I started a new plsuthrough my hero is an Orc Barbarian Mage hybrid. Where would he settle down in Cyrodil? What County reflects the Orc homeland. I'm thinking Bruma what are yalls thoughts?
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I did this for my dragonborn curious what yall suggest flr this. My hero of Kvatch is a Dunmer. Which County would he settle down in and call home? Like which one feels like Morrowind ?
I would like to say that I have discovered where the Dragonborn comes from. Well, not entirely.
I was creating some new characters, starting new playthroughs, blah blah blah
And when leaving Helgen, I decided to chat with Hadvar since I don't do that very often.
When questioning about the Stormcloaks, he will say "You haven't heard of the civil war in Skyrim? I guess down in Cyrodiil people have other things to worry about."
Cyrodiil, I'd like to highlight.
Then I did the same with Ralof and got a similar answer, both with Cyrodiil mentioned.
In neither of these playthroughs was I an Imperial.
This means that no matter where the player comes from, at some point they decided to go to Cyrodiil and try to cross the border with Skyrim.
I'm definitely not the first person to discover this. But after finding out (this was a month ago) I decided to search it up online and figure out if I was the only one who didn't know. There's no mention of it anywhere.
(Edited by moderator)
Chapter 9: Arena
AN: Let’s ago Mario. If you like my work by the way, be sure to check out my other fic, Cyberim. It’s about if Talos was the main villain of Skyrim instead of Alduin.
Soundtrack: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2uN4KidVDDxrOqfBwLIyJ3?si=03d0eee373c84a5c
Previous Chapter: https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/d/p/4400000000003733818
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Stesha removed the cuff link of his bind gauntlet, holding a hand over his eyes under the glittering green aspens. A crystalline skyscraper shone in the distance, over the hills. The White-Gold Tower. Passing by a few log cabins and decommissioned outposts, some crumbling ancient elven ruins on the outskirts. He nabbed an old water skin someone had left outside on a barrel and filled its share in the brook before continuing his walk. Hadvar and Gwendal with him.
Stesha exhaled, combing a hand over his hair as the breeze picked up, whisking by a few leaves. They did their routine autumnal spin, indicating it was late Last Seed. The wind soared through his tresses, entering his lungs as a singing bird chirped a peaceful tune that got even the sulkiest of flowers to twirl and dance to its beat. Stesha looked on curiously. He drew his wineskin toward himself and drank from the river water. Two bandits trailed out in front of the sandy path, holding knives toward him and his companions. The boys had lingered behind the main procession.
“Ha, look Eksel, these ones have no weapons,” said the Khajiit to his Breton associate.
“This’ll be easy.” Eksel aimed her dagger towards Stesha and company.
Stesha corked the cap onto his waterskin. He breathed in and out. It’s always something. Momentarily he felt red hot anger flare up within his chest at the damnable nature of the world.
Eksel’s eyes contorted, and a bead of sweat welled from her temple. “Go-go on then, J’datharr.”
J’datharr lowered his weapon and turned to Eksel. “What do you mean ‘go on, J’datharr’. I thought Breton agreed to attacking first.”
“Now hold on, you never said we were attacking youngsters.” Eksel’s hooked nose and lined jowls curved into a deep frown.
Stesha and the boys slipped behind them as they continued to bicker and quietly jogged off down the descending lane. He looked back once he was far enough away and saw that the two thieves were now in a full-on fisticuffs.
J’datharr ran and body slammed the woman with two upturned elbows. Knocking the wind out of her. Swiveling her legs around his stomach into a hold on the ground and she put him in a leglock which he escaped from and ran after the trio. Stesha shook his head, turning tail and sprinting off. Hadvar stayed behind and Stesha saw him ram a fist straight into the lynx’s snout, breaking his jaw. A spatter of blood flew through the wind and landed on Stesha who approached the scene.
Stesha wiped the blood from his face. “Please don’t get up,” he sighed exasperatedly, facing his palms toward the Khajiit.
The highwayman reeled in pain from the ground, blood and scuff marks painting his armor.
“Please, just leave Khajiit alone,” the robber muttered.
“Come on, let’s go.” Hadvar pulled the duo away.
They stood on the firm, green grass of the Heartlands. The low hills all around progressed into mountains the further you looked. Forests in a ring around the Imperial Province. Across Lake Rumare that glowed a deep blue was the Imperial City, its White Gold tower shining brightly under the rays of heaven. Ruined Imperial forts stood near sandy white roads.
“Gwendal did you visit here before?” Stesha curved a brow at the Breton.
“No, I visited Morrowind last year, but I’ve never been here.” Gwendal stared out across the lake as a few mudcrabs danced on the shore.
Aela was walking back toward them. “Hurry up! Before Xera finds out!”
They raced to reach the back of the slave line, one of the slavers giving them the stink eye.
Seagulls of all birds, flying overhead. Why are they flying this inland? The dew on the grass soaked in sunlight, deeply saturated in forest greens as the white and gold colored city glistened in the distance. Stesha yawned, stress releasing from the slumping of his shoulders. On a long tree branch up ahead, two birds cozied together romantically. As the knoll came to a close, several tents that looked like they belonged to a circus were set up at the base, Watchmen out front. He saw several clowns and jesters putting on makeup in outdoor mirror stands. Small urns with lipstick and white cake paint.
“Xera Sourelius, these here are your volunteers for the Aetheriucs?” The Imperial guard judged them all, eyeing the caravans, horses, and fifteen or so people who’d been captured.
“Volunteers?” Whispered Hadvar.
Stesha mentally shrugged.
“I can allow you to cross,” the guard intoned. “Welcome to The Imperial City.”
“Thank you,” Xera said to the guardswoman.
Stesha and the slave procession walked a way down the walkway, until they were out of earshot of the policewoman. They crossed the bridge laid out over the bright blue lake that surrounded the towering white walls of the Imperial Isles. Small rapids pouring from the far away mountains and sky clouds. The clouds’ colour ranged from a light pink to white. The ivory sand slowly transitioning to encased marble. Traders on caravans full of supplies wheeled through. Redguard Gypsies and Khajiit, wagons of wares with them. Even more tents were set up on this end for the circus and harvest time festivities. A Bosmer was fire dancing on hot coals, moving around a large pole that was set ablaze as wide-eyed children with ice cream and cotton candy watched. Water from the lake flushed near the shore, feeding the coastal grass. The gate to the city was propped open now, Stesha and Gwendal passed some log cabin homes on the outskirts.
The Imperial City wore white marble and glossed-over granite. Stesha gawked at the magnitude of it. Finely clothed people enjoying the glaring sunlight all around. Imperial philosophers clothed in sashes sashayed with holy priests.
Colonnades with tiered elven columns stationed at each avenue with purple plants that shot from the soil alongside rosebushes near some homes. He could just glimpse out the horizon of the peak of golden spires, rising under the clouds in the distance. Newly planted trees lined each side of the road at corresponding deposits. Praetors stomped orderly through the streets. A few nobles gave them a look over followed by snorts. They stumped behind the Charlamagne Guice Hotel in the Guice Plaza District and dawdled down the low, black-picketed lane. Red banners with dragon logos hung up around the walkway with fluted columns. He could hear the distinct bell and cries of the newspaper seller shouting about the Black-Horse Courier. Passing by an elven priest who was performing a sermon in front of the ornate marble statue of Akatosh, where the church resided in the next-door killough.
They came upon the colosseum, made of stone and concrete with holes all over it as entrances and exits, it was massive, reaching for the sky, in the same Ayleid style as the rest of the city was with foreboding pillars sticking out. The slaves were led through the bottom entrance into the barracks beneath which were shaped like a basement with sleeping bags placed all over and a large washroom to the side. Stesha could hear gladiators practicing in a nearby room.
Xera smoothed her skirt over her glass armor. “Now, get some rest. Tomorrow is the big day.” The ends of her lips crooked upward slightly.
“That woman is a sadist of the highest degree,” Hadvar muttered under his breath.
That night Aela and the boys huddled in a corner, brainstorming ideas as the others snoozed away. Torchlight kept the room lowly lit. Some of the men snored really bad which made Stesha want to plug his ears.
“I’m thinking we break away amongst all the commotion and make a run for it. I can transform into my beast form if need be.” Aela chewed on her lip, playing with her thumbs.
“No, you’re not going to have the energy to fend off a legion of guards.” Hadvar and her had a moment, staring into each other’s eyes.
I may vomit. Stesha looked away from the lovebirds.
“Why don’t we use the wyvern to escape?” Gwendal glanced between them.
The two Nords stared back at him. “Not a bad idea, but how exactly will we get it to do that?” It was Aela who asked.
“One of us will break the chains, me, since I can disguise myself with invisibility.” Gwendal rubbed his hands together. “Stesha will cause a diversion while you two hop on and steer while dodging the gladiators, then we’ll join you and pray the wyvern flies off somewhere.”
“We’ll have to watch out for the champions.” Stesha leaned back against the wall.
They all crept up into their bedrolls and fell asleep.
They were in some sort of shady, sandy room with a line of other prisoners toiling around. The space was carved naturally with grooves made of stone. Xera waltzed inside and Stesha heard the cries of countless voices cheering coming from outside. The Aetheriucs had begun, and the main event was quick approaching.
“What’s she want now? Ughhh,” Stesha whispered under his breath to his neighbouring slaves. They broke into a fit of snickers and giggles.
“Don’t let Xera hear you say that,” Malborn admonished.
“Slaves, you’ll all be playing the roles of prisoners. Well, not as if you weren’t already. The gladiators will have to slay the wyvern and save you, that is the game,” Xera announced.
Cries of protest arose within the room opposed by hearty laughter from Xera.
Stesha cupped his chin, taking a shufti at his compatriots. No one’ll even remember these guys if they die. Too bad we can’t take them with us.
Xera walked off back through the nature made doorway.
Viarmo pulled out a cartridge of cigars he’d been stashing in his pockets and started passing them out. “You all are gonna need this, trust me.”
Stesha took one as Gwendal lit it for him with fire magic. He smoked the cigar, inhaling lightly. The others did the same. Stesha sat back and put his forehead in one hand, elbow against his knee.
“You ask me, Dragon’ll be doing us a favor by roasting us alive,” said Malborn.
Viarmo scowled at the Wood Elf. “I got kids and a wife I gotta get back to.” He burned his cigar into the rock face. “You can die Bosmer, be my guest. Won’t be me though.”
Stesha stood up and dusted his clothes off as the other slaves started discussing battle tactics and various plans of strategy should they need to defend themselves from the beast. Stesha stooped over to the windowing to get a look at the arena. Crowds of people lined the stadium whilst the main fighting vestibule was comprised of white sand like on a beach. He trekked to the middle of the chamber as his friends readied themselves. Aela drew lines in the dunes with a stick. Stesha glanced back out at the crowd. They were all meant to be a spectacle for their entertainment. He put his palm on his jaw in annoyance.
“The longer we wait the more painful it’ll be. Let’s go.” Viarmo jumped up, clapping his hands together. “First person who dies is buying supper.”
Stesha cracked his neck. Alright, just gotta use my mind.
The gladiators were all readying themselves, weapons and armor adorned as a roar echoed mixed with an onslaught of cheers from the audience. Some of the slaves soaked their pants but Hadvar and Aela had looks of resolve permanently affixed on their visages.
“LET’S GO! I WANNA SEE SOME HEADS ROLL!” Yelled a member of the audience. An Imperial wearing a toga.
A large portion of the audience were Imperial, evident by their tan skin, Caesar cuts, and aesthetic attire. Even the Emperor, Titus Mede II himself was in attendance. -- Aela and Hadvar nodded to Stesha and Gwendal.
So, if I remember correctly, wyverns can’t breathe fire nor are they as big as dragons.
“May the Divines protect us,” Hadvar prayed.
Yeah I’m sure the Divines are real concerned for us. Stesha eye-rolled.
Stesha saw a grey winged beast corkscrewing through the air. Sharp scales like a python, a pair of legs, and wings. — The wyvern smashed into the ground, sending ripples through the arena to cheers from the crowd. Unlike dragons who spoke the thu’um and were four-legged with wings on their backs, wyverns’ arms were their wings, they were also much smaller than dragons and unintelligent.
“Behold! Our gladiators have arrived!” Xera yelled to the audience from her podium.
Tiers of circles went up and up and up toward the sky, people seated in all the columns of the massive colosseum, cheering, and jeering like crazy.
“First, we have the champion of Summerset Isles, Aesrael Zion! Next, Cyrodiil’s champions, Antonius Nero and Peladius Vulcan. Skyrim’s champions: Bjormund Wind-Strider, Skjol Silver-Tongue, and Tyra Blood-Fire. Morrowind’s champion, Casival Indoril. High Rock’s champions will be Edward and Erwan Grellkill and Valenwood’s will be Ehlhiel and Fathrys Oakhollow. Up next, we have Elsweyr’s champion: M’sharra Shivu. Black Marsh: Pale-Eyes Jumal-Mere. And Hammerfell’s Zaharia Khan, and Orsinium’s champions: Yakhtu Gra-Orkulg.”
The fifteen champions stepped out from the opposite end of the arena, battle-ready as they readied their magic or weapons.
“Now, introducing the grand-champion: Urgnok Gro-Alab!”
A fearsome Orc with a warhammer and dwarven armor of some sort stepped forth.
“Let the games begin!” Xera cast a spell that went into the center of the fighting pit and exploded into sparks.
Zaharia landed several shots on the wyvern with her bow, knocking Aesrael out of the way as Skjol rolled and ran at the beast.
Gwendal instantly cloaked himself invisible with a spell and tarried off near the wyvern as the gladiators reared closer to the beast. The pseudodragon jounced on its talons and lunged as Tyra swung her blade, slashing it. The Grand Champion swung his war-hammer but missed as the wyvern snapped its snout at him. The chain links around the beasts were moving up and down by themselves, meaning Gwendal was at work. Hadvar and Aela rushed off toward the wyvern too. – There was a minotaur in the arena with them, on the side of the gladiators, having just showed up.
Bjormund and Casival thrust spears toward the monster as it thrashed its wing in their direction, knocking them astray. Edward aimed his crossbow and sent a bolt that grazed the beast’s nose. The wyvern flapped its wings and jumped, landing, and sending several of the champions flying back. Pale-Eyes sent fireballs hurling in each direction, but the tricky beast evaded them all, swiping side to side. It lunged vehemently like a viper, striking from behind a rock to and fro. It grazed Ehlhiel’s shoulder who grimaced and reeled back. Zaharia jumped atop the fake dragon, switching her bow for her sword mid-jump, and cut off one of its spikes as the wyvern howled in pain. She flipped and landed on both feet.
We can’t let them kill it!
Hadvar and Aela began pushing the champions, causing a ruckus as people screamed and cheered in amusement from up above. Hadvar punched Aesrael square on the jaw, knocking him out. -- Stesha sprinted till his hamstrings threatened to rip apart. He jumped behind a sand wall as the gladiators’ thrust spears at the monster. Some firing crossbows or spells.
“What’s that slave doing?” One of the commentators echoed as Stesha ran around all silly, distracting the wyvern and the fighters. “Seems he’s deigned to die for our entertainment, folks!”
He peaked around the wall as the crowds screamed in delight at the sight of the wyvern stomping Aesrael into sticky bits of blood and organs. Stesha ran onto the foreground, grabbing one of the men standing there as the wyvern’s tail swooped back behind it in an arch and took the slave off his feet. Stesha used the distraction to dodge and slid between the beast’s legs while shuttling toward the Minotaur. The wyvern attempted to stomp Stesha, but Stesha slid beneath the Minotaur as its club smacked the wyvern square on the jaw.
Peladius grabbed ahold of Stesha. “You won’t interfere!” The grey-haired Imperial attempted to hold Stesha down.
“GET OFF!” Stesha formed a fist and rammed it into Peladius’ nose. He didn’t budge. “I SAID GET OFF ME!” Stesha screamed as the wyvern neared.
The Minotaur reared back its mallet, hitting Peladius, and Stesha took ahold as it launched him into the air. He soared through the arena and crashed onto the wyvern, flipping around, and sitting square on its back. The Minotaur hid behind the granular wall and fired arrows left and right at it. Hadvar, Gwendal, and Aela jumped on as well. One arrow lodged into the wyvern’s eye and the dragon wannabe swooped its wings, taking flight.
Gwendal pulled its neck up toward Xera who was seething with rage.
“YOU FOOLS WON’T GET AWAY FROM ME!” Xera charged her hands with magic, but the wyvern flew toward her, free of its chains and snapped its maw around her petit body, snacking on her flesh and swallowing her up.
Then it took flight and before Stesha knew it, they were soaring through the sky. Over the Imperial City and north towards Skyrim, the Old Kingdom…
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AN: And now finally, after ten chapters, we are heading toward Skyrim. Please leave a review.
For those who know, the story behind this story is quite extensive. The Old Kingdom is something I came up with in 2018 and it eventually changed so much from its original concept that I first wrote a separate fic called Cyberim for those ideas. But now I’m returning to my roots with The Old Kingdom, enjoy!
(Edited by Liberating Saint)
Quest 8: The Cake And The Diamond 🎂
Estimated Reading Time: 17 Minutes | Word Count: 4,980
Loading Screen… A schism in magical theory led to an interesting development of temporal and telepathic ways of technological advancement in the second and third eras. The utilization of resources and the reverse-engineering of Dwemer-tech. The so-called technical renaissance was led by Talos Stormcrown in his later years, his reasoning being he wished to be powerful enough to defeat The Evil One, Konahrik…
Soundtrack of Cyberim: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6vU6Otycf6TmsCzBJpS6gD?si=a45898edb2ec4a3d
Load Last Save (Krest, Imperial, Quest 7): https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/d/p/4400000000003659804
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A boy entered a village full of shanties, shacks with gabled rooves and men in funny cloaks with pointy hoods who called themselves ‘Synod’. Water edging onto the shore the hamlet rested by.
“Can’t believe the great Meridius is in town,” one of the wizards said to another as the boy came to the corner home he lived in. Everything washing out in a blur.
Pushing aside the door, it was dark. A weird noise permeated from another room. The boy’s heartbeat rose in a crescendo as he placed one foot ahead of the other. An eeriness wove its web through the tapestry of his mind.
“Be a good little whore and take it,” growled a deep, rough voice from behind the door.
“Stop! Gods stop!” The sounds of his mother’s voice were muffled, and she screamed into the man’s hand as he silenced her.
The boy’s eyes widened with horror as the stranger abused his mother. “Mama! Why is he hurting you!?”
“What the fuck?!” The man wore his shirt, but his pants had slid down to his ankles. “Get the Oblivion out of here, stupid kid!”
The boy saw the tears escaping her eyes. He ran at the man. The bad man grabbed the boy with one chokehold grip and tossed him aside. The boy smashed into a table, too dizzy to stand. Glass fragments pinpricking into his forearms.
“NO!” His mother screamed. “HURT ME, NOT HIM!”
“SHUT UP, BITCH!” The evil man slammed the boy’s mom into the surface and rocked into her.
Why do these bad things to my mama!?
The man began to morph and change, skin lightening, hairs exploding over his body. His mother became someone else, a blonde woman with tattoos and short hair. The man turned to smile at the boy with glowing, purple eyes.
“I’m a real man,” the demonic entity declared.
Krest’s skin clawed into him and sweat like acid peeled his palms.
Something inside broke.
Magical energies filtered and flossed betwixt stone curvatures of marble pillars. Vast and expansive, a supernatural aura filled the vestibule, radiating off each cornerstone. Dark brown eyes died.
Talos… Played us all for fools, huh? His nails bit into his palms. I can't believe there was a time, when I was a kid, that you were my idol.
Krest collapsed into himself in the far corner, peering at the moonstones of the ceiling and doing his best to control his unsteady breathing.
“ I hear you faced him and lived to tell the tale. Impressive,” complimented Tsun from across the mantle. Krest regarded him with a tired sidelong look.
“So, none of the Septim Emperors were Dragonborn, they just had the blood, and the same rule applies to any Dragonborn descendants. While Shezarrines are just Lorkhan in the flesh.” Saadia scratched her chin with her thumb.
Akatosh rotated his shoulders. "Yes. You can't pass down souls genetically. The Dragonborn Emperors, as they're referred to, had only my blood and thus were able to wear the Amulet of Kings and light the Dragonfires, but they were not full-fledged Dragonborn. They could not shout or absorb dragon souls. The only Dragonborn are Miraak, Alessia, Reman, and Cuhlecain before Talos stole it. Talos is out there right now somewhere, he is a Shezarrine again, I guess. The only one who can stop him is The Last Dragonborn. The final one.”
Me, Krest decided. I had the gall to fight him and survive. It must be me. He took to observing the ornaments decorating the sides of the atrium, a staff-enchanter and scroll-crafting table, a ringed mount with a cool blue hue to it near goat-horn ensconced candles. Fairies and orbs of light floated about like they were in some sort of fairytale.
“Well, you can certainly sympathize with the Thalmor now, knowing Talos indirectly created them,” Tsun amended, “when he commit genocide on Summerset.”
Maybe he isn’t so bad after all. Krest took a shufti at Tsun with a more open expression. But Akatosh is keeping his cards close to his chest, he hasn’t revealed the whole picture about Talos just yet, I’d wager.
“So, what exactly does Talos, Lorkhan want?” Idrasa seemed as if her head were ready to implode. “And is it even possible?”
“That will be shown at the proper moment. Talos was born into power, and he let it get to his head. Rarely does power not corrupt a person.” Akatosh pouted. "I think once this whole fiasco is over, I will pen a pseudoscientific poetry book about crystal healing or something equally as absurd. To, troll the mortals and have a good laugh. I am quite exhausted from all this as well.”
"What if there was another Shezarrine we didn't know about?" It was Idrasa who instigated the inquiry.
"What if Idrasa, you didn't ask me dumb questions?" Akatosh gave an all-knowing look. "Didn't think about that, did you?" As if he had planned it, Akatosh levitated a bit into the air, crossing his arms. "There is a reason the statues of Talos depict him stabbing a snake. The snake represents his old skin, Lorkhan. Just as a snake sheds its own skin.” Akatosh combed a hand through his long lustrous beard.
Tsun cupped his own short but thick, greying beard. “So, you can't be both Shezarrine and Dragonborn. Only one. At least not by conventional means. Shor, Shezarr can never be born directly with the blood and soul of dragons, in other words.”
"Yes, I had thought Tiber Septim was born Dragonborn. I had no idea he stole it from someone else," Saadia admitted. "I didn't think you could steal it from someone else."
"Lorkhan and I are polar opposites. You cannot be an embodiment of him and a child of mine simultaneously. It's like trying to burn water. Tiber Septim had to forcibly remove Cuhlecain's divine nature and impregnate himself with it for it to happen," Akatosh summarized. “Like frying water within an impenetrable breadcrumb casing. Though even still, he isn’t actually Dragonborn, especially not after I removed his Dragon soul. Which was really just Cuhlecain’s essence wrapped around his own soul so he could absorb other dragons.”
"Why didn't you just kill him in Aetherius?" Saadia leant on one hip, crossing her arms.
"Well one reason was we had to make him a mortal again and ensure he wouldn't try to incarnate into anything else. Lorkhan, or Talos, Tiber, whatever he refers to himself as now, is at the end of his ropes. He's a man.” Akatosh sneered, rubbing the area beneath his nose. “This is simply an extended execution.” He pulled up a chair and took a seat. “I believe Talos will possibly seek out the Last Dragonborn to either kill or corrupt them, for they are prophesied to defeat him. But Talos is so weak and so exhausted, I imagine his biggest problem is just to stay in hiding for now. At least until he can regain his strength.”
“I have a headache after all that. Think I’m gonna go lie down,” sighed Dibella. Tsun followed her. “Saadia, send a letter to Hamal, Orla, and Anwen and ensure everything is alright with them.” Saadia nodded.
“Speaking of the Spinners, I miss Senna and Fjotra.” Idrasa folded her elbows beneath her chest.
Saadia's shoulders rose. “The Thalmor have become just as erratic and delusional as Talos in their quest to stop him. Let's hope the same fate not befall any of us. We need not become our enemy to defeat him.”
Krest itched the side of his nose and pointed at the Konahrik mask on the bench, painted with white lines.
“This?” Akatosh picked it up. “I designed it to help me transform into a dragon after the man-turned-dragon, Konahrik himself. It’s lethal, so please avoid it. Which reminds me I forgot to speak on the Elder Scroll. That is something we’ll need to obtain in order to safely defeat Talos. The spokes on the wheel shall be even.” Akatosh set the mask back down, picking up a giant hammer laying against the bench. "Could you take this to Tsun, please? He left it. This is his brother, Stendarr’s Hammer.”
Krest heaved the heavy thing and lugged it over his shoulder, swaying his way to Dibella's chambers. Feeling fit to collapse under its weight.
"Krest." Akatosh rushed over to him and fixed Tsun’s borrowed mallet across his back, so it was easier to carry. Krest propped it over both hands on his upper traps. "There you go, much easier to hold."
The temple flew down a set of steps and poured out into a decorated hallway with bronze copper doors. A brisk chill filled the air and painted stone tiles ran beneath his heels. Sugared water vapor poured through refurbished taps centered around yet another statue of Dibella. Torchlight illuminated the area ahead, pocketed in a bracket on the wall.
Krest pushed through them, his eyes on the floor, and set the sledgehammer down backwards on the side of the entrance.
Above him on a platformed queen-size bed was Dibella. She was on top of Tsun, engaged in a consummate sexual position. Tsun seemed in bliss beneath her.
Krest stood frozen, completely still, his gut chewing itself up and spitting out.
Tsun and Dibella began kissing, their foreheads pressed together. Krest stooped out and quietly shut the door. He stood there for a while, listening, his heart beating against his chest before he finally moved on down the lane. The only thing he felt was harrowing nothingness. Like wine, his vital essence poured into a glass only to be tossed outside a window into the chilling apathy of the northern air. His right-shoulder seared with agony.
He decided to take a pointless walk by the portside. Krest went into the underground passage, pipetting the small set of footsteps down past the roselike bridge. The passage led to a fork. One part that led through a stone archway, which was caved in, leaving the only remaining walkway through a set of steps that curled upwards. Krest curtailed up it and down through another grimy old, wet corridor until he arrived at a room with bones scattered everywhere. Skeletal anatomy crunched beneath his feet as he strode forwards. Ice Wraith skins were sprawled across the floor, stone water-wells glittering with icicle stalagmites and stalactites. Nordic runestones doted around, pupating fly larva growing on them. He moved on, towards the stairs, back into the sun pink endowed city. Trains moved through glass-domed stations and Akaviri art and blinds were here. Homes embedded in the rockface all the way down to the docks, using the cranes that scaffolded the city to rise to work. Smelling and seeing crates full of onion, cumin, mustard, horse radish, coriander, and mead. Statues of Dibella were on stacking shelves, as if only there to taunt him more. Blood Horkers and seals hung from fishing lines and cranes lifted barrels of mackerel, salmon, and blubber oil among other fish. Vigilants of Stendarr stormed past him, their faces lined with stress. Horse lords and noble thanes trotting on their regal stallions.
Krest came to small section, enclosed by some moss and rocks where none could spot him. Rolling icy winds rushed past. The sea would freeze over in the winter, and one could practically walk to Atmora, he assumed. A snail slowly slithered across the rock ridge above a scene of sailors spearing a whale in the sea.
Krest jumped. The wind whirled past him, and he smacked into the icy water, his guts and arm wires spearing and tearing on the ice sticking from the stone-cold ocean. The frost burned him, and the fire froze him as his guts decorated the icy wastes of the northern moors.
Krest shook his head. It was just a daydream. He stood by the pier; the snail had almost trailed across. Snails move slow, yes, they move slow. Doesn’t a snail move slow? I don’t know about you, but I think it does, doesn’t it?
I shoulD jUmp. Krest laughed wildly into the winds that carried his agony, entangling with the air and freezing wind currents. I SHOULD. His eyes dilated demonically. A giant jockey was riding its mammoth off in the whitish countryside, jousting with another as thick rain reigned over them, transitioning into globules of oobleck that hardened into sludge on the floor. Trees beneath the sea, their tops shining through like seaweed. A dead soldier left disemboweled on the ocean floor, probably via Hara Kiri. Krest smashed the snail’s entrails onto the carved stone with his boot, screaming laughter into the heavens and the cold, distant Anu who cared not.
"Armilius, is that you?”
A skinny, sun-tan Breton with a pudgy face and tousled brown hair stood in his way. Praetorian-Courier Pierre Dubois. Pierre was one of the rare golden boys who could speak. His mother, Susanne, was a councilor in the Elder Council, and obviously didn’t want her son’s voice box torn out.
Krest’s face ripped into a scowl as he glared downward at the seventeen-year-old.
“Krest Armilius. You know why I’m here.” Pierre grinned. “Have fun collecting all nine hundred pinecones? Or whatever it is these brutish cavemen have you doing.” Pierre’s brown eyes trailed in delight.
Krest held his fist to his nose, tightening it. When Pierre’s attention reverted to him, Krest knocked the Breton aside into the stone wall, scowl deep enough to reach his jaw.
“My father will hear about this!” Pierre held his backside as Krest waltzed off.
You don’t have a father. Some strangers gave Krest odd looks like he was crazy.
“Well, fancy seeing you here,” Pierre’s distinctive voice grabbed his shoulder.
Krest raised a leg over the arch and headed back for some food. He’d heard one lunchtime that women preferred rich and powerful men like Tsun and not little broke, boys like him and Pierre. The tanned figure of the latter came crawling up to him, jabbering some quasi philosophical jargon about imagination figments or cousins or something. The lower districts of the sprawling metropolis saw vagabonds and wastrels warming up near pyres and barrel fires, turned over longboats serving as housing and Viking styled longhouses with runic patterns when you ascended the hills where the middle class resided, tall white and golden trees planted in designated squares, wood peeling off like dried skin. Three-tiered lanterns near block markets where a Dwarven machine was cutting a giant black square. Beggars’ food ground where rations were distributed. A cemetery, flowers growing out of graves. Richer apartments with doors that closed and opened by themselves.
The Praetorian took the indoor way, thoughts he’d rather not have resurfacing. The walk devolved into more of a drudge the further he went. The carved rock of the city’s marble corridors was cut open at intervals and high enough among the clouds in the outlook. Why am I even alive? He tried to focus his attention onto the breathtaking scenery pictured before him while Pierre continued to babble nonsensically: sculpted cliffs, monumental mountains, mystical forests shrubbed with white blossom trees. He could see mermaids in the sea exploring colourful groves, turning over luminescent rocks, riding on waterfalls in the coral forestry.
Blah blah blah blah blah. The voices of the throng in the hallway blurred into a massive blurb of noise. Someone was strumming the keys of a piano somewhere. Krest’s eyes repeatedly flicked to the edge, half tempted to just jump off so he wouldn’t exist. The shadow of magnus playing hide and seek in the sky, glinting pink seams and glowing orange at the crack of dawn. Maybe some physical training will help me feel better. Gliding down the dim foyers aching for the light of the morning sun. Portraits snoozed on each wall and regal runes and engravings were inscribed on both sides. Eeriness encroached as the shadows waxed and waned. Krest swallowed the knot tangled in his throat, each shade a reminder of Hjalti and his eyes. Lorkhan, the narcissistic king of materialism.
Sheor. The very being every Breton and elven child fears but doesn't know what. And those Shezarrines of his... Krest exhaled fruitfully. I cannot imagine a worse fate than being an incarnation of someone else, someone so vile and wretched. To have little to no free will, following the commands of someone who you'll one day be resorbed into. No afterlife. Nothing. What a curse. Just a puppet at the behest of a puppet master.
But there hasn't been a Shezarrine since this Hjalti. It makes sense, Lorkhan and Talos were both war mongering, pro-apartheid, misogynistic tyrants according to both sides no matter how you frame it.
A stand was selling toys, trading cards, and even stuffed dolls of Dibella and the other Divines. A tourist attraction, no doubt. Red-bannered with white stripes over a wooden post. Several guardsmen in their Viking gear perused the items.
“How much for this doll of Kyne, Calixto?” A young Nord asked the old Imperial shopkeeper. When his colleagues eyed him, the Nord responded with, “it’s uhh… for my mother, Hilde…”
“Your mother passed away, Sven Raevild…” One intoned.
Sven’s face fell. “Oh, y-yeah.”
Krest picked the doll of Dibella. Maybe she’d find it cute? He got in line behind the Nords.
“Seriously?” Pierre tucked his arms beneath his breast. “A doll, Armilius?”
“Oleg Dragonknight, is it?” Queried Calixto. “I have your upshot from the College of Ocearan. Savoss Arran and Qyslom Orgnum signed it themselves. Though if the results are undesirable, there is always the School of Jhunal, Synod, and Cult of Konahrik if you’re of the rebellious sort.”
Oleg blushed beneath his burly, brown beard, hastily shoving the envelope into his greaves.
“I thought you said. You said, you said,” stuttered Sven, “you wwere going to join the Companions or th-the. Shit, what’s it called? Fighter’s Guild.”
“Shut that big mouth of yours, dingus,” admonished Oleg. “Don’t want the other men to know.”
Such fragile masculinity can’t even openly practice magic.
“Gentlemen, please. I have other customers. Say hello to Camilla for me, Sven.” Calixto rung a bell. Krest scanned his palm to the chip-reader once the men had gone. He’d exchanged the gold Saadia gave him for some credit earlier at a local bank. “Calixto Corrium, at your service, fellow kinsmen.” The elderly Cyrodillic bagged Krest’s toy. “Not many of our folk up here. Come around some time and I may have a few deals.” Krest nodded. “Always happy to serve a fellow Imperial. Long live the Empire,” the aged merchant whispered. Obviously, the Empire’s occupation was present in Skyrim, but the further north you went, the less popular it was. The further north you went, the more archaic it grew too, it would seem.
Fuck the Empire and fuck the Sons of Shor.
“Actually, why not, I’ll purchase something as well.” But Calixto just ignored Pierre. “Rude.”
Krest toddled over to the washrooms and vomited into a bidet. Sitting back against the wall, he pushed a hand through his temples.
“Miss, this is a male restroom.” Krest looked over and saw an old Orc examining his beard in the mirror. It was Urag Gro-Shub, the archive master. He scrutinized Krest for a few seconds through the looking glass. “My bad, boy. Now, clean up that mess. This is a library, not your personal pigsty.”
Krest rolled his eyes so far; he almost saw the circuitry in his brain nodules. Krest’s expression deadened, and he rested his skull against the wall. He sat there, procrastinating until he got bored. The mental torment was exhausting. Flicking inward; time for some research.
The Bad Man (Book) – Summary: A demonic figure in Breton culture who curses the harvest, similar to The Greedy Man of Skaal literature. A riddle left by Tom Guimard links several historical figures to Lorkhan, who is thought to have inspired the legend of the Bad Man. Tom claims to have met the Bad Man while out picking crops on his farm and was given these names.
L – Shor
O – Pelinal
R – Wulfharth
K – Zurin
H – Hjalti
A – Talos
N - ?
The N is yet to be identified. Perhaps another will come to fill the role. Krest closed the book log.
Weird. An eeriness smiled at him from the depths of gloom.
Pierre had been watching and hopped over to him. “What if the N is you, Krestie?”
Krest grabbed Pierre and dropkicked him into the sink. Don’t you ever compare me to that filth.
I’m probably the Last Dragonborn, the child of Auriel-Akatosh. Not some puppet devoid of free will. Krest wiped the residue of his puke. He glanced at the door of the bathroom. Airtight. Krest splashed water over his face in the sink, placing both palms on the side and staring at his face in the mirror. There wasn’t any light behind his eyes. He screamed at his reflection and punched the mirror with his fist. The material was strong because it didn’t break. Either that or he was just too weak. Probably the latter.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked off, too tired to care anymore as Pierre regained his strength. They clamored their way through the age-old athenaeum. The shelves full of books curved and swayed like waves, aureate linings separating the stacks and each book looking as pristine as the next. The vast room was a city library, bookcases as high as the tall ceiling and lined with gold. Blue carpeting and fine wood with a mossy oak-brown finish. The cases flowed like brainwaves in neural pathways.
Songs of Pelinal, Shezarr and the Divines, Sithis, The Arcturian Heresy, Remanada, Shor, Son of Shor, were among the titles that haunted his stalk back to the table. Krest grabbed a random tome and crashed back into his seat, leaning his cheek on his fist, his elbow on the table, face marred by idle boredom.
Various techno-Goblins and Horsemen were playing tabletop games and poring over skaldic and bardic lore. Krest didn’t like techno-Goblins; they bravely wrote hideous but anonymous things on the inter-webs but never said anything to anyone’s face. Just spewed their hate-gossip behind the backs of others. The worst kind of coward.
“You are now in the Arcanaeum, of which I am in charge. It might as well be my own little plane of Oblivion. Disrupt my Arcanaeum, and I have will have you torn apart by angry atronachs,” said Urag to a Goblin known only as Dimloth Grimloin.
“Me’s needsis book on precious. The Frozen Pharoah,” the demented creature professed.
What does he need a book on the leader of the Thalmor for?
“I don’t care if you wrote it yourself, you want a book, you go through me.” Urag cupped his beard.
The Goblin sniffled. “We’s needsis our precious! GIVES IT TO US!”
“Look at little goblin junior, gonna cry?” Urag smirked, folding his arms beneath his chest.
Dimloth’s probably gonna go slander Urag’s name behind his back now. Krest watched the pathetic creature slink back into the shadow it whence came. Krest sluggishly pushed open his storybook. Gods why am I so tired. Probably all the drugs I took yesterday.
There And Never Back Again – The Parable of Martin Septim and the Oblivion Crisis
Curated by Synod Members: Attendant Gavros Plinius, First Adjunct Oronrel Charmaine, Loremaster Alexine LeBlanc
“This world suppresses the meek and exalts the corrupt,” – Martin Septim’s Last Words, 3E 433
Krest closed the book and yawned loudly. Enough reading for one day. The Last Dragonborn. What a dream come true it would be to be them. I really hope I am. He quelled any thoughts of objection as something squirmy and gray crawled out under his desk. A small, smiling spider.
Krest picked it up between his fingers and studied it curiously. The little fiend tried to wiggle out of his loose grip. But Krest didn’t let go. Setting the parchments aside, he used his other hand to pull off one of the spider’s legs and reviewed it as it made its hardly audible cries of agony, writhing wildly. Krest plucked off its other seven legs slowly, one by one until the once slightly vicious arachnid became nothing more than a fidgeting dot of insect flesh. He dropped it to the floor and scanned as it struggled around until eventually bleeding out, a glop of plasma from its corpse.
A few people stared at him, transfixed.
Krest flicked the miniscule carcass aside and decided to delta.
Krest got back to the temple courtyard, crossing the water garden at the base of the Dibella statue where a few koi fish played as fairies used saltwater sponges to wipe the whitewashed walls and gemstones that encased them. Bees were nesting in the nooks of some belladonna lilies on the adjacent groves. The winter plants blooming; the earth laughed in flowers. Ancestor moths floated around, and a singular butterfly landed on his shoulder as he dusted the snow off his boots. Flapping its blue-patterned wings, a wave of tranquil quietude rested here. Krest set a foot upon the foyer, carefully peeking an eye around as well. A snowball zoomed over the courtyard and hit Pierre in the chest.
“J’zargo is master of destruction!” The Khajiit ran from behind a barrier and hurled the balls of ice in every direction.
Akatosh and Idrasa hid behind a pillar, tossing ones back. Pierre scooped some up and launched it at the meddlesome cat. Krest froze and got smacked square in the face, toppling over, his feet flying into the air, hair locks scattering his eyesight.
Motherfucker. He held his nose, spitting strands and wiping snow off his mouth.
“Nice job, Krest! But this one will have to do better than that!”
Saadia bust through the double doors. “What is going on here?” She stared all around as a cute, little beaver scurried up to her, rubbing its head against her calf. “J’zargo, I thought I asked you to set the rice on boil. And Akatosh, you should know better.”
Akatosh blushed and pointed at Idrasa. “She made me do it.”
Idrasa socked the Divine in the delt. “No, I did not!”
Akatosh pointed at the beaver. “This is Sir Kantor Marmot. But we just call him Chuck for short.”
Saadia pet him. “Adorable. Come, I’ve prepared some caviar.”
“Caviar? Oh, you mean frogspawn.” Idrasa imitated vomiting.
“That is an indisputable axiom,” Akatosh agreed as they all went inside the cozy indoors, the flames of the hearth roaring and crackling. “Perhaps a warm cup of hot chocolate will suffice.”
‘Chuck’ stuck his tongue out at him before running off.
“The ways of Sir Kantor Marmot are elusive to many, for they do not understand him. But Sir Kantor neither understands them in turn,” elucidated Auriel.
There was a table full of food and oven with some pies and turnovers baking away. It smelled like a mixed aroma between a soup kitchen and bread bakery. His gaze got lost in the dance the flames of the hearth were doing, flickering back and forth before he was interrupted.
“You alright?” A smooth skinned hand came to rest on his arm. “Let’s go make some tea. It’ll keep us warm, so we don't become icicles in this beautiful, but freezing city." Saadia got a kettle and poured some water and milk into it, setting it to boil over the fire-stove. She then leaned against the counter, observing Krest with her blue eyes. “It’s Dibella, isn’t it? You edgerunners are always so predictable.”
Krest violently shook his head, hardening his stare.
Saadia took some black tea powder and dropped a few spoonsful into the bubbling liquid. “If you say so.” The tea was set, and the Sibyl poured them each a cup and mixed some sugar in. “Chai tea,” she beamed proudly, carrying the tray with them over to the others.
At least Saadia is my friend… my first real one that is.
Saadia served a cup to Idrasa who carefully took a sip into her mouth. “PFFFFFF,” she spit it out onto Saadia’s apron. “This is straight trash! Where’d you learn to brew tea? Fucking Mournhold!?”
Krest helplessly broke into a smile at the display. The expression felt unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone else. His facial muscles exercised in a way that felt completely foreign to him.“I’m just kidding, it’s alright,” Idrasa corrected, drinking her tea in one gulp.“Do that again, and I may just flatline you.” Saadia grit her teeth as J’zargo brought out some cake, a diamond-necklace hanging on his chest.
A cake and a diamond. Neat.“Yeah, yeah,” Idrasa tutted. “Just call me The Caller.”
Krest remembered the vivid violet coat that were the Bad Man’s view into the world. A manipulative trickster. There was no fooling around anymore, it was kill or be killed.
And I’ll flatline him.
~ § ó § ò § ~
A/N: In this version of events, the Champion never became Sheogorath. Thus, Jyggalag is still Sheogorath. Also, ESO is also probably not going to be fully canonized in this version of events. And none of Kirkbride’s wilder stuff unless it’s mentioned. I will be using some of Kirk’s stuff, but not his crazier crackpot ideas like C0DA or Ayrenn the spaceship. Granted, this story is crazy in own merit.
Btw, Idrasa is meant to be a revamp of the Caller from Fellglow Keep.
Next Quest: Tilt
(Edited by Liberating Saint)
Quest 2: Robot Boy 🦾
Estimated Reading Time: 12 Minutes | Word Count: 4,300
Disclaimer: I do not own Skyrim. It belongs to Bethesda Game Studios. Though characters and the world I’ve made are mine.
Soundtrack of Cyberim: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4zSiOs4keAmfpo6mnJMd1v?si=2PmFgPZ5Tl23iz6Oa7AKuQ
Load Last Save (Lorkhan, Nord, Quest 1): https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/d/p/4400000000003622258
~ § ó § ò § ~
Seven-Thousand Years Later…
It is now the Fourth Era, Twenty-Two Years after the Oblivion Crisis. The Empire struggles with no Ruler on the Ruby Throne. Eastern and Southern Regions of the Continent grapple with Discord as the Aldmeri Dominion resurges. Many Fear the End of Days is Nigh.
The sky above the inn was the colour of aged parchment, greyish beige. Nebulous wrinkles streaked through the firmament, an odd fuzzy feeling of snow on skin. Krest found himself yawning as a snowflake came to rest on his tongue, dissolving into saliva. From where he sat, he saw two bipedal lambs, clothed in furs hillwalking through the frosted trunks of saplings and baby trees, discussing with a large frog in half-hushed whispers. Krest’s expression crumbled hollowly when he peered into his cup of cold coffee, half full of grounds. He took another bite of his half-eaten spinach and chicken sandwich as the echoes and whispers of ice spirits flew in the wind down the gelid passageways of the peaks. He littered the remainder of his food, idly watching as the white snow flushed deep black from the caffeine and stood from the outdoor table, meandering up the hill.
Krest scratched at his temple, staring the bleak cobbled path down for a minute, silencing the data stream of information crowding his head. -- The rolled-cigarette of a nearby loiterer flicked to the ground, stamped out by the heel of her worn boot, the charred bits being buried under the white frost that painted the Pale Pass up the mountain. Krest inserted the microchip his Forerunner, Dea had given him into the USB-port in his neck; a direct order from the representative of the Elder Council for a prisoner transport, happening over in Skyrim, the frozen north, chalk full of monsters and gods only knew what else. Relentless and unforgiving cold, merciless to the touch. He could see a few hapless beggars toiling away towards the lower edges of the knoll, digging for scraps of food in dump-piles. A glimpse of lantern-light, rising under the trees, way in the distance.
"I told him it would be tomorrow. Useless," the woman who’d been smoking said to a man near her. The latter was lurking in the shade of the canopy. The surrounding shrubs hung over them like the dreary curtains of some gothic Sancre Tor church. Dancing in the bitter wind that cut right into one’s skin. "Can't get him off my case."
Krest flitted his gaze ahead, tickling the area beneath his nose, feeling something warm and sticky. Blood. He moved into the frayed stables on the outermost attachment of the inn, slumping against the wall and wiping up the ichor. The smoke from the chimney above descended and warmed him slightly, waxing and waning as flakes of snow like dust on a bookshelf wafted past, settling on the area ahead. Krest looked back at the sky, the blood in his nose curdling back inside his nostrils, the touch of snow frosty against his palm.
He involuntarily cracked his neck to the side, schlepping away hair that got entwined between freezing fingers. He hissed at the uncomfortable cold, dialing away from the chattering mercenaries near him. Removing and resecuring his left gauntlet, he took the time to study the green veins and black wires that ran throughout his forearm, linking up to the outlet-cable infused in his left hand. He forced himself up, coughing and batting the neural-link in his neck and making his way to the front of the inn where the two mercenaries from earlier were mercilessly gossiping about whatever pointless garbage it was that people discussed these days. Krest winced as his head dizzied and he had to grab ahold the old stone wall to steady himself.
System error, the neural-chip implanted in every Praetorian-Courier read against his vision. The Praetorians, of which he was a member, were an organisation of women and men who were muted and castrated at a young age, implanted with various cyberware, maybe some weapons and gadgets in order to serve the Empire. Taught and trained since birth to be tools of the Empire, a cut above slaves if anything. Muted, in order to not divulge knowledge if caught by enemies. Castrated to not lose sight of their duty to the childish pining of romance that so many did. They were largely what their name implied though; fancy delivery people.
Krest ached, clutching his forehead as the wave of nausea passed overhead.
The lonely road the tavern sat on was situated between tall pines and clouds that choked out any moonlight trying to break through. Krest could barely piece together the blurry outlines of the armoured border-gate that led to Skyrim off in the void under the barrier of thick mist.
Why couldn’t they send Pierre. He would love to come out here.
"What do you think, Vexius?" The nordic guerrilla who had been chewing on a fat cigar when Krest arrived said.
The other merc, Vexius shook his head. Upon closer examination, Vexius actually wasn’t a punk, just an off-duty Imperial officer from the looks of his furred-armor and poorly razored cheeks.
"You know that thing that shot out of the sun last week?" The woman questioned, a small smile rippling up her face. "They’re saying it was a man. He's being holed up in Old Fort."
The prisoner they hired me to move. Maybe 'hired' wasn't the right word.
"So what?" Vexius grumbled through his teeth. "Not like I'm steppin' foot in that forsaken province. Ain't nothing in there but snow, monsters, and worse." The brute warmed his hands together. "Lest you lookin' to get flatlined, perfect place then."
My kinda scene then, Krest grimly thought. Maybe something will finally kill me.
"Whys that? Plenty of my kinsfolk get by just fine up there, don't they?"
"There're only five cities, 'member? Monsters everywhere outside the walls." The Colovian scratched his stubble. "And don't be forgetting the Dark Lord, Aela."
"The Evil One, you mean? Wasn't that thing something from the mythic times?" Aela pinched her lower lip with two thin fingers, peeling off some of the cracked, dry skin there.
"The Evil One, Konahrik, was a harbinger of death; killed thousands of Lorkhan’s Aldafathir in mythic times," Vexius went on until he caught sight of Krest. "Damn son, some advanced chrome you're packing there. Hmm, Nibenese am I right? What you doin’ so far from home?" The legionnaire studied him with pale blue-eyes. "You some sorta ronin or street samurai like Aela here?”
I wish.
The two towered over him a fair bit, all muscle but no brass. Though, even without cybernetic enhancement they could still flatline him if they wanted. The woman, Aela belonged to the Nords. The other, Vexius was an Imperial, like Krest. His pulse rose in his chest, but he squashed it down. Krest side-glanced and pushed aside the door, entering Snowstone Rest.
“On your way to hell then,” sneered Vexius’ dying voice.
Krest released a breath. I guess.
Linen curtains and jugs of milk or water stood like monuments on circular wooden tables, circumferenced around poles. Light emanating from the low chandelier draped with a pink shawl directly above. Thankfully, it wasn't too overcrowded. Krest wore a dead demeanor, shouldering his way through the small clique of men and women to the back of the hub, long strands of hair framing either side of his view. A holographic girl danced for the diners on his far-right side. The interface glowed in a myriad of neon lights, ranging from pink to lime-green. Krest hit a button, grabbing a prepackaged bowl, and putting his hand to the sensor to pay for a room. Once it accepted his fingerprints, the collective Praetorians’ bank-account synced, marking the transaction complete. Krest stepped away towards the stairs.
"Hello, my friending," he heard the rare Rimmen snicker to a few shady looking personalities around a table. Opposite a rich old woman with several gigolos surrounding her. “Do you have some minutes for me, please? I make worth your time, I promise.”
Are these noodles or rice? Krest glimpsed down at the food.
He felt a cluster of veins knot in his skull as he rose the marbled step. Krest passed gold-lined walls as he ascended, some with mahogany wallpaper doted with portraits, curving up a set of spiraling grandiose staircases. The second floor was a lot narrower, with doors for rooms on the right side.
A trio of prostitutes flanked him before he could make it to his suite. "Hey there, little boy," a Breton one beckoned in her foreign accent.
"Don't." Her Nordic friend grabbed her wrist. "He's one of the empire’s pet crackheads."
"So what?"
"Broke, mute, dick that doesn’t work," the northerner warned. “Should I continue?”
Krest flicked a grain of rice teetering on the edge as he peeled the plastic film off, inhaling the warmness of his carton of sustenance. He circled around as he found the door to his room. -- Once inside, he made sure the thing was locked tight. He set his gear aside, tossing off his fur armor and using the cool water in the basin to splash his face with, gathering the liquid with his fingers to the rim of the sink to clean up the residue of ice. It had been an exhausting trek from Bruma to the border-gate. The train from the Imperial City to Bruma helped a lot though. He exhaled, untied his bedsheets before drifting into the washroom, attached to the far left-side of the chambers. He tossed off his shirt and loincloth and allowed the warm water of the dwemer-piped bath to rinse over him.
He put both hands against the wall as liquid encircled everything. Krest just stood there for a good while, blinking and unblinking slowly, watching traces of water race down the wall of the shower to the brass faucet pumping out fumes of sauna steam, clinging to the sides of his neck, billowing more shower-tears down his chest and legs, gathering on the floor, and emptying out through the sinkhole. More and more showering rain passed as the world stilled to a halt. Eyelashes trickling interlinked droplets onto his cheekbones and jowls. The bathtub reminded him of dunes of pure white sand beaches near the Niben. His straight wet hair flowed like a waterfall over his collarbones and down his chest, tickling his neck.
Eventually he stepped out and changed into some night-attire, drying his hands and body with a towel beforehand. He stuffed his mouth with the fried rice he’d bought now that it had cooled a bit, and downed two glasses of water, censoring the lights and candles and pulling the duvet over his shoulders. He was fairly certain there wouldn’t be any monsters to surprise him from under the bed or in the closet.
The morning that followed saw him with his legs over the covers, hunched in, watching an undetermined point on the floor.
Recent memories of the Elder Councilor Susanne down south flashed through the lattices of data ingrained in his brain, "report to Old Fort and find the man who was banished from Aetherius. Deliver him to Nordenbjörg. There should be apt assistance there if needed but we need the Empire’s personally-plucked eyes and ears on this as well.”
Krest shoved dangling hair from his view. The lines in his palm curved away into the embroidery of the red curtains bannered like decorative drapes, which twisted into frothy seams in a fresh cup of coffee at an isolated stall in the corner.
He mindlessly read through a romance book detailing the fictional love tale between a Bosmer boy and a Nord woman who had adopted him, pictures of wide-eyed Akaviri art weaved within the pages. -- The sun was rising over the limestone, diorite, and granite architecture, lighting up the stone walls of Fort Pale Pass, which he could thinly visually construct in the distance through the opaque windows. The forest basked in its surrounding countryside. Large colourful trees and the hail-ridden hillocks of northern Cyrodill. The coffee was warm in his throat, the scent of it intoxicating, and it woke him up too. The redolence of added coconut oil mixed with his nose.
"Go to an Imperial Food-Ground where you belong," a resident of the housing unit caucused at Vexius and a group of soldiers.
“So, we can eat dried rations of stale crackers?” Vexius gesticulated to himself and his men. “We haven’t deigned to any of your accusations, Exus, we’re merely here to eat and rest before our next rounds.”
Krest’s brows and mouth relaxed into a thin line as he scoured the surface for any remainder of food. He spotted some sliced turkey cleverly tucked away behind a pitcher of juice an arm-length's away. But some idiot grabbed it before he could. His eyes roamed and poured out into the central apparatus. A great chandelier hung over the hollow oval-ringed table that had a somewhat crude fire pit at the center of it. Servants, soldiers, and off-duty guards resided by the ornately neon walls, filled with more exquisite art pieces watching over the denizens. The ceiling was made of huge tiles of a royal red, bronze partitions to separate the shingles.
The barkeep drew two fingers over his short-black goatee and nodded, his eyes downcast. Krest realised what he meant and slumped into the low spot. He glanced down at his folio and proceeded to read, sipping the coffee. Romance books weren’t really a substitute for actual affection, but Praetorian-Couriers were not allowed that sort of thing so the poorly-written leaflets is all they received for some semblance of comfort. Since birth, the Praetorians were like robots, designed and calibrated to be cyborg-delivery men or disposers of dirty work. Neurons and brain-circuits drained, rewired, and programmed to remove things like self-esteem and need for company. It didn't always work though.
Krest switched the tattered tome as a chef stewed a soup in the background. Some Nords including Aela and a Priest of Talos were talking amongst themselves with children as they ate their breakfast.
“Mighty Talos was born in Atmora. A true, hearty, and honourable Nord warrior. Strong as they come, upholding unmatched moral value. When he was just four, the spirit of Shor visited him and split his chest open and removed his heart. Shor’s spirit, a fox, removed a tiny blackened sliver in Talos’ heart and said, ‘this is how the Devil, Konahrik Iblis influences you. You are freed completely from the Evil One’s influence unlike everyone else.’ For you see, every baby cries at birth because it is when Konahrik implants his evil in their hearts, so he can speak to them and tempt them away from Lorkhan’s heroism! Elves have more taint, humans, especially true Nords have less. But Talos was the truest Nord of us all. The spirit of Shor then cleansed Talos’ heart in the holy waters of Zamzam in a gold bowl. Then Shor’s ghost placed the purified heart back in Talos’ chest and stitched his breast back up. When Talos was a teenager, he defeated the remaining giants in Atmora all by his lonesome and traveled to Skyrim where he learned war tactics and teamed up with King Cuhlecain Sifr to take over the Colovian Estates of Northern Cyrodill and those ugly witchmen of High Rock while promoting King Wulfharth’s cleansing of the Alessian Heresy.”
“It was then our dear saviour, Talos learned he was Dragonborn and had the ability to shout! He traveled to the Greybeards who told him he was destined to unite Tamriel by the Divines themselves! General Talos conquered Cyrodill and soon his dear friend, Cuhlecain was crowned Emperor. Though most unfortunately a Breton ne’er-do-well attacked and killed Cuhlecain and slit our greatest hero Talos’ throat, also burning down the tower in the process. Nevertheless, Talos was crowned the new Emperor under the name, Tiber Septim. He captured all of the provinces in quick succession, and all bent their knee to his unrivaled greatness. He beat back those bloody evil elves with righteous awesomeness. He rid the jungle that choked Cyrod and beautified the land, bringing about an age of peace and protection from Oblivion, Alduin, elves and Konahrik, and brought upon great technological advancement. Creating the greatest Empire that ever existed,” the priest pompously proclaimed, “the Third Era began under his rule and peace unlike ever before harkened upon Tamriel. Emperor Septim lived until one-hundred and eight, the longest living man in recorded history, longer than any Breton. On the day he died, the entire world wept, and the gods who loved him more than any man before him, raised him to the highest place in Aetherius, beating even mighty, heroic Shor in valor! Talos was also quite the ladies man I may add. So much so that it's rumored Dibella herself visited his bed chambers once.” Winked the Nord. “His dragon-bloodline continued until Martin Septim sacrificed himself and the Amulet of Kings was destroyed. Now, the Thalmor wish to ban worship of our beloved hero! I say, never! For as long as there are Nords in Skyrim, Talos lives in us all! Every real man should strive to be exactly like Talos, for not doing so is surely a grave sin. Otherwise, you risk being like these effeminate elves, Imperials, and Bretons.”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard that much propaganda, wish fulfillment, and utter bullshit in my entire life. Krest suppressed the urge to burst out laughing.
“Thank you, Vulwulf. Hear that, Ultio.” Aela stroked her little son’s head. “One day you can grow up to be big and strong just like Talos.”
Ultio clenched his fist and brought it down with his elbow. “Yeah! I’ll become an awesome Hero just like Talos and beat that evil Devil, Konahrik!” After that the group of them made their way out of the tavern.
Krest shifted his attention and saw some teenager and his dad arguing about politics or something across the cheap hotel. The contingent of Imperial soldiers from the fort who had come over for breakfast exited soon after, quieting the chat up a bit. He gulped, walking over to the window, and looking out of it. A few children, playing with wooden swords and light bows, the smell of the early morning condensation rising from the small gardens below.
“Get the hell out of here, damn whores.” Exus was yelling at the prostitute trio occupying the hallway. The women hurried out of the inn, shutting the thatched door behind them. Krest paid for his coffee and walked over to Exus, biting down on a tooth as his veins lit up. “Huh? Whaddya want?”
Krest uppercut the Colovian onto the floor and left. The road ahead was icy and blue, sparkling vividly in the early morning sun. Flakes of snow shimmering off each surface, rock, and tree like glistening gemstones. A few crows frolicked above the treetops. The clatter of silver-armoured knights marshalling through the blacktop rung in his ears. He wove his way through the banks of piled-up snow, past striped tents of homeless, betwixt two monumental boulders. A few rosebushes lit up the road forward.
A few Thalmor justiciars were striding down the lane. Krest waved at them a little. The foremost one nodded. “Akatosh and Konahrik protect ye.”
Krest sneezed. The icy air clamped down around him, causing his skin to tighten. Here among the mountains and claustrophobic forestry he felt less alone than he did with people. Trees swaying as if in conversation with each other. Krest wondered what they might be saying. He put his hands in his pockets as the sight of the gate rose over the peaks. The banded, red galeas of Imperial soldiers sticking out against the encroaching whiteness. A few of them raised their visors. Two older men, one a troop, the other a priest were discussing in low-tones just outside the entrance. Vexius and Vulwulf again. The Nord pastor was an imposing sight, tall and built like a troll. Krest felt a child in comparison. Imperials such as him and the Breton-folk of High Rock were among the weaker-framed races of men, not dissimilar to elves in stature.
“Talos bless us, Vexius. I fear the end of days is only around the corner. His strength will imbue us till that day. The spirit of Shor lives through him," the priest intoned between his grey-beard in his dense twang.
"If only he'd return here," Vexius groaned. “It isn’t the end of the world yet, but you can see it from here.”
"Hehehehehehe!" Cackled a laugh above the stronghold.
Krest saw a witch with a pointed hat flying away on a broomstick outside a window, shrieking insanely, holding a scroll. A pot of orange gruel cooking in an off-side courtyard next to a circular house. Stone-tiled with towering structures.
"Damn!" Vexius’ brown brows mingled with his hairline. "How'd she-- ugh, never mind, we won't catch her now."
"Talos will," the clergyman reassured. "His deeds are heroism embodied. He is the definition of a true warrior."
Krest face palmed. Gods, we get it already.
The soldier, Vexius crumpled his fingers. “Doesn’t a god lose their power if they receive no worship? I read somewhere that they can even become mortal if not enough praise comes their way or if the other gods agree to banish them. Though according to the elves, Akatosh is exempt from this, since he's the so-called Father."
That explains why the elves are trying to ban Talos worship
"Praise does equate to power for them." Vulwulf readjusted his gloves.
"So, theoretically, Talos could lose his power if the elves forced everyone to stop worship of him or the other Divines excised him?"
Krest stood there, hoping they'd hurry up before another snowstorm blockaded the way. The ivory-faced gate fitted into the mountainside, as if constructed by Kynareth. Dark inserts traced runic carvings, delving into memories from a few weeks back. -- The silhouette of what looked to be a golden dragon was flying out of the sun, it hovered in the sky and shot something out of its mouth. Whatever the thing inside its mouth was shot away, glowing a deathly crimson for a few seconds before cooling and shooting north towards Skyrim.
“HI LOS FUSTIR!” Shouted Akatosh from the sky. The ground shook at its speech and it vibrated through each and every one of Krest's bones when it had occurred.
It had been the dragon-god of time, Akatosh also known as Auriel. There was no doubt among the holy-men and theologians alike. His appearance matched the statue in the Temple of the One. The article he had banished was incarcerated in Old Fort and being studied according to the Councilors Dubois and Motierre. Krest was selected to transport the prisoner due to his well-handling of similar instances in the past, though he'd never had to travel this far before.
Who did Akatosh banish from the heavens? And why?
The whisperings of the two brought him back to present day, the memory fading away. "What could it mean though? Who was it? The one who fell from the stars? The fallen angel?”
"I don't know. I got a look at him though. He's a Nord, won't say a word though," the priest offered. “He wears the armor of a divine hero.”
It was then they noticed Krest.
"What is it, kid? Shouldn't you be at home with your parents." Vexius combed a few fingers through his bushel of brunette curls.
I'm twenty-two, Krest wanted to say.
Vulwulf however was analyzing Krest with narrowed eyelids. He articulated something silently, turning back to Vexius. "Listen, old boy, I'd best head out. They need me in Bruma for the ceremony of Emperor Martin. Best of luck to you." With that, the man was off in a swish of robes.
Krest stepped up to the outlet in Vexius’ arm and plugged his hand-cable into it, confirming his identity.
"Oh, you’re that kid from yesterday. So, you're who they sent. I hope they know what they're doing." He unplugged them both. "Alright, in you go, Praetorian.”
Krest eye-rolled and strolled into the central fort-yard.
He dawdled through the small mount-hamlet, rotten shrubbery and a disregarded pumpkin patch, old circular-abodes in disrepair on the sloped community. Gabled rooves, shadows concealed the walls and soldiers lined the perimeter. -- A Nord woman, Aela, caught his eyes. She kissed her son on the forehead. Krest felt a spike of envy and longing.
Aela side-longed a glance. Her smile slipped into a frown. “General’s out. Over here.” Krest followed her. She held a book called A Stormcrown Story by Lord Dacus Sourelius in her hand. Krest reached inside his pack and handed her the pertinent documents. Once she’d sorted them through, she gave it back. "Release the seal." Aela spun her fingers around in an upward-spherical motion.
Krest stood in front as the flap hissed, steam releasing and the gate to the frozen, monster-infested north gave way. He took a deep breath of the icy, fresh air and passed through.
Aela gave him a piece of advice as the gate closed behind him...
"Don't die on your way to hell.”
~ § ó § ò § ~
A/N: Thanks for reading. Feel free to share your thoughts, critiques, and guesses for where the story is headed! I guess you could say this little subgenre here is what I like to call ‘Cyberfantasy’. This story is 26 chapters in total and pre-written.
Next Quest: Baguette-Stick
(Edited by Liberating Saint)
Okay. This is a redo from my last post. I will try to get better evidence.
Forget the red circle in this picture.
So. As I had stated before, High rock/Hammerfell, Skyrim, Cyrodiil, and an island in Morrowind, and all of tamriel are taken from previous games. SO! If you look in the picture above, there is a little hole right below that red circle.
While the Black Marsh isn't mountainous, there is a marshy hole there. But the Marsh clearly isn't a contender.
SO! If we look at the map again, there is a huge mountain range near the eastern and western edges of Morrowind. and the landscape/generation looks very similar. And if you look at both pictures, the farther end of the land has snow. Both of them do, but Morrowind has less and so does the picture.
And the geographical turn in the map is too sharp than it shows in the trailer. So, as far as I know, High Rock and Hammerfell may not be the location. No where else has mountains besides skyrim and the north of Cyrodiil, but we already had those game. SO! As far as I know, Morrowind may be the place. But you clearly need more evidence.
Note that there is NO island next to the land in the trailer picture, but there is a tiny one on the map north-ish of High Rock. And note that the mountains in Morrowind are darker than in Highrock/Hammerfell. And the picture from the trailer has very dark mountains. And the curve, as said earlier, has a similar bend in both the map on Morrowind's side and in the trailer picture.
And if you look at the red circle again, there is a "Castle" or as I see it, a ruin. What I mean is that there is no city/major location on the map that the red circle marks. But that goes for Both Morrowind and High Rock/Hammerfell.
So, If I am getting this right, TES6 is more likely to take place in the whole Province of Morrowind, than in a Dual Provincial location being Hammerfell and High Rock.
Tell me if I am wrong...
Based on the Map, Where do you think The Elder Scrolls 6 game is being placed in? I also have proof that it won't take place in Hammerfell or High Rock.
"Almost all the Elder Scrolls series games are set in different areas in the world of Tamriel, the series's 'universe'. Back in 1996, Daggerfall snatched the High Rock and Hammerfell provinces. In 2002, Morrowind earmarked the island of Vvardenfell.
Oblivion was set in Cyrodiil and, no prizes for this one, Skyrim was set in Skyrim.
These names may all sound like Tolkien rejects, but they're actually places that featured in the very first Elder Scrolls game, Arena. That 1994 game let you wander around the whole of Tamriel, making it one of the largest games ever made.
And yes, that means a lot of its areas were pretty boring and repetitive. A reminder: it was released in 1994, just a year after the original Doom.
So what's left in Tamriel? Consult the The Elder Scrolls: Arena map and you'll see that Valenwood, Elsweyr and Black Marsh (aka Argonia) are the spots Bethesda hasn't mined yet.
Morrowind would be another obvious choice, as The Elder Scrolls: Morrowind didn't actually feature any of that province's mainland area, just an island.
For any real Elder Scrolls nuts ready to leave an angry comment, yes we know Battlespire and Regard exist, but they are not part of the main series of games.
Rumours online seem to think Argonia/Black Marsh is the most likely choice for Elder Scrolls 6, although we've found no reliable source for this yet. Maybe people just think it 'sounds right', eh?
Argonia is where Tamriel's lizard folk live. They're called Argonians. You've been able to play as these scaly, underwater-breathing creatures in previous Elder Scrolls games.
There's also a rumour that Elder Scrolls 6 will be called Elder Scrolls 6: Valenwood, which would make sense as it's one of the areas in Tamriel that Bethesda hasn't touched yet.
The theory is based on a purported Bethesda memo from back in 2014 that prohibited its employees from "using or referencing" a number of terms, including Fallout: Nuka World (which ended up being a major DLC release for Fallout 4, thus giving the leak a little more substantiation), Elder Scrolls VI or something called Project Greenheart.
Now Project Greenheart is supposed to be the codename for Elder Scrolls 6 because as keen Elder Scrolls fans will know, Greenheart is an existing city that's located in Valenwood."
Source: https://www.digitalspy.com/tech/best-tech-deals/a787639/elder-scrolls-6-release-date-news-valenwood/
Give me crap if you must. But I will be the one to say this, and quote me if you must:
By proper evidence, all games have had these places: High rock/Hammerfell, Skyrim, Cyrodiil, and island in Morrowind, and all of tamriel. So, By Process of elimination, we have: Summerset isles, Elsweyr, Black Marsh, Valenwood, and the rest of Morrowind. And from looking at little pieces of the hints to TES6, I am going to predict that TES6 is going to take place in either BLACK MARSH or MORROWIND. I also have proof that it may take place more in The Black Marsh:
They look almost the same. Also if you look closer at the trailer, there are very dark green forests. and a lot of swamp fog. I end my theory. Thank you, and Goodnight Tamriel!
Can someone or all of you give me a brief understanding of the lore of TES (All or any of them). Cuz I just went into the era page and went into the "DAWN ERA" and ended up with 12 other pages open because I don't understand anything about TES at all... I NEED HELP!!! I AM DROWNING IN QUESTIONS THAT AREN'T BEING ANSWERED BECAUSE I KEEP ENDING UP IN OTHER PAGES THAT LEAD TO MORE PAGES THAT LEAD TO MORE PAGES THAT LEAD TO MORE PAGES!!!!!!!!!! SOME ONE HELP!!! I CAN SWIM BUT NOT IN THIS LIQUID!!!
(Edited by administrators)
Ok since there is nowhere on this site that specifically talks about the Rigmor mod, i have decided to post about the mod here, i might bring up spoilers in this so be warned.
https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/21566
If you have played the mod, i want to know your experience of the mod, i want to know what you liked about it and what you didn't like.
For myself, i found the mod a good one, story wise and i haven't run into a mod that is anything quite like it.
(Edited by Cubbyman1)
Like in Skyrim you're called dragonborn
What're you called in oblivion and morrowind?
(Edited by administrators)
I need help creating a story line for my Elder Scrolls Campaign I'm creating for DND I am open for suggestions, tips and ideas I'm currently in a creativity dry spell. The Campaign is set in the 4th era after the events of the dragonborn defeating Alduin. I have pretty much left the campaign open to anything can happen in any of the provinces of tamriel so please give me some ideas.
So, outside of the Royal family.who would you like to see on the throne? Why would him/her be best?
The Links to Chapters 11 - 13 of The Book of Noxaura - Guardian Defender of Cyrodiil are now live.
The first three chapters of the second installment in The Book of Noxaura are now live.
Here is a sneak peak at Chapter 1 of the next installment of The Book of Noxaura
Heroes require employment. This is a well-known fact in fiction, particularly fan fiction. So, if a Priestess of the Maetreum of Cybele and the Dragon Born travel from Skyrim to Bruma for her investiture as High Priestess, with a short detour at some point to Chorrol to return two teenagers who were kidnapped by bandits, what sort if mischief awaits them in Cyrodiil? Story ideas, big or small are hereby solicited.
(Edited by moderator)
Prologue Continued.
It’s a lovely sunny day in the city of Bruma. The children are playing, the guards are patrolling, and the traders are selling and buying in the market. A man is getting ready to leave the city. He is a Nord named Orion Beo-Wulf. He is preparing to leave Cyrodiil to go to Skyrim to join the Imperial Legion to help in the Civil War effort and quell Ulfric Stormcloak’s rebellion. “Mother you worry too much I’ll be fine” He said to his adopted mother, an imperial woman by the name of Mariantula Cecimius. “It’s just that what if something kills you on your way to Solitude or during your service in the Legion'' Mariantula said to Orion. “Mother, you know how many bounties I did for the count? And also you served in the Penitus Oculatus when you were young. I can handle myself” Orion replied. “I know but a mother is always worried about her son but I suppose you’re right since I did serve in the Penitus Oculatus so you joining the legion in Skyrim isn’t really any different” Mariantula said. “ Well I’d best be off. I love you mother” Orion said. “I love you too, son,” Mariantula said as they. And with that he waved goodbye and headed off to Pale Pass to go to Skyrim.
It wasn’t long before he reached the Pale Pass Border between Cyrodiil and Skyrim. The guards at the border stopped him. “Excuse me sir! What is your business at the border?” The Imperial Legate in charge said. “I wish to cross the border into Skyrim” Orion replied. “Okay but we just don’t let anyone cross the border, you’ll either need official papers or some other justification for your passage” The Legate said. “I have them right here” He said as he pulled them out of his pack. “Let’s see here… the Emperor’s signature… Septim wax stamp at the bottom… Everything seems to be in order, welcome to Skyrim!” The Legate said. “Thank you sir” Orion replied. And with that he crossed the border into Skyrim to join the Imperial Legion and defeat the Stormcloaks.
“So this is home, Skyrim… it’s quite beautiful” Orion said as soon as he crossed the border. “Right now to find Solitude” He said before heading out. He walked in the direction of what he thought was Solitude. “Where am I even going?” He asked himself before checking his map. “Damn it! I’m all the way out here in Eastmarch, not even close to Haafingar! I need to find a place to stay or else mother might be right and something might kill me…Darkwater Crossing is nearby I suppose that will have to do perhaps the residents might be friendly enough and let me stay with them then they can point me towards Solitude” He decided to head there. As he was walking he saw people in the distance they seemed to be running towards him. As they wooshed by he saw that they were Stormcloaks. Then he saw Imperial soldiers running towards him. “I see another one!” One of them said. “Gods Damn it!” Orion said knowing they were talking about him as he ran away from them. He then saw the Stormcloaks including Ulfric Stormcloak all huddled together surrounded by many Imperial soldiers. Then he saw the mighty General Tullius in his mighty Legion General Armor. “Ulfric Stormcloak, You couldn’t run from us forever. You are guilty of insurrection, murder of Imperial citizens, the assassination of King Torygg, and high treason against the Empire. It's over. You are traitors and will die traitors' deaths. Stand down and face public execution, or advance and face summary execution by my hands.” General Tullius said. “Stand down men! Very well General We surrender” Ulfric raised up his hands in surrender while his men and another man who didn’t look like a stormcloak did the same. “What in Oblivion is going on?!” Orion asked himself. He looked around to see a fist aiming towards them before losing consciousness. “Smart move Ulfric, now soldiers bind them all and gag Ulfric as well.” Tullius said. “Yes sir!” All the soldiers said. Then they bound them all including Orion as they thought he was a Stormcloak and they bound and gagged Ulfric. “Wait! That man! He is not with us!” One of the Stormcloaks said referring to Orion. “Shut up and into the Cart!” One of the Soldiers said. “I’m telling you he isn’t with us!” He said again. The Imperial Soldier drew his sword “We can do this the easy way or the hard way” he said. Ulfric looked at him as if to say “Ralof it isn’t worth it.” Ralof nodded to Ulfric and went into the cart. The Imperial Soldier took that as a “I pick the easy way” and climbed into the driver's seat of the cart “Hadvar, come with us to Helgen soldier,” Tullius said to an Imperial Soldier. “I thought we were taking them to Cyrodiil, to boost morale,” Hadvar said. “To boost morale yes, but also to give the Thalmor an advantage” Tullius replied. “Yes Sir!” Hadvar said as he took one of the Legions spare horses. Then they were off.
Note: This is pretty long and follows about three people(Each character is divided by a line) and the chapter is pretty long so get comfortable
“Oy! What’s this you got ‘ere eh?” one Imperial Soldier asked. He had dropped his helmet on the ground and held his sword to the amulet Tedos had around his neck. It was gold and round with intricate designs and wings carved along the edge with a white, edged glowing stone in the center.
“Yeah, this here isn’t something I’ve ever seen before.” another Imperial Soldier asked, this one was more educated than the other. “Only amulets a soldier usually wears around his neck are made in the eyes of the Gods, so who is it? Mara? Dibella? Stendarr?” The more educated soldier was also a lot younger than the other, and less barbaric as well. Tedos spat, not at the boy but the older one.
“Why I outta-” the older soldier was stopped as another soldier, more heavily armored, rode up on a horse.
“What’s all this about men?” the horseman asked. Both soldiers stood straight, their arms behind their backs. The horseman was older, maybe around the same age as the first soldier. He had finely trimmed short gray hair like all the usual Imperial soldiers.
“S-Sir! We found this one, alive, barely a scratch on him Sir!” the young boy said. The older man scoffed.
“He’s got a weird amulet on ‘is neck cap’n,” he said. The Imperial Captain nodded and began to get off his horse, walking over to Tedos carefully.
“You an Imperial?” the Captain asked as he brushed Tedos’ long black hair aside to examine his ears. Tedos stood firm and stubborn, not wanting to answer any questions. “How’d an Imperial like you end up in the Aldmeri Dominion? They threaten you, your family?” Tedos merely shook his head, still glaring at the men. It was then the Captain turned his attention to Tedos’ amulet.
“Where’d you get this?” he asked judgingly. It was then Tedos began to think if they found out who he truly was they’d use him against the Dominion, against his family. He had to come up with a different strategy, one that would either get him killed and spur on the war or get him released from captivity. But there was only one honest answer that could help him.
“From a temple, my tutor gave it to me,” he said, glaring even more now and upset that he just had to bind himself to honesty. His tutor’s words echoing in his mind, ‘Your honesty will kill you one of these days’ and boy was she right.
“To whom? Looks like it was made by the Altmer…” the captain stared at it a moment longer. “Who is it for, Mara or Stendarr? Or maybe Phynaster or Auri-El?” Tedos smiled cruelly at the captain, wanting to say he was right but more intrigued as to how he would react if Tedos was honest.
“Merid-Nunda, you know her?” Tedos asked. Although many Mer and Beasts could recognize the name, Men knew her differently. The captain looked at him in confusion.
“Sounds familiar but I can’t quite place it, certainly not of the Nine Divines.” the captain answered with a quizzical look.
“Ah, she goes by a different name in your culture. My apologies sometimes I forget these things.” Tedos said sarcastically. “You might know her better as, Meridia the Lady of Light and Life-Energies.” The captain’s face filled with shock along with the other two soldiers and it caused Tedos to burst into laughter.
“You’re a foul Daedra worshipper!” the captain exclaimed raising the attention of the other nearby soldiers. The captain held his sword to Tedos’ neck and the laughter stopped.
“What are you gonna do? Kill me? Ha! Do it and I’ll come back from Meridia’s Realm with bloodthirsty Aurorans and I’ll kill you, send you to your wretched Gods!” Tedos shouted as he waited for the captain to kill him.
“Do it cap’n, kill the damn Daedra worshippin’ bastard!” the first soldier said. The captain just stared at Tedos, there was no anger nor wrath in his eyes… just thoughts.
“Quiet, Ostol!” the captain shouted. The older man shut up immediately. “We’ll take him to the Arena, in the Imperial City. Might even get the Emperor to watch.” The captain picked Tedos up off the ground, ripped his amulet off, and immediately grabbed a rope to tie his hands together and wound the other end of the rope around his wrist to drag him along behind him.
The Imperials wasted no time in packing up to leave for the Imperial City…
———————————————————————
“My Lord.” Veriin Retlard said as he bowed before Emperor Titus Mede II. In his hands, Veriin held an Elder Scroll. Powerful, almost indescribable objects that have been stored in the White-Gold Tower for centuries.
“You, are a Moth Priest are you not?” Titus Mede asked calmly. “Do you know why I have summoned you here with an Elder Scroll?” Veriin shook his head as he gazed slowly up at the older Emperor.
“No sire, but I believe this has to do with the War… does it not?” Veriin asked. The Emperor shuffled in his throne.
“Rise so I may look at you.” Veriin rose slowly, careful as to not drop the priceless artifact. “You are quite young to be a Moth Priest.”
“Yes, sire, I am. But after today if I succeed without becoming blind or mad I may become one.” the young man said with a large grin on his face. The Emperor smiled and nodded, his long gray hair shifting at the movement. Veriin cleared his throat and took a deep breath before opening the Scroll. The page glimmered with bright glowing lines that were intricate. Soon after clearing his mind a vision of a shrine to Meridia appeared and vanished as quickly as it came. Then another of Alinor and the High King. One appeared which depicted the White-Gold Tower in a beautiful landscape that quickly changed to become a landscape of a devastating war. Lastly, another vision came of a man raising his fist into the air with the arena crowd cheering all around which became a vision of the same man, this time clad in golden armor, carrying a beautiful sword with a pitch-black background.
“Gah!” Veriin exclaimed as he dropped the Scroll, causing some gasps, and stumbled backward holding his head in his hands. He was held up by a large Imperial guardsman who began inspecting his eyes.
“He’s not blind and he doesn’t seem to be affected by madness yet,” he said and he allowed Veriin to stand on his own.
“What have you seen, boy?” the Emperor asked. Veriin looked at the Scroll, which had now rolled itself back up, and then up to the Emperor who tapped his foot impatiently. Other than the Emperor’s guardsman the two were alone in the throne room.
“I-I saw the Imperial City, it looked fine at first but then… the landscape became a dreaded battlefield with the city’s walls crumbling to the ground…” Veriin spoke. He was still in shock of what he’d seen.
“So, we are destined to lose this war?” the Emperor asked as his voice began to rile with emotion.
“I don’t know, sire. The Elder Scrolls only tell us one part of a whole story, they never reveal the end.” the young boy said in an attempt to console the Emperor. “But, I have seen something else… something that wasn’t as bad but I don’t know what it’s purpose is.”
“What did you seen then, spit it out youcan’t hide it from me now.” Titus demanded. Veriin took a deep breath and prepared himself for what was to come.
“I saw a statue to Meridia, the Daedric Prince of Light and Energy, then I saw Alinor and High King Mankil, and lastly there was a man in the Imperial City Arena, he wasn’t Imperial but he wasn’t Altmer either… either way my vision turned from an Arena to a dark background with the same man carrying a beautiful glowing sword.” Veriin had explained. The guardsman looked at the Emperor, confusion in his eyes.
“Leave us.” was all the Emperor said. The guardsman nodded and left the chamber. Titus stood and walked towards the boy. He didn’t seem angry nor confused by what he heard, merely contempt. “You say this man, he’s in the Arena?”
“I have no idea, sire. The Elder Scrolls don’t give an exact time as to when things happen, but I could only assume he will appear before the end of the war.” Veriin said, his arms behind his back. The Emperor nodded lightly before looking around the room as though he’d never seen it before.
“Do you think the Meridia might have something to do with this? Could she be plotting something?” the Emperor continued. Veriin pondered a moment.
“I should think so, the Daedric Princes often enjoy messing with us mortals esspecially now that they can’t do a full scale invasion. You should contact the High King of Alinor, proclaim a truce until this whole Meridia problem is dealt with.” Veriin suggested. He had hoped to convince the Emperor to end the war, if only for a little while.
“Didn’t you just say that the Elder Scrolls can’t reveal the exact time and ending to an event?” Titus Mede II said as he turned around. “No, I cannot discuss a truce. Not unless I want Mankil to hire the Dark Brotherhood or the Morag Tong to assassinate me. The war will go on, but I feel as though you and I should pay frequent visits to the arena, don’t you?” Veriin couldn’t quite understand what he just heard, it was quite angering yet at the same time humble.
“Y-You mean to invite me to come along with you to the arena?” Veriin asked hopeful that he didn’t mistake the Emperor.
“Why of course! Only you know what the man we’re looking for looks like.” Titus Mede II explained. It hurt yet at the same time Veriin was excited. He had always dreamed of meeting a High King but to actually sit and watch warriors fight in the arena!
“Well, I suppose I should head into the city and find myself something decent to wear. I wouldn’t want to embarrass your highness.” Veriin said with a bow. The Emperor nodded and smiled very lightly before excusing Veriin form the throne room.
“I will send for you when I hear of a match.” he said as Veriin practically skipped out of the room.
———————————————————————
It was dark and the tiny group of soldiers had dragged Tedos for miles and miles. Aurel stared at the man still in disbelief that there were still followers of the Daedra and wondering if that was the true reason behind the war. They had already passed through Skingrad and were camped on the shore of Lake Rumare.
“So, this is it? The fabled White-Gold Tower? I’ve seen architecture like it before…” Tedos said as his mind began to wonder.
“Really? Where?” Aurel asked. He had been left in charge of Tedos while the others set up camp.
“It was years ago, when I was a child, my father took me to see the ruins of the Crystal Tower… it’s a shame, what the Daedra did. I imagined what the place must’ve looked like before the Oblivion Crisis.” Tedos continued. Aurel’s eyes furrowed.
“What do you mean? I thought you worshipped the Daedra?” he asked wonderingly. Tedos chuckled and smiled at the boy.
“I wouldn’t call Meridia a ‘Daedra’, would really call her an ‘Aedra’ either. She’s more of her own being, she doesn’t like many Daedra and she despises the Gods.” Tedos explained as he put his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. Aurel nodded, but then looked back at Tedos questioningly but Tedos beat him to the punch.
“Meridia feld from Nirn with Magnus before being cast down from Aetherius for ‘cohorting with the Daedra.’ She helped make Nirn alongside the other Gods.” he said. Aurel looked back at the camp, everyone was still busy, so he sat down next to Tedos.
“What’s your life like, you know, as a Daedra worshipper?” he asked curiously. Tedos opened his eyes. In one hand Aurel held the amulet of Meridia that Tedos had worn. Although its chain was missing the pudgy boy had used string to fix it. “I fixed it, I didn’t quite think it was fair even if the Daedra are evil.” Aurel put the amulet into Tedos’ hands, who in turn fumbled to put it back around his neck.
“Thank you,” Tedos reponded as he went back to relaxing. “To answer your question, the followers of Meridia aren’t much more different than you. We praise our Lady, shower her with gifts of bone and flesh from the undead and in return we are blessed, we also aid those who kill the undead and any necromancers.” Aurel looked confused, he pondered for a moment before asking yet another question.
“You sound like followers of Arkay, are you sure Meridia isn’t just the elven form of Arkay?” he asked. Tedos laughed and scratched the stubble around his jawline.
“If Meridia were another form of Arkay would I be in captivity? The only reason Meridia is considered ‘evil’ is because she had some sort of connection with the Daedra, so Magnus and Auri-El cast her down.” he said witha sigh. Aurel nodded in understanding.
“Could I ask you one more question?” he asked. Tedos smiled.
“Of course, it’s not like I can do much else.” he responded. “Besides, I do owe you fro fixing my amulet.” Aurel looked at the amulet and back up to Tedos.
“What’s that stone in the amulet for? Does it do something?” he finally asked, breaking the silence.
“Well, that’s actually a good question.” Tedos said as he began to think, “It’s an object called Meridia’s Tear. They’re about as old as time itself and they’re very rare, they were discovered by the Ayleid’s and from the Tears they made beacons that could direct light to a specific place, which were usually used to seal temples.” Tedos explained, “They say that the beacons are so simple to use that even some Nords up in Skyrim managed to find some beacons in an old Ayleid ruin and use them for their own temple of Meridia, but that was ages ago.”
“So you have a ‘beacon’ in your amulet? The key to a temple of Meridia?” Aurel asked, amazed by the necklace. Tedos shook his head.
“I have no idea what this Tear Stone was used for, only that my father found one on Alinor and he had a blacksmith fashion an amulet for it.” Tedos said, he held up the amulet in his hands and looked at it. The small edged white stone glowed slightly in the dark. Aurel sat back against the tree and looked up at the sky.
“Do you think Talos really became a God?” he asked. Tedos looked at him in surprise.
“I don’t know, I mean it’s possible, but why choose Tiber Septim who only united Tamriel rather than Martin Septim who’s sacrifice ended the Oblivion Crisis?” Tedos said softly, “In Alinor the accepted theory is that he used the Numidium to achieve immortality but many say that the ‘power source’ for the Numidium was lost before he could’ve.”
“Oh… that’s what I’ve always heard about it, that the Totem that controlled it got lost.” Aurel said in a somber tone. “But, sometimes I wonder if the Altmer are right. I mean, like you said why would they have chosen Tiber Septim but not Martin.” The two sat there silent, looking up at Secunda and Masser as they sat in the night sky, stars left behind by Magnus and the et’Ada dancing in the dark and beautiful sky.
When morning came the soldiers packed up quickly once again, in a rush to get to the city. Aurel was chosen once again to guard the prisoner while they made the thirty-minute trek to the Imperial City. It was long and tiring but eventually Tedos looked up and watched as the support towers of the bridge that stretched across the Rumare went by as he walked beneath them. Soon enough the group had reached the main gate.
“Behold Daedra worshipper, the Imperial City, your new prison until you die in the arena.” the Imperial captain announced. Aurel watched but Tedos didn’t even flinch.
“Meridia, guide me” Tedos whispered as the main gate closed behind them.
Yeah, like I said it’s a very long chapter. I hope you enjoyed the characters so far! There’s a fourth main character incoming but I felt that the three I had already introduced made up more than enough plot for one chapter. With that being said I’d love to hear any feedback anyone has to give on the chapter!
Thanks! And Merry Christmas Eve!😁🎄
This story starts long ago, before the time of man, mer, or beast, some even say before the time of the Gods themselves. The Dawn Era…
The Universe formed from the Aurbis by the entities Anu and Padomay. But during this time the two spirits clashed eventually forming the et’Ada, the Aedra, the Gods. Anu became Auri-El and as he did time was born and began to flow all around while Padomay became Lorkhan and the Universe was set.
Soon after when realms were being formed all around, Lorkhan decided it was time for an even grander plan. He assembled all of the et’Ada and told them of his plan to create Mundus. Many became enthralled with his idea, desiring to see the beauty and magnificence of this creation. Others, however, disproved the idea. Those who had no participation or disbelief in Lorkhan’s great plan fled in exile to Oblivion and became the Daedra.
Magnus and Lorkhan began creating blueprints for Mundus while the other et’Ada got to work. It was then that Magnus realized that there was a terrible cost to the creation of the Mortal Plane. As the et’Ada set to work they began to grow weaker over time and it was only when Mundus was finished that the true cost of Mundus was revealed. The Aedra had been tricked by Lorkhan. It was then that Magnus and a few of the et’Ada fled to Aetherius leaving behind several holes through which magic flowed. Among these et’Ada was one known only as Merid-Nunda.
With Magnus, Merid-Nunda stayed, she created life-energy and despised those who performed Necromancy. The Daedric Princes would often provoke her, antagonizing her with their undead creations, Molag Bal especially. It was the day she was caught speaking or rather arguing, with him on the matter by Magnus and the other Aedra that she was cast from Aetherius and her work became Arkay’s. They say she cried as she fell from her home into Oblivion, and her tears became known as the Lifesource of Merid as they hardened on Mundus.
Merid-Nunda, now known merely as Meridia, awoke in Oblivion with the other Daedric Princes either gleaming or glaring down at her. Many told her to be gone and others wished for her to become their servant. Meridia merely gawked at them, demanding that she become a Daedric Prince with her own Plane as she despised the Daedra. The Lords of Oblivion laughed at her audacity, claiming that they had already claimed the Realms of Oblivion for their own. With this Meridia turned to face away from them and used what little Aedric power remained in her to create a new Plane of her own. Bending light and energy to form what we know as the “Colored-Rooms”. Meridia laughed as the other Daedra stood in awe while she shut her new Realm off from them
It was during the mid-Merethic Era that Meridia finally took an interest in Mortal affairs, primarily the Ayleid’s who had turned to Daedra worship and began a rapid expanse forming one of the first Empires of Tamriel. Seeing Molag Bal become a great source of worship for them she took action and began to help the Ayleid’s learn to use the magic of Aetherius for their own benefit. As Meridia’s popularity grew in the Ayleid Empire a few began to scour Tamriel for her Tears which would be used to create several artifacts dedicated to her, namely the Dawnbreaker and Ring of Khajiiti but most popular where her beacons which powered her temples.
Then came the Nedic Uprisings and the Alessian Rebellion. Knowing that Auri-El was behind the first Crusader of the Nine Divines she gave Umaril the Unfeathered, a King among the Ayleids, one task. Kill the Knight of the Nine Pelinal Whistestrake and in return, she would save his people.
So Umaril traveled to the Colored-Rooms where his soul became bound and he learned to cheat death. When the time finally came for him to face the Crusader and he yet failed Meridia. His soul floated through the waters of Oblivion, back to the Colored-Rooms. Angered and embarrassed Meridia commanded the last Ayleid Kings to destroy Pelinal Whistrake and hide his weapons and armor all over Tamriel. And so they did, Pelinal fell at their hands and they stole his artifacts and hid them so that they may never again be used against them. With her plot against the Aedra complete Meridia bound the remaining souls of the Ayleid’s to her Plane.
The Ayleid’s would not be seen until the mid-4th Era, and that my friends is where our story begins. In a house in the city of Skingrad, a young babe was born of both Imperial and Ayleid blood. The mother, frightened of what would happen should the Empire learn, fled to Anvil where she boarded a boat to Alinor and the Aldmeri Dominion in hopes that the Altmer would take them in.
This is the Elder Scrolls, Dawn...
Word Count: 1,001 Words and 5,615 Characters
Note: This is just a draft, I’m mainly posting this here for feedback and anything you guys can see to help me make it more intriguing and lore-friendly. I decided to go with a start like this because the story is mainly about a follower of Meridia and since there’s no reasoning or explanation as to why she was cast down from Aetherius, other than that she was cohorting with Daedra, I decided to go with an explanation of some sort while sticking with the fact that Meridia doesn’t have a lot of Daedra friends. If you’ve played ESO and it’s Summerset Isles DLC we learn that Meridia has some beef with Molag Bal and Vaermina, and possibly if I had to guess due to her nature she’s not quite on good terms with Namira, Malacath, Mephala, Boethiah, or Mehrunes Dagon either(Note that this isn’t actual factual, I’m just assuming that she has problems with them due to her having problems with Molag Bal and Vaermina). If anything seems wrong or out of place I’d be glad of you guys would say so in the comments because I want this to seem like a real part of TES Lore even though it really isn’t.
Just finished editing the original Draft and I’ve posted those edits here too!
Thanks!😁
(Edited by Dionysus01)