Nights were always cool in the Rift, as a chilling breeze swooped downfromthe mountains surrounding Fort Dawnguard. The wind caused the fall leaves toflutter down from the trees and skip across the dewygrass.
The sound of churning water from the glacial run off resonated in the small valley that the Fort was tucked into. The Dawnguard were surrounded by tall mountains that dominated the landscape which seemed to cut the Fort off fromthe world around them, except fromthe open sky.
The ground was bathed in weak moonlight, causing the dewydrops on the grass to shined like intricatelyplaced diamonds.
The skylookedlike a black void trying to swallow Nirn. Isran hadbeen watching for nights as the two moons, Secunda and Masser dancedaround each other in their orbit. Their brilliant white illuminated the black sky and gave the darkforest a white heavenly luster.
Isran had been on watch for a few days; most of the Dawnguard members were out looking for recruits or supplies. So Isran had been on guard at the front gate, sitting on the platform behindthe wooden wall.
Guarddutywas always such pettywork, Isran thought, but it was necessary work. Plus it was better than sleeping; and sleeping was for the weak.
Guarddutyseemed toinflict boredomand the onlycure for Isran was watching the moons and memorizing everycrater marked on their rockysurfaces. Sometimes Isran would map out the stars in his mind or tryand make his own constellations in exchange for a small amount of entertainment.
There was very little relief fromthe boring task of standing and waiting for vampires. On occasion a few members of the Dawnguard would pass by on their return and it was always interesting tosee when his members would bring new recruits.
Isran had a small sadistic love for training new recruits; he likedto guess which ones would make it or which ones he would find dead in combat. Most recruits didn't last more than a few weeks, so there was little use bondwith members, he was never sure which members would survive so Isran onlyspoke to his old friend Celann. He actually knew how to kill vampires, unlike the whelps.
Time was crawling by onlytoo slowly, causing Isran to start cleaning his war hammer. The light fromone of the lite oil basins was enough for him tosee the dirt and grime. This hammer was his only defense fromvampires, and Isran planned on keeping clean and readyfor battle.
He shined and buffedthe metal until he could see his own reflection. His darkskin blended with the night, and his blackthick beard looked scragglyin the hammer's reflection. The only features that stood out was his bald head and his dull blue eyes, which burned backat him with a fierce intensity.
Isran looked away from his hammer; he hated looking at his complexion, it reminded him that he was getting old. He wasn't the same fit young man able to crush everything in sight with brute force.
He was once able to intimidate people with his mere body size, strength and his clever wit. He had never been careless or reckless; but his skills hadbeen enough to kill most tricky enemies.
But now he had to rely heavilyon experience and wisdom, andhis harsh rugged look versus his power, and the thought left a prang of fury in his mind.
Isran's thoughts were shattered by a man walking up to the Fort gate.
He was clad in a thick brown undershirt and over the top was brown chainmail with the heavysilverybuckles that shimmeredin the bright oil light. His fadedbrown Dawnguard boots were smeared in mud as he strutted toward the Fort.
His hair was a chestnut brown, but it was long and it brushedagainst the short scruffy whiskers that covered his face. But currentlyhis hair was covered by the brownish gray bear-head hat that the Stormcloak officers wore. To Isran he was a spitting image of the traditional Nord.
