comedy. Even now, Cicero could feel joy rising within him, only to be equally matched by a sinking dread. Yes, he had done Sithis's will and sent souls to the Void, but now he had to find his way to the others. The day's antics hadn't allowed much time for him to get his bearings, and now he lost somewhere in the Reach. The motley fool rubbed his bloodied, gloved hands together as he thought about his next move.

“No, no, no, no, this will not do, not one bit.” Cicero was slightly agitated, to say the absolute least. He paced back and forth for what seemed like hours, as midnight approached and the world was shrouded as though by the Night Mother's cloak. Masser, large and red as it always was, cast its glow across Skyrim, a crimson eye for all the world to behold. Craters were plainly visible on its surface, dotting the celestial body like someone spilled ink. Pale tracks of land filled the areas between them, almost resembling roads of some sort.

“Yes, I should find a road. Surely, my Brothers and Sisters will find me, or I them, if I use a road.” With goal in mind, Cicero skipped along his merry way. He may not have known where he was, but he knew north and south and every point of the compass in between. South, his Family was south, his Mother was south, right? The Falkreath Sanctuary wasn't the southernmost point in Skyrim, but it also wasn’t the northernmost point in the hold. Had Cicero traveled up or down? Northwest or southwest? “Stupid, stupid, stupid Cicero!”

How would he fix this? What remedy was he prepared to use? Divination seemed plausible, surely; all he needed was a branch or large twig. It wasn't an exact science, to be sure, but things rarely were in these turbulent times. There was a juniper tree nearby, dried and dead from lack of rain. A stick was easy to obtain, ready to be used for this ritual. With a burst of strength, Cicero tossed the limb into the air, watching as it spun and flipped. It landed with a slight clatter, pointing north.

It was as good a guess as any.

@#@#@#@#@#@#

“Oh, relax. A Daedric Prince with his eye on you isn't all bad.” Reman Tullius actually sounded convincing, but he had been free of Hircine's grip for may weeks now. Renoir sagely nodded in agreement, having had his own share of joys from his unholy existence. Twilight understood what the were doing; she couldn't stop Mora from watching and waiting, but she could use their advice to make the most of things.

“It's actually quite tolerable; we just like to mope sometimes.” The vampire grinned, tipping back a small bottle of something that made Twilight's nostrils burn. He was immortal, or at least eternal in his life. If someone set him on fire or chopped him up, he would die like anyone else, but he had all the time in the world if he could stay out of trouble. “I can tell you're the scholarly sort, Herma Mora is more than accommodating in that regard.”

“One of his agents told us how to get to Black Reach; we'd actually be there right now if Hircine hadn't sent me to Equestria.” Reman neglected to mention what it was he and Renoir wanted with the Dwemer ruin, but Twilight had an idea. The Imperial waved her over, holding a bottle of an alcohol she hadn't seen before. Its bottle was cut crystal, pink in the fire's light. “Cyrodiilic brandy, fine stuff. Glade would kill me if I drank any, so I figured you should have it.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?” She admitted her question was a bit dumb, but it was either very late at night, or very early in the morning.

“Drink it, wash your mane with it, stick the tip of your horn in the bottle, give it to you brother and his wife for all I care; all that matters is you have it.” Only after Reman handed the drink over did Twiight understand the significance of it. Imperials did not give personal gifts very often, though their celebrations were lavish and often had bags for ever guest, Cyrodiil's men and women were not fond of just handing things away, especially something as expensive as this drink surely must have been. “It's a vintage, older than my grandfather, and still the finest thing you'll ever sip.”

“I don't know what to say.” Vintages were costly, something Twilight knew from experience. A bottle of wine could easily cost four thousand bits if it was from the right year. “Surely, there must be something I can do to repay you.”

“Twilight, you, Renoir, Glade, Pinkie, and I are the lost and damned. The very best thing you can do is survive, and help your friend through her own troubles.”

“Pinkie's had contact with a Daedra?” Twilight had seen her acting strangely, but dismissed it as just Pinkie being Pinkie. Was it Mora? No, that didn't make much sense. Sanguine was a definite choice, being the Prince of debauchery and excessive partying, but Pinkie knew when enough was enough, most of the time. “Oh sweet Celestia!”

“Sad to say she's in a mess Reman and I can't quite handle. You see, she's been touched by the Madgod, and only her friends can help her out of this.” Renoir was solemn as he spoke, understanding the severity of the situation. For the Element of Magic, things were getting more and more complicated as time went on.

@#@#@#@#@#@#

Summer Glade slept better than she had in weeks. Her belly was full, her body and mind at ease, and she was on her way back to Equestria. She dreamed, as well, something simple but grand. She was wearing silk vestments, crimson with golden edges, and the air was warm. She stood on the porch of a large mansion, an opulent estate that must have belonged to one of great wealth. Nothing smelled like home, nothing was truly familiar, but she felt as though she had spent her entire life there. Of in the distance, she heard steel crash against steel.

An armored man wielding a bladeless sword clashed against a pony wrapped in similar metal and wielding an identical weapon. The two were laughing, age visible in their voices. The man was obviously Reman, but the strange pony was a mystery. A slight breeze blew waves in the knee-high grass as the two, carrying the scent of the nearby rose garden with it. Roses were visible from the corner of her eye, obviously lovingly maintained, enough so to win one of those garden competitions that made Glade want to vomit.

“Hello again, mortal.”

Author's Notes:

I have been made aware of a simple mod one of you has made in honor of this fic.
For those of you who do not know, it is called Reman's Sword.