AN: Hello folks! Chapter three is ready at last…! Many many apologies for the delay, but it couldn't be helped.

And if you feel like the three chapters are slow, than you are correct, that is deliberately so- as per my plan, the fourth chapter will literally explode with fast paced plot devices.

Enjoy this chapter and as always, your comments and reviews are much appreciated.

Chapter 3: The Storm Breaks

Flashback continued: On the creation of the Order of the Nine

One year ago, The Throat of the World

"I completely agree with my friend here," Brynjar gestured to Vulthyrol, smiling at the latter's growl- "dragons are indeed the most powerful and capable of all races on Tamriel. But we have completely forgotten our purpose in this world; weren't we created to nurture the child-like races that live in this realm- both man, mer and beast-folk. Indeed, given our inherent strength, wisdom and eternal life, it is our moral and ethical responsibility to shepherd the other races of Tamriel- to protect them and to guide them- for who is more wise than a dovah and who is more farsighted than the dov. Is this not what Kynareth and Akatosh wished for our race- to not just live at peace but to enforce it- to ensure that the no race harms the other?"

Many of the gathered dov were nodding their cumbersome heads- some of the elder ones expressed their agreement vocally- recalling the initial days of Alduin's rule- when he was the most farsighted of all dov and his rule was benign and beneficial to all joore.

But Brynjar was far from done, "The mortals do not know this history of our creation nor will they trust us because of the actions of you all- and your dragon cult. It is time we reminded the races of Nirn the true place of dragons in this world."

"Qahnaarin speaks true. I am amongst the eldest of our race still alive- if I can be considered to be alive," Durnehviir added with a chuckle, "I remember the instructions of Lok-Monah. We were meant to be guardians and guides- the strongest and wisest of all- and thus Gro Wah Niin for all races."

Brynjar knew that Vulthyrol and his compatriots wouldn't view this development positively, but he was hopeful of weaning most of the dov to his side so that when the time came he could eliminate Vulthyrol without any severe opposition.

He had long considered the problem of the dragons- what was one supposed do to with an entire race of sentient beings who had among them the strength to lay waste to all of Tamriel? The answer in yester years would have been to embark on a campaign of extermination- but the very thought left an extremely bitter taste in his mouth. He would never stand for that for the same reason he had cut off ties with the Blades when they wouldn't listen to reason and demand Paarthunax's head- or atleast Astrid did, Esbern was far more reasonable. Dragons were, he had discovered greatly to his surprise, for the most part simply uninterested in the going-ons of mortals- content to be left alone and leave all others alone.

"So, tell us honestly Dovahkiin. What would you have us do?" a young dragon approached him, speaking for a large group of thirty-thirty five young ones.

"I propose the creation of an order- an order of Dragons and mortals meant to keep the peace- to protect the innocent and to fight injustice no matter where it surfaces. We will earn the respect and dare I say, even the love of the other races- and here I am daring to dream- one day centuries later- people will speak of this day and how it solidified the legacy of dragons for all time."

"So," Brynjar asked looking into the eyes of the dragons gathered around him, noting with pleasure that most seemed rather enthused with the idea, "what say you?!"

The resultant roar- a sound so loud- that it caused minor avalanches in the moutains surrounding the valley- was a clear omen of the winds shifting.

Of course it was one thing to decide on the creation of the order- which he and Odahviing had named the Order of the Nine, a throw-back to the old and now defunct Knights of the Nine and a deliberate thumbing of the nose at the door of the Thalmor- and quite another thing to get the authorities to accept the new development. It had taken a great deal of subtlety and a rather curious coincidence to get the emperor to agree- but that's a story for another time.

Early morning, 24th of Frostfall, 4E 410.
Deep in the Velothi Mountians

Brynjar had expected Rokwonik's abode to be atypical of most elder dragons- a lair with an ancient word wall atop the tallest mountain of the region.

The reality couldn't have been more different.

It had taken Odahviing all of two hours to reach the place deep in the Jerall mountains- on the frontier with Cyrodiil.

A magnificent castle – built into the space between two mountain ridges- towering and vast- the sight was truly breathtaking. Especially from high up in the air. Thanks to his superior vision, Brynjar was able to see the fort in all its glory- the exterior walls had a glassy finish- the entire structure seemed to have been made from liquid rock- lending the massive edifice a grace that gave the impression of being alien in its build.

"Impressive, is it not?" Odahviing asked, chuckling. "The Repository, that's what we name this place."

"Impressive doesn't do justice to what my eyes have seen, fahdon," Brynjar muttered, very much in awe. "How was this place built?"

"Naal faal Toor do un thu'um. We placed heavy granite boulders, dug by our own claws- and directed by Rokwonik himself. Once the structure was built, we bathed it with dragonfire- melting the rock and licked the resulting liquid rock into shape."

"You mean," Brynjar hesitated, looking over the fort again, "this place was actually built by the dov?"

"Aye! This is the only place in all of Tamriel that I know that has been built by the dragons."

Even as Odahviing spoke, he banked to the left and dived through the clouds heading for the entrance- a large iron portcullis- no, it was made from ebony steel; iron would be far too easy to melt for the average dragon.

Even as he descended, two dragons- one with beautiful blue-green scales and the other- a dark silver emerged from hidden balconies in the edifice and cautiously watched their descent.

"This place is the very centre of all our accumulated knowledge and thus, its protection is sacrosanct. Even at the height of the first Dragon War, the Repository retained its neutrality," Odahviing explained.

"Will my presence cause any problems?", Brynjar asked.

"Nid. You're dovahkiin- you're without a doubt the strongest of us- and perhaps the wisest and most fair of us all. Your victory over Aluin and Miraak has ensured your acceptance amongst all dragons."

The pair landed, and Brynjar immediately jumped off; the two slowly and sedately ambled towards the waiting dov, and Brynjar felt glad that he was clad in his daedric armor and that he was carrying his greatsword. The familiar weight of the armor, and of his sword as it slung across his back imparted confidence, if nothing else.

"Welcome Odahviing. Welcome Dovahkiin. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?" the blue-green scaled dragon spoke, astonishing Brynjar- for it was a feminine voice, and a beautiful lilting one at that.

"You have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but I do not have the pleasure of knowing your name," Brynjar replied, schooling his face to hide his surprise. He had encountered female dov before- but they were very rare- they tended to avoid others and lived often in secluded nests. Infact, the ones he had met had all the arrogance and confidence of high born ladies- and tended to look down upon him- Conqueror of Alduin or not. But fortunately they seemed friendly enough- and there had never been a cause for conflict between him and the female dragons. Thus it was with some relief that he discovered that atleast one of the dragons here would be female.

"I am Brit Vin Qah, Dovahkiin." the female dragon spoke. "Norok Dein dovahkiin, and the pleasure is certainly mine," the other replied.

"I have come to seek an audience with Rokwonik. I need his advice."

"Very well. Please follow us."

Somewhere along the road to Novigrad.

Geralt knew not what had drawn him to this old tomb- but the entrance of the cave was marked with the wolf head. Whatever lurked in the darkness underneath- this place had once hosted the hideout of a fellow wolf- and that made exploring it worthwhile.

But still, this cave gave him the hackles. Drawing silver, he stepped deeper into the cave. He could already hear the growling of necrophages coming through the floor - a chamber underneath most likely. He walked further in, eyes and ears peeled for the slightest of clues to dangers further in the cave. Little did he know, he would face off with the most powerful being he had encountered yet.

The morning after he received Yen's letter, he found himself being drawn to a strange cave near the abandoned village. A yellow swallow was awaiting him when he woke up at the crack of dawn, sitting peacefully at his window sill. Intrigued, and quite aware of the significance of the bird, he approached it, and it flew away, hovering outside, gazing directly at him and trilling ever so softly. Alarmed, Geralt quickly donned his armor before strapping on both swords and the crossbow, and headed out, to find the bird still awaiting him on an upright wooden post.

He followed the bird to the cave and then watched with astonishment as the bird flew into the gaping hole in the hillside. This was getting stranger by the minute. He dismounted from Roach and tied his reins around a nearby tree's trunk, before drawing silver and stepping beyond the rim of the cave.

It was dark, not dark enough to warrant a dose of cat- but growing darker still with every step that he took. Twenty three paces in, and he realised that he couldn't hear a single sound- not the air howling through the chambers, not the dripping and gustling of water, not even the sound of any creatures- apart from the fluttering of the swallow that still, unerringly flew ahead.

Geralt took a dose of cat- just in case and followed the bird- his instincts were all telling him that he was walking into danger- great danger- but the result would surely be interesting.

It was good that he did imbue a dose of cat- else he wouldn't have spotted the woman who stood in one far corner of the cave wearing flowing robes over her shapely figure.

Before he could so much as hold his silver sword in a ready stance, she had already moved- cutting across the vastness of the cave-floor as swift as the wind- and she stood, a mere three feet in front of him.

She chuckled at Geralt's stupefied expression as he realized just what he was dealing with.

"Relax, wolf. I mean you no harm." She spoke in a soft voice that reminded him of the clear gurgling of mountain brooks in spring. The swallow that he had been following came and landed on her shoulder.

Geralt knew what he was dealing with- an ancient vampire- on the same level as Regis had been- and thus impossible for him to defeat and kill- and since she was claiming that she meant him no harm- he sheathed the silver blade.

"A witcher, all by lonesome. Whatever shall I do with you, wolf?"

He hadn't smelled her, his medallion wasn't trembling nor had he heard her footsteps. The only thing that made her stand out- that made her seem inhuman was her extraordinarily fast and graceful movements- and her exquisite clothes.

Almost every higher vampire that he had encountered had been vain in one way or the other. Regis had his fascination with herbs and alchemy and a penchant for hooches. This one apparently had a liking for exquisitely rich and fashionable apparel. She was wearing silks- of a deep rich burgundy colour- clothes that clung to her shapely and lithe figure. He couldn't see her perfectly, not in the darkness of the cave.

He had been drawn, instinctively to this cave, right in the middle of nowhere, but clearly visible from the main road that led to Velen and Novigrad. When he had first seen it, while tracking the Griffin for the captain of Nilfgaardian garrison, painted red and purple by the setting sun, he had been drawn immediately- struck with an impossible to ignore itch to explore that particular cave. An odd, fleeting yet gut-wrenching feeling, one that he knew only all too well- of fate and destiny.

Now, he regretted trusting that feeling- for the being in front of him was ancient beyond any comparison- dating back to the Conjunction, at least- and far stronger than any witcher could ever hope to be.

"I have no wish to fight you," Geralt said slowly, hand inching away from the silver blade. "I was drawn to this cave- by you perhaps."

She laughed heartily at that, a beautiful sound- like the gurgling of a mountain brook on a clear spring morning at Kaer Morhen. "No, that wasn't me- incidentally, I too felt drawn here- to what end, we'll no doubt find out momentarily. What is your name, witcher?" she asked, her eyes narrowing, the irises glowing an ethereal blue-green as she peered at him.

"I am Geralt of Rivia. And what is yours, if I may ask?"

"Not the White Wolf himself! I have heard much about you, Geralt, not the least from Regis. My full name is a mouthfull, but my friends call me Luceiia."

He couldn't see her face in the dark, well nothing apart from the glowing irises, but he could swear that he heard a smile in the way she spoke.

"So, shall we?" Geralt gestured towards the depths of the cave.

"Lets."

Geralt found the situation extremely ironical- he was exploring a dark cave, one that could be infested with necrophages and the Gods knew what else, side by side with a higher vampire- a textbook definition of a monster, but one that Witcher lore forbode fighting against; because they were sentient and nigh impossible to defeat, let alone kill.

"Geralt, there are several lesser vampires within these caves- I can sense them now. Katakans, specifically. I can sense them now, they are raving mad and blind with bloodlust. Be on your guard," Luceiia said a few moments later.

They had descended so far into the caves that even the alight torch that Geralt carried did nothing against the all pervasive darkness. Nodding, he extinguished the torch and imbibed two potions before drawing silver.

"Black blood and cat?" Luceiia asked, not even glancing backwards. Geralt was shocked- it was true that the potions had very unique fragrances- but how could a vampire ever know them well enough to identify them?

"I once befriended a witcher, from the Griffin school. That was a very very long time ago… almost feels like several lifetimes ago." Luceiia said, quietly, answering the unasked question.

Before Geralt could think of a reply, a shrill roar echoed throughout the cavern- jarring his teeth and throbbing his sensitive ears.

24th of Frostfall, Midday, 4E 410.

The Repositroy, Velothi Mountains

"So, all elves were once one people- a united tribe- who lived in a lost world. That world was destroyed and thirteen tribes set out to different worlds- trying to survive. The Aen Elle and Aen Seidhe are two of the thirteen tribes. The Aldmer were also one of the tribes- and arrived in Summerset isles several millenia ago…." Brynjar said, without looking up from the scrolls he was reading.

"Yes, that is true- the Aldmeris that the Thalmor speak of is actually a reference to their original home. The lost world that all elves once belonged to- of course this occurred many millenia ago and is forgotten by the mer that now live here."

Brynjar was no scholar- irrespective of being the Archmage of the College of Winterhold- but he couldn't fathom how an entire populace- or atleast a large number of them- could be moved from one world, one realm of existence into another….

Puzzled to the extreme, he asked this of Rokwonik.

"Energy of course- how do you think the armies of Oblivion spilled onto our shores during the Oblivion crisis, how do you travel to Apocrypha- Herma Mora's realm. You, of all people, must have heard the legends of the Battlespire! The Shadow Legion trained there- atleast, they did till the Daedra destroyed the place during the Imperial Simulacrum! To think that a Septim could be so weak to be duped by his own battlemage!"

Brynjar shook his head in mock surprise, in his years amongst the dragons, he had discovered that they loved to hold tinvak , to converse with anyone who would listen to them- none more than Paarthunax himself; perhaps no longer- Rokwonik was proving to be more long winded than Wuth Gein. Not that he minded, the dov had centuries of knowledge and experience and he found their information very useful and enlightening.

Rokwonik, perhaps realising the dragonborn's inner monologue, returened to the topic at hand, "there are many portals or gateways that connect the various worlds- some are miniscule and beyond our reach while others are more easy to manipulate. Among the Aen Elle, there are certain bloodlines which are gifted with the ability to exploit these portals ."

"Hmm, what would you suggest to stop these Aen Elle from coming over here- I was thinking of invoking Akatosh and spilling my blood..." Brynjar explained, only to interrupted by a sharp gasp of breath by all four dragons.

"Do not ever do that, dovahkiin- your blood has great power- spilling it in that fashion will have unimaginable consequences for all life. That is a very last measure- when all of Nirn is burning with daedric hordes can you contemplate such a move. The Aedra do not take kindly to the casual spilling of their blood in such a manner." Odahving explained.

"But then, what did Martin Septim do?"

"Martin Septim was only a descendant of Tiber Septim- far removed from the original dragon-blood; but even his blood carried weight. And it wasn't his own blood that he spilled that fateful day- he broke the Amulet of Kings- which carried the blood of Akatosh himself," Rokwonik said, "were you to do something similar, I cannot say really say what will happen- but nonetheless it is not a good idea. Definitely a last resort."

Brynjar's hopes dashed, he sighed, "guess I'll have to deal with them the old fashioned way."

"That would be the best."

Before Brynjar could respond, Britvinqah flew into the chamber, with another dragon following her. The newcomer was visibly tired, heaving great breaths and beating its large wings sluggishly.

"Dovahkiin," the tired dovah, who Brynjar recognized as Strun Do Ven, said, "I bring urgent tidings from your Legion, the spectral elves that you had warned us about attacked and destroyed Narzulbur yesterday - the orc warriors were massacred and the survivors, mostly young and the old, have been brought back to Fort Greenwall by your soldiers. Legate Cauis is mustering forces near the Eastmarch camp for a counter-attack and requests your presence. Two dov from Bonestrewn crest were about to leave for a recce when I came."

He was pacing as the dragon delivered his message whilst the other dragons listened with growing interest.

Odahviing broke the silence first, "to attack and destroy an orc stronghold is no mean feat- even a dovah will be hard pressed to achieve said result. Looks like the Aen Elle have arrived in force, that too without anybody noticing. This affair grows more serious."

"Indeed; Dovahkiin you have learned all you could here, it is time for you to return and deal with this threat. I have but one more advice for you. The Aedra aren't the only ones who stand guard over the planes of Nirn. Seek out the Princes, they met yet help you," Rokwonik said.

Brynjar nodded, "thank you Strundoven for coming as quickly as you did- the flight here must have been taxing- take rest here before rejoining us. Rokwonik, thank you for your wisdom. Take care, all of you. Let us go, Odahviing..."

So, what did you think of this chapter? Leave behind reviews and tell me.

Translations of the dragon-language used in this chapter:

joore - mortals

Qahnaarin – vanquisher

Lok Monah – all mother ( a reference to Kynareth- mother Goddess )

Gro wah niin – bound to them (mortal races)

fahdon – friend

Naal faal Toor do un thu'um – with the inferno of our shouts

nid – no

Brit vin qah – beautiful scales

Norok Dein – fierce guardian

tinvak – conversation

Wuth Gein – Old one ( a reference to Paarthunax)

Strun Do Ven – storm-driven