Chapter 1: The Job

The room was dark but for the faint glow of the fire that burned atop a central column. The unearthly, red flames danced without fuel, and the light that they cast lent a menacing quality to the room’s angular design. Shadows arched and curved in every direction, and it was in their paths that a lone thief crouched and hid. Her soft leather boots made no noise on the black marble floors, and a chameleon spell overlaid her dark clothing. Everything here seemed unnaturally black, from the walls to the statues, to the occasional dremora that roamed the halls in daedric armor. There was, of course, also some red. If she looked closely, the thief noticed that red runes covered the polished walls from floor to ceiling, but she could not read the ancient symbols. Nor could she understand how Oblivion had come into possession of the silky, crimson curtains that draped over the impossibly tall windows, but it hardly mattered.

However Mehrunes Dagon wanted to decorate his home was his own business. She just had to find that one artifact, and then she could leave. Unsure of herself, the thief placed a hand to her belt and made sure that the spell scroll was still there. Without it, she had no way out of this god-forsaken land, and she couldn’t imagine what would happen to her if she were caught. Damn them all—the daedra and the Imperials. In the disturbing silence of this dark manor, she rained curses down upon anyone and everyone who might have had a hand in sending her here, yet she continued on.

Her hands gently pushed against an ebony door, the wood surprisingly cool in the warm, stifling air of this place, and it mutely swung inward. Where was she now? There was a four-post bed, and a massive one at that, which dominated the room. Its dark frame was lavished in blood-red blankets and curtains that almost appeared to shimmer purple depending on the angle from which one looked at them. The floor was so smooth and polished that it reflected the ceiling like a mirror, and the braziers lining the edge of the circular room sent light flickering across the stones. It was a beautifully regal sight in its own way, and the thief was hesitant to enter, but then her eyes landed on the table.

There was a large table at the foot of the bed, and its surface was strewn with artifacts. Some of them glittered with enchantment, but others appeared as ordinary as rocks, and those were probably the most powerful ones. She stepped closer while scanning the collection for a simple, black necklace. It would look like a plain piece of onyx on a gold chain, but it was also very small. Where…? The thief’s breath caught as she located the prize where it lay half-hidden behind a skull. Now she could go home.

“What do you think you’re doing, human?” Pure panic—that’s what her reaction to that low, rumbling voice could be called. The verbal threat had appeared from nowhere, and she froze in fear as a dark presence descended upon the room. When instincts finally kicked in and told her to grab the necklace and run, it was too late. Pain erupted in her body—a searing sensation that made concentration impossible. She was being burned alive. Akatosh’s mercy, but this was the end, and she wanted it to end as her nerves were consumed by scorching heat. She closed her eyes in preparation for death, not wanting to see the victorious face of her opponent.

“I won’t make it so fast, mortal,” the same voice as before stated, and then the pain lessened.”You’ve intruded where you don’t belong.” Breathing heavily, the thief felt a hand grip her tunic and hoist her up from the ground where she had fallen in anguish. The lingering effects of the destruction spell still had her head reeling, but she was quite aware of being suspended in the air. “Open your eyes!” her captor harshly ordered.

Don’t, but a claw ran down the side of her face, breaking the skin and causing her to gasp. Eyelids flew open, and she suddenly found herself face-to-face with the last being that she wanted to see: Mehrunes Dagon. She didn’t even have time to take in his appearance, for his black eyes were sucking her into their depths. Gods above, but how could eyes be so black and bottomless? For a moment, she forgot how to breathe, and her gaping, terrified expression made Mehrunes Dagon laugh. The deep, throaty sound filled the room, and then she was falling, his mocking laughter the only sound chasing her into unconsciousness. And the pain—gods, but the pain was unbearable.

Portia Augustine woke up screaming, the sheets beneath her damp with sweat and blood, and the lone candle on the bedside table flickering with the breeze coming through her opened window. She lurched forward into a sitting position, head clutched in her hands, and chest heaving. It had felt so damn real, like she was there again, like a normal dream shouldn’t have been able to accomplish. Four weeks and she was still having these nightmares, and no mage or priest had been able to do anything to stop them.

“Damn it!” she yelled, not caring if anyone heard. The pain in her right hip had returned, as she’d known it would, and the nightmare lingered with the tenacity of Mehrunes’ malicious spirit. His eyes…she shuddered and stood, one hand gingerly touching the wound on her side. Blood had soaked through her nightgown, and she slowly rolled up the white fabric to reveal a strange, angular symbol carved into her flesh. The priests had warned that it might not ever fully heal, and she believed them. The wound was unnatural in the utmost, and bleeding almost always accompanied her troubled dreams. She never lost enough blood to be endangered, but it still hurt, and it was a reminder of who was after her.

Was he after her?

Hell, she didn’t think that he’d actually leave her alone, not after what she had done.

You’ll always carry this reminder, human. You are mine! The memory of Mehrunes’ parting words made her face pale, and she rushed into the washing room to clean herself of the bloodshed that he visited upon her. His angry visage had promised revenge when she’d escaped his grasp, but he could not touch her here in the capital. There were warding spells on the house, and the daedra lord was currently busy trying to conquer Tamriel. So she might feel trapped by his threats, but at least she was safe for now, perhaps forever.

Really?

Portia ran a shaky hand through her long, brown hair and prayed to Akatosh for protection. With a flask of brandy in hand, she sat on the edge of her bed, the smell of the alcohol comforting her as memories played before her eyes…

***********************

Four Weeks Previously:

The curtains gently billowed as wind swept up over the fortress walls and along the parapets, carrying with it the familiar scent of lilac and the muffled chatter of the market. It was a calming sensation, and one which was sorely needed at the moment, for Portia Augustine had just received what promised to be the toughest assignment of her life. She stood with hands braced against the windowsill, palms pressed hard against the cold stone, and eyes mindlessly roaming across the shoppers below. For such a seemingly normal day, her world was being flipped on its head.

“You’re sure that you can’t find someone else?” she asked, voice flat. She heard the man behind her shift, but she knew that it wasn’t in discomfort. This man had no remorse for what he was doing to her.

“The job is too delicate to be assigned to someone else,” he stated in a voice that left no room for argument.

“Assigned?” Portia nearly spat. “I am no longer under your watch, sir. In case you forgot, I left the guard two years ago.” And I left for a reason, she mentally added.

“Be that as it may, someone has to do this.” They lapsed into silence, and Portia finally turned away from the window. The burgundy curtains grazed her thighs as she stood there, framed in the sunlight. She was facing a man in his late forties, perfectly polished armor encasing his tall frame, and short brown hair tucked behind his ears. His face was beginning to show the lines of age and stress, but he held himself like a man in control. Hell, he was a man in control. Arelius was captain of the guard, held a near perfect record, and was known for being entrusted with delicate matters. Portia had once been privy to his privileged, inside information, for she had been a fellow member of the Blades, but not anymore, and so when he had shown up at the foot of her bedroll yesterday, she had known that it didn’t bode well. She had been enjoying her little sojourn into the wilderness…

“Portia,” he said. “I have my orders to see this task finished, and you’re the only one who even has a shot at success.”

“It’s suicide,” she sharply replied.

“Not if it’s done properly,” came the immediate response. “You always handled your assignments with a stealth more suited to the Thieves’ Guild than the guard. That’s why I recruited you to the Blades, and that’s why you’ll succeed.” Portia smiled and shook her head in wonder.

“You’ve always had a talent for this,” she mused. “Whenever I wanted to back out, you always convinced me that I could get the job done…but not this time, captain. I left my duties behind, and I don’t want to come back. I doubt that I’m welcomed anyway.”

“You’ll be working alone,” Arelius assured. “You don’t need to see the others, and they’ll keep their hands to themselves if I tell them to.” Portia focused on the hilt of his sword, the familiar eagle carved along its edge conjuring memories of being a new recruit. Back then she had envied him his sword and the respect that its sight commanded. He had been the model, and she had been the newbie earning her way up the ladder before accidently murdering a fellow Blade. She could still imagine the blood running through her fingers and the look of disbelief on the man’s face. Damn, but she had mistaken him for an assassin. What had he been doing lurking behind her in the shadows?

Arelius noted the sudden intensity of Portia’s face and his expression softened.

“Let it go,” he ordered. “No one blames you.”

“Are we through here?” she demanded. She was not discussing this with him.

“No.”

“And why not?”

“You will be doing this job, whether you like it or not.” He grimly passed her a slip of paper. “I didn’t want to resort to this, but my hand isn’t the only one behind this mission. The Elder Council won’t accept ‘no’ for an answer.” Portia examined the piece of paper, and her eyes suddenly widened in comprehension. They couldn’t press charges against her for involvement with the Grey Fox. She had…she would never…the nerve of those men!

“If I’m found guilty?” she probed.

“When you’re found guilty, you’ll be executed.”

“That's BS, and you know it.”

“Like I said: not my choice.” But his eyes showed no remorse; they never did. This man lived for the empire and the Septim line, which was why there would be no reasoning with him. He expected her to do this, even if she failed to see how she could survive an encounter with Oblivion. She had heard the rumors of Kvatch, for news of an entire city’s destruction spread quickly, and according to Arelius, that wasn’t the only incident of concern. She believed him when he said that Oblivion was preparing for total war, and it scared her like nothing had in a long time. The emperor and heirs assassinated, daedra roaming the roads, people disappearing in the wild…the empire was going to hell.

“What exactly am I supposed to do?” she warily asked, accepting her fate.

“Go into Oblivion,” Arelius answered, and his cool tone annoyed Portia.

“I know that. What I mean is: what am I expected to do there? What the hell can I do that will make the slightest bit of difference?” Arelius stared her down in a nonverbal reprimand for raising her voice toward him, and she slowly relaxed her glare. Antagonizing this man might not be the best idea given her predicament.

“Dagon and his followers are responsible for the assassinations and the attack on Kvatch. Gates to Oblivion are appearing throughout the countryside and giving his armies access to our world. If it can’t be stopped, he may well finally accomplish his dreams of ruling mankind, and so far, all we can do is wait for a gate to open and fight whatever comes out. It’s damn frustrating, and this recent attack on Kvatch…well, he got more out of the attack than we bargained for, and that’s where you come in.” Portia nodded, showing that she was listening, every dreadful sentence filling her ears and mind.

“General Achires was at Kvatch and was killed in the fighting. As you know from being in the Blades, he was entrusted with the protection of a powerful artifact.”

“Sable,” Portia sighed, now realizing the extent of their problems.

“Yes, Sable,” Arelius grunted. “The pendant of vision. Achires used it to locate wanted criminals, but imagine what Dagon could do with it. He could hunt down the last heir. All he needs is a name, and he can pinpoint a location and send every dremora and beast at his command to end our hope. We need to reclaim that pendant, Portia. If Dagon finds the last heir before we do, we’ll have lost before the real fighting even begins.”

“So you’re asking me to sneak into the Deadlands and steal from right beneath Mehrunes Dagon’s nose? You’re giving me too much credit. As soon as I step foot in his realm, he’ll know there’s an intruder. His eyes and ears will be everywhere.”

“He would know if you entered through one of the major gates, but you’ll travel through a small dimensional loophole courtesy of the Mages’ Guild. The master has assured us that he’s found a way to do it, so no one could possibly be monitoring your arrival.”

“So that means that I’m leaving…what? Now?” The captain smiled, and Portia’s frown deepened.

“How very astute of you,” he joked. “Gather what you need, and meet me at the Arcane University in thirty minutes. Time is even shorter now that it took over a day to find you.”

“I didn’t want to be found,” Portia grumbled, but there was no slinking back to her small campsite now. Either she went to Oblivion and helped protect the citizens whom she’d once served, or she’d be executed as a common criminal and disgrace her name and family. She would take the former over the latter, and who knew, maybe luck was on her side. She was born under the Thief after all, and she had been extraordinarily sneaky for a guard. That was why she’d been chosen for this impossible task, for she could remain undetected until the last moment, yet she had the combat skills of a soldier. She could just imagine some of her former comrades trying to secretly move about Oblivion, and it was laughable. Yes, she was a good choice compared to the other options, and she had never regretted it more. Her life expectancy had just plummeted.

Edited

Chapter 2: The Chaos Sphere

Arelius leaned forward to place a kiss on his wife’s neck as she was dressing, and the woman smiled as his hands wound loosely about her hips. He loved slow, relaxing mornings like this, but they were too few and far between. Since the emperor had been assassinated, there had been no peace in his life, for he was forever running to and fro, dictating orders and taking them. He had thought that Portia’s successful return of Sable would take some of the pressure off of him, but Mehrunes Dagon was still on the move, and the woman’s survival had unexpectedly complicated the dangerous game that he was playing.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” his wife teased.

“Not for another forty minutes,” he told her, his thoughts wandering to the sheer, green robe that barely covered her body. His was entertaining the idea of a quick romp in the blankets when his keen vision caught movement near the window. It was subtle, but noticeable, and he wondered how long the intruder had been standing there, watching this intimate exchange.

“Arelius?” his wife asked.

“Hmmm?”

“I hate when you tense up like that. Whatever it is, I’ll be downstairs overseeing the servants.” She knew him too well, and he reluctantly let her slip from his grasp and disappear from sight. He loved the way that her black hair swayed when she walked, for she was every inch the Imperial aristocrat, and that hair had been what first attracted him. What a wasted chance at enjoying her beauty this morning, but he quickly refocused on business. Tamil wouldn’t be in his private quarters if the matter wasn’t serious.

“I wasn’t expecting a visit,” he stated, turning toward the window where he’d seen the woman. His attention fixed on the shifting air where he assumed her to be, and he could almost see the faint red of dunmer eyes when the sunlight wavered with a passing cloud.

“I wasn’t expecting to visit, if that’s any consolation,” a feminine voice replied, and the invisibility spell was dropped. What was now open to view was a middle-aged Dunmer with light blue skin and large, crimson eyes. Her short, raven hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and several green tattoos ranged across her slender neck and left cheek, but Arelius was never certain of their meaning. It was hard to tell with Dunmer from Morrowind, for the province had its own traditions that he’d never bothered investigating. He didn’t care anyway. What mattered was that Tamil was efficient and a worthy Blade.

“What did the monk say?” Arelius asked. He was referring to the master of the Blades, but given the secretive nature of the man’s position, they never used names. Tamil stepped closer and passed a scroll into the captain’s waiting hands.

“He says that we should follow the mages’ advice. He doesn’t know much about artifacts or Mehrunes Dagon's lore, so he’s deferring to them and agreeing that the chaos sphere should be left alone for now.”

“Seems rather dangerous to me,” Arelius commented. “If it falls into the wrong hands, there’s no telling what could happen.”

“Which is why the Mages Guild is keeping Portia’s secret. No one is to know about what she took from our dear Lord Dagon, and she’ll be allowed to retain it until they figure out how to safely handle it. If you ask me, they’re terrified, and I don’t trust that arch mage. He’s too secretive and ambitious, so I wonder why he agreed to this. It seems like he’d love to get his hands on Portia’s treasure.”

“Fear is a powerful motivator,” Arelius mused. “No one wants to take Portia’s place on the chopping block…poor girl.” He shook his head. “I had hoped that she would be spared long term damage from this. She woke up screaming again last night. The nightmares are becoming more frequent, and all the mages want to do is be patient and hide her from Dagon. I don’t know how long that will work.”

“It will have to suffice for now. There’s nothing else to do.”

“So we wait,” Arelius frowned. “And you’re right: I don’t trust the mages either. Traven's just itching to promote himself--as if he's shown any skill at public relations. I’d feel better if the Blades were handling this business alone.”

“Amen,” Tamil agreed, her voice dipped in discontent. “The monk has ordered us to keep the reins. We are supposed to watch the mages and work with them on this matter--until they become a hassle, that is. We're also to protect Portia and make sure that information doesn’t leak.”

“The mages better watch their end of the stick,” Arelius grunted. “Protecting Portia will be easy if no one knows what she has.” He tucked the scroll into a small chest beside his bed, and then grabbed his long sword and scabbard from the wall. “Tell the monk that I’ll keep the situation under control. We’ll speak again later.”

“Until next time, captain.” Tamil was gone in an instant, back out the window through which she’d entered, and Arelius was left to his thoughts. Portia knew nothing of what she’d unwittingly brought to the human world, and both the Blades and mages wanted to keep it that way. They saw her ignorance as vital to keeping a lid on their current problems, and Arelius tended to agree with them. It was not his place to question his superior either, for the Blade master knew far more than he did. He only had to protect Portia and guide her in the direction that would best suit the empire. He didn’t foresee any problems, but he wouldn’t hold his breath.

*******************

“Another day,” Portia sighed while buttoning her trousers. She glanced at herself in the mirror and decided that her lack of sleep was definitely showing. Beneath long tresses, her eyes were sunken and dark, the green irises no longer shining with enthusiasm, and the deadened energy doing nothing to enhance her already plain appearance. She did, however, carry herself well, and slender bones lent her a very feminine figure that belied her strength. She liked the subtle curves of her thin body, but she’d always personally thought that her nose was a little slender (much too like a high elf’s for an Imperial), even if others told her that it suited her oval face.

Portia pulled her hair back into a braid and tucked her green tunic into her breeches. She wore tall leather boots and bracers, and carried a thin knife tucked into her belt. She never felt secure without some type of weapon on her, and blades were her preferred choice. Arelius wasn’t pleased with her carrying it around the manor, but he wasn’t the one jumping at shadows either. His nerves weren’t tattered from nights of blood and screaming, and he hadn’t stared Oblivion in the face and barely lived to tell the tale.

Portia wondered where the captain was this morning as she moved out onto the balcony adjoining her room. She had been surprised by his invitation to live here, and while the idea didn’t thrill her, she’d accepted since she had nowhere else to go. Now she was lodged in his family’s manor, which happened to occupy a prestigious position near the palace. Of course, the royal family was now dead and gone, but Silver Wells was still the preeminent neighborhood for aristocrats. The large area was filled with marble manors, sprawling gardens, and even a museum. Portia had never thought that she’d walk among these elegant houses let alone live among them, but here she was by an act of mercy. Perhaps Arelius felt somewhat guilty for her current health, or more likely, he had future plans for her.

Portia inwardly dared the man to try and manipulate her as she stared down at the garden beneath her balcony. The servants poured hours into keeping the courtyard adorned in an array of lush greens, and among the stone pathways that crisscrossed the yard sprang vibrant swaths of purple, yellow, and red. Blooming bushes were the preeminent feature of the display, and there, at the center of the yard stood a small, winding tree that obscured Portia's view of the balcony opposite hers. Her eyes were drawn toward that tree, for around its base ran two boys in a fit of giggles. They were Arelius’ sons, and from her vantage point, Portia could see that they were trying to outsmart a very exasperated tutor.

“Come inside and study this instant!” the man demanded, and even Portia smiled at his flustered face. She took the narrow stairs connected to her balcony, and descended to his level, arms clasped neatly behind her back as she strolled.

“Morning,” she greeted.

“Ah, madam, please tell these ruffians that they need to study,” the tutor begged. He frowned as the two boys rushed around his blue robes and directly toward Portia.

“Is it true, madam?” one of the youths asked, face red from running. The other was equally wide-eyed, and awaited her answer while bobbing up and down. Portia merely frowned.

“Is what true?” she asked, but she very well knew what was coming.

“They say that you went to Oblivion on a secret mission!”

“Yeah, and that Mehrunes Dagon scarred you—that he almost killed you!”

“That you stole from him and survived!” The boys’ mouths were running away with rumors, and the more they said, the more Portia’s face contorted in discomfort. She did not want to listen to this, for it conjured memories of soulless eyes and a dominating voice. Almost instinctively, a hand moved toward her wounded side, and she marveled at the innocence of the children. They made stealing from a daedric prince sound like great fun, but she had been an idiot to challenge the Prince of Destruction. Perhaps, if she had only escaped, her predicament wouldn’t be so terrible, but she…

“Enough!” Arelius’ voice barked. “Get back to your lessons, children, and I don’t want to hear another word about these Dagon stories, understood?” Portia was actually relieved that the captain had appeared, for the boys were rendered mute, both staring at the ground in subservience.

“Yes, sir,” their voices dragged, and then they were following their tutor away from the courtyard. Portia breathed easier and found Arelius’ hand on her elbow. He guided her to a bench where they both sat, and Portia noted that civilian clothing suited her former mentor. She had never seen him in regular garb before, and she wondered how she had worked with him for four years and never once caught a glimpse of him dressed down.

“I apologize for their behavior,” he told her. “They know better than to let their mouths run.”

“They’re children,” Portia dismissed, feeling foolish for having allowed mere words to bother her in the first place.

“Either way, it will not happen again,” Arelius promised. He then leaned forward and promptly switched topics. “I came to tell you that the mages wish to speak with you this afternoon.”

“I got the letter. But why are you here to repeat the news? Does it bother you that you weren’t allowed to attend the last meeting?” Arelius grunted.

“Hardly. Just because you didn’t see me doesn’t mean that I wasn’t there, and I must say that your actions were rather foolhardy.”

“The guild master deserved those harsh words,” Portia defended. “His portal spell nearly ripped me in half.” She had not survived Mehrunes Dagon to get trapped or split between dimensions, which was what had almost happened to her. At the time, she had only been aware of reading the incantation and then feeling like her insides were swimming and pulling in opposite directions, followed by an intense sensation of physical detachment. It hadn’t hurt, but it had been damn unpleasant, and so she’d given the spell’s creator a piece of her mind when an explanation for her experience was supplied.

“I wasn’t referring to what you said at the meeting,” Arelius clarified. “I’m talking about what you did in Oblivion. It was enough to escape with Sable, but to humiliate Dagon like you did was rash. Men have their pride, Portia, and great men more than a commoner, and gods more than great men. Your slight won’t easily be forgotten.” Portia couldn’t agree more, and yet she was not sorry for what she had done. To have felt power over her captor for even a moment after what he’d done had been the only positive aspect of her journey.

“Do you know what he did to me?” she bitterly asked.

“I can imagine…”

“He burned me, and then he had me healed so that I could endure it all over again. I was forced to tell him exactly what I had been sent to do, and then I was locked away in the world’s darkest hell hole for days until I thought I’d go mad. I was bleeding, cold, hungry, and the fetcher didn’t even bother with me after he’d thrown me there. I was left to rot, Arelius—left to rot until I managed to surprise and kill my guard, and then I had to run through a palace with bleeding hands and feet to find my damned scroll and Sable.”

Portia’s fists were clasped together, and her eyes closed as she finished speaking. Arelius said nothing, for he’d already heard her report at the meeting, and he had nothing with which to console her. He sensed that her memories would haunt her for a long time, much like the accidental murder had, but he didn’t know the whole of it. There was far more to her story than what Portia had shared. There was a hell of a lot more…

“Let me go!” she screamed while driving her dagger into the dremora’s throat. His armor was open between the neck and shoulders, and that’s where she aimed. The creature’s warm blood pumped over her hands as she twisted the blade free, paranoia making her quickly abandon the scene. She was moving faster than she thought possible, for desperation was driving her onward. Being locked away without any light for days on end had flayed her nerves, and the palace’s fires now burned her vision. She had escaped by a hairbreadth, having used her one small dagger to take down her guard after luring him inside of her cell. His body was somewhere several stories down in the dungeons, and it had probably already been discovered.

Gods, she had to run faster. She wouldn’t go back to that cell with the feeling of nothingness that it instilled in her, and she wouldn’t wait for a painful death at Mehrunes’ whim either.

Faster, faster, faster.

Portia was amazed that she had even gotten this far in her bid for freedom, and the fear that her success would be thwarted chased her heels as she rounded a corner. These were familiar settings. She recognized this hallway, and yet, there were fewer guards than before, and those that remained were dispatched with slits throats. If it hadn’t been for her Blade training, she’d have lost it, but as was, she crept expertly and focused on the task at hand with a single-mindedness that blocked out the sharp pain coursing through her feet with each step.

She had to find Mehrunes’ chambers, for that was where Sable and her scroll were most likely kept. Sable would of course be there, and the scroll was valuable enough that he’d keep it, or so she hoped. She left a trail of red as she located the desired room with her keen sense of direction and memory, but it wasn’t an easy task. She nearly collapsed at the door, for she had been cut in several places by dremora and lesser daedra, and the blood loss was beginning to slow her. She all but crawled across the last several feet of marble floor to grab what she’d come for. Fighting for consciousness, dizziness and nausea threatened to overtake her, and her hands grappled for that lone piece of parchment. The scroll was almost illegible due to her filthy hands, and yet she read it and felt the spell beginning to warm the air around her, its energy dancing up her arms.

Crack!

“You again?” a voice asked in shock. “How did you…? You are brave, woman; I’ll give you that much, but apparently your first lenient lesson did not sink in!” And the magic was pulling her to safety, but not fast enough for her liking. She could see Mehrunes clearly now. His chamber doors had broken from their hinges when he’d thrown them open, and his eyes flashed at the sight of her. He was shirtless and storming toward her, his skin a gentle red, and his bald head sporting two small horns. He had four arms, and they all went after his prey.

Fading in and out, Portia’s body was being pulled away into another dimension. She was going home, but two of Mehrunes’ hands seized on her torso, and another was cutting into her flesh with gods knew what. His fingernail, she realized. He was slicing her hip with his fingernails, and she screamed, but the sound seemed to be swallowed by space.

“You cannot escape so easily! I am the master here,” Mehrunes bellowed, but she knew that he was wrong. Gods, his men had beaten the bottoms of her feet until they were raw and useless, and they’d torn her clothing and fondled her breasts, cast spells that shattered her nerves and made her sing confessions, and all for their dark master, who had been determined to wring everything from her, perhaps even the location of the last heir. She would have told him if she had known, and she was ashamed of that. She hated him as the thought hit her, and she wanted to humiliate him. She wanted to wound him like he had wounded her, and so her knife lashed out. It met the soft flesh of his naked chest and made him hiss in pain. Her hand reached for his face to scratch him as his grip on her tightened, but her fingers instead caught the ornament hanging from his left ear, ripping it free. His angry snarl was the last thing that she saw.

“I took something from him like he took something from me,” Portia stated. “I needed to do that, and if I’d been fully cognizant,” she sighed, “I’d never have told the council about taking his earring.” She tilted her head so that Arelius could see the orange orb dangling from her left ear. It was a luminescent ball swinging from a gold link, and it seemed to flare brightly with the intensity of Portia’s mood. “It’s fitting, don’t you think?”

“I understand why you wear it, but it’s dangerous to flaunt your victory like this. If he were to know, it would anger him more than you’ve already done.” Portia snorted and crossed her arms. “It is, of course, your decision, and since the mages could find no spell or curse on it, they won’t take it from you.”

“Good, because I wouldn’t let them have it.”

“Portia.”

“It is all I have, Arelius. My body will never fully recover from what Mehrunes did to it. For Akatosh’s sake, his brand is on me, and I don’t want it, but this...” She motioned to the earring. “This I took. Sometimes it all feels so dreamlike--thinking of the dark and his rough voice taunting me, or the Dremora that drug me down into the bowels of his prisons…this lets me know that it was real and that I survived through sheer will.”

“You’ve earned its keep,” Arelius agreed, “And my respect along with it.” Portia didn’t want to, but his words made her swell with pride. She had fought for this man’s approval for what felt like eternity, and now she knew with certainty that she had it. Oh, to hell with it. She didn’t need his approval anymore, but then why was she so pleased with herself? She supposed that some things did not easily change, and spending six years pining for a man’s attentions would do that to a person. Don’t let him know, her mind warned.

“Thank you, captain.” So much for that. “It means a lot.”

“You deserve the praise. And now I have work to attend to, and you need to get to your meeting.” She was grateful that he brushed aside her obviously flushed face and that he didn’t even make direct eye contact with her. The man was apparently feeling more merciful than usual today. She wondered if he’d always known how much she adored him, even if it had lessened considerably since leaving the Blades. Her desire for his respect was all that remained, and she was glad that the other aspects of her emotions for him had faded, for she owed a debt to his wife for tolerating her presence here. He and Lucretia were both quite generous with her, although more assignments were coming. She could feel it, and they’d be no easier to squirm out of than going into Oblivion.

“Have a good day,” she told Arelius in parting, and she immediately moved to the open streets. Her stride was sure and swift, for she didn’t want to be detained by a passerby, and there were plenty of them this late in the morning. Some glanced at her questioningly, but none had any idea about what she had recently endured. The Blades were keeping it silent, and she was grateful for that. The fewer who knew that she’d gone to Oblivion and angered Mehrunes Dagon, the better. Of course, aristocratic women went after gossip like slaughterfish to fresh blood, but the rumors would be unsubstantial at best. Blade members would subtly discredit them until people gave them little regard.

“Morning,” a male dark elf greeted, and Portia nodded in return. She felt so incredibly plain compared to these upper class folk, and so when her feet hit the lower class sections of the city, she slid into an easier gait. It wasn’t that she wanted to be upper class, for she didn’t. She came from a merchant family, and while they had money, they didn’t have the blood to ever fit in with the elites. No, it wasn’t the upturned noses at her simple clothing that really bothered her. She was at home in peasant garb or velvet dresses, but it always depended on the occasion. As a guard and Blade, she’d played a role, and each role had a costume. Now she didn’t know what role she was playing, and so she had no idea how to dress. It bothered her that she was adrift without purpose yet knowing that others had one in mind for her. In many ways, at least having a mission would give her some direction and get her mind off of Mehrunes. A lack in goals had really been the greatest obstacle since leaving her job, and she was well aware of that. Arelius probably was too.

Was he giving her second chance by recruiting her to help fight Oblivion? Had he seen her wasting away along the edge of the harbor, watching the waters roll for hours at a time? As her feet approached the white walls of the Arcane University, she considered that perhaps Arelius hadn’t given up his guiding role since her departure. If it was meant for their mutual benefit, it was definitely tough love, for he was forcing her to accept a second chance, not asking. Then again, maybe that was what she needed.

“I’m here for an appointment,” she stated as she stepped inside the university’s foyer, which was located in the tall tower that dominated the compound. A short, balding man quickly nodded and looked for her name on a long list.

“Yes, we’ve been expecting you, Miss Augustine. This way please.” Portia followed him through a gate and into the university, where a white paved road wound between buildings of equal perfection. She had no experience here since only mages were usually allowed to enter, but she tried to remember the path that they took out of habit. They entered another building and ascended several flights to a small library that was flooded with light from large windows. The smell of old books greeted Portia as her guide excused himself, and she was left alone with an Altmer.

The high elf sat behind a desk and held a book on his lap. At her approach, his head snapped upward, and Portia saw that he was in fact very young—no more than thirty, and smooth, white hair was brushed backward over his high forehead and pointed ears to reveal a sharp widow's peak. His gilded skin shone beautifully in the bright room, and his blue robes complimented the dusty gold of his angular face. His eyebrows rose in delight at the sight of his new guest.

“Welcome!” he greeted. “You must be Portia Augustine. Please, have a seat.” He motioned to the stool beside him, and Portia accepted the offer. “I’m Gilthan Lorenlee, expert in ancient literature and journeyman alchemist.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Portia responded with little interest. She wondered what tedious tests the mages would want to run on her now, yet she could not help but be intrigued by this man arranging a meeting with her. “If I may ask, what is this meeting for?”

“Well, you’ve been quite the topic of conversation among the masters,” he explained, and Portia’s eyes snapped to his face. “No, don’t worry. Very few people have any idea what happened. It just so happens that my involvement was requested given your acquirement of—how should I phrase it?—a certain daedric lord’s personal possession?” He wiggled his eyebrows for emphasis, and Portia decided on the spot that he was by far the most expressive and quirky high elf that she had ever met. He rolled up his sleeves and flopped his book onto the table before them.

“The arch mages fear that perhaps you’ve suffered some negative side effects from your travels, and they asked me to investigate both that and the artifact that you brought back. I must say, they believe that Mehrunes Dagon will leave you alone since you’re just one nameless woman, but you shouldn’t believe that for a second. Do you?” Portia was busy staring at the picture in the book before her, for it depicted a large, four armed man with a black ponytail and orange earrings.

“No, and if they had seen how angry he was when I left, they wouldn’t believe it either,” she told him. “If there’s anything that I remember from childhood stories, it’s that the darker daedra lords aren’t very forgiving.”

“Smart decision,” Gilthan agreed. “Because he’s going to want you after what you took from him.”

“How badly?” Portia warily asked.

“You have no idea,” came the inappropriately chipper response. Portia studied the elf’s face, and suddenly he leaned in closer. “Smile, lovely. I placed a silencing charm around this room, but they might still be watching, and I’m not supposed to be telling you any of this.”

“Excuse me?” Portia demanded, but the elf had returned to a smile and his original posture.

“They say that you’re safe, and we can believe the arch mages, right?”

“Right,” Portia lied.

“Good,” and the elf winked. “Now, about your condition, and this I can honestly tell you: you’re fine. No permanent harm came from dimension travel, although I read about several cases where travelers were left with a connection to each realm. But if this were true, you’d be experiencing visions and disembodied voices and the like…are you experiencing that?”

“No.”

“Then cross off that possibility. The second thing that we must discuss…”

“Hold on,” Portia interrupted. “Can’t you slow down a little? You’re flying through this like crazy. I have some questions that I’d like answered, and…”

“Limited time,” Gilthan pointedly said, and his face was again sober. “Pay attention. You can digest and think on everything that I’ve said later. Now, look at this picture. It’s much older than contemporary depictions of Dagon, or Mehru as I like to call him, and as you can see, he’s wearing the earrings. All the ancient texts mention Dagon and chaos spheres, even if more recent art and texts—say from the last five hundred years—don’t mention them at all.
The information was very difficult to find, but I found one mention of what the spheres actually are, and I had to break about fifty university rules to do that. Look…”

He flipped the page and Portia found herself staring at a picture of Mehrunes, but this time he was a sleek young man with black hair and tanned flesh. “Mehrunes Dagon can change into a human form like most of the more powerful daedra, and it’s said that he once roamed the world looking for a way to more effectively channel the power of his dominion. You see, chaos is a wild force, even for its lord. So Dagon found an old mage who helped him created the chaos spheres, which were simple metal earrings that chaos was concentrated into. The wearing of them could supposedly open a direct link with Oblivion and its energy, and hence potentially harness that realm’s power for personal use.”

“You’re saying that the earring I’m wearing can access Oblivion’s power?” Portia asked, puzzled and slightly unnerved.

“Yes, and the longer you wear it, the more you might feel that connection.”

“So I won’t wear it,” Portia affirmed.

“Listen,” Gilthan said, gripping her arm. “People will want what you have. Mehrunes Dagon will probably do anything to get it back, and you’re proving remarkably resistant to its effects. You’re only having nightmares, but others would probably accidently burn themselves into a crisp. The last human to touch them was the mage who helped create them, and he disintegrated due to a power overload.”

“So why am I alive?” Portia asked, shocked. A hand flew to her ear, and she touched the orange orb with trepidation.

“That’s the thing,” the elf whispered. “No one knows, and the mages won’t take it because they might die if they channel its energy.”

“But don’t they want it?” she asked. “Arelius told me that they said I can keep it.”

“Don’t you see; they’re scared, both of its power and its potential in the wrong hands. The more ignorant you are while holding it for them, the better. Be very careful, Portia Augustine, and take these notes. Let no one see them. I’m probably the only honest person you’ll speak to until this is settled.” A small stack of parchment was slipped into her hands, and Portia barely got it stuffed into her tunic before someone burst into the library. This was all incredibly overwhelming, and she was waiting for the significance of this conversation with Gilthan to hit her like a brick to the head. Hopefully she’d recover quickly.

“Gilthan, you were told to wait for the master,” the newcomer, a female Argonian, objected.

“Don’t make a fuss!” Gilthan laughed. “I’ve taken care of the problem, and Miss Augustine is just fine.”

“Really?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Portia smiled. “I’m not dying, the earring is harmless, and I get to sleep easier tonight. I haven’t felt this assured in weeks.” The Argonian’s shoulder relaxed and she smiled, or what Portia thought was a smile. She always had a hard time telling with the aquatic, lizard people.

“The master will be glad to hear it. I can escort you out, if you’re ready, ma’am.”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you again, Gilthan. Perhaps we could talk again at a later time, over dinner perhaps?” The elf laughed and rolled his eyes.

“Let’s not rush things,” he joked. “I like to take things slowly.” He winked at her again as she left the room, the earring brushing her neck as she turned. Was it her or did it suddenly feel warm? Had it always been warm? She wasn’t sure if she was imagining things or not, but she definitely felt heavier leaving the library. She had far more to worry about than she’d known, but then again, at least she knew, and that was half the battle. Arelius had always taught her that knowledge was power, and she took that advice to heart. She wondered where he fit into this scheme and whether the mages were merely trying to protect her or if there was more to this story. Only time would tell.

Chapter 3: Late Night Visitors

The knock was soft but audible, and it roused the napping man from his place by the fire. The flames were dying down this late into the cool night, and he cursed himself for being less attentive. This was not the sort of time to be dozing, and the knock was his reminder. With a yawn, the Imperial rose and stretched while pulling a poisoned dagger from his belt. Either the company that he’d been expecting had arrived or someone less desirable had decided to stop by. Where was that damned Nordic guard when he wanted him? And suddenly he remembered that he’d fired the moron for stealing alcohol from the stores. Still, the extra muscle would have been nice about now. He wasn’t a man who was skilled at combat, and he was accustomed to hiring others for less pleasant work.

I can still spill blood. He moved toward the door and opened a small, gated window at its center. He loathed direct combat like that which he'd seen in the arena, and yes, he had attended the battles on several occasions to satisfy parties that he’d happened to be accompanying, but hacking and slashing was not his idea of worthwhile combat. Honor, bravery—screw it. A knife in the back was so much simpler and more appealing. It was with that thought in mind that he stared at the cloaked figure beyond his door. The black cowl hid anything of the person’s face, and old stories of the Dark Brotherhood came to mind, but Horace Pantrov brushed them aside.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“We serve the same master,” came the enigmatic reply. So it was the company that he’d been expecting. Excellent.

“Quietly,” Horace warned as he unlocked the door and stepped aside. The cloaked figure entered his home, which was situated in the Elvin Gardens District, and moved to stand by the fire. “Some wine?”

“That would be acceptable.” Horace moved to a nearby cupboard and poured two glasses before seating himself in his previous position. His visitor remained standing, and Horace wondered if it was an attempt at intimidation. He could still make out nothing of his visitor except that the man was tall and swimming in robes one size too large. Even the voice gave no hint of race or personality, for it was controlled and near monotone. Mehrunes Dagon had chosen his representative well.

“How can I be of service?” Horace asked, and he wished that he could at least tell if the visitor was looking at him, but despite his annoyance, he was too well trained to betray his emotions. Danger drifted of this person in waves, telling Horace to keep himself politely distant. He would behave himself like the diplomat that he was.

“Our master is planning a visit to the capitol,” the dark figure stated.

Oh really? Horace knew that Mehrunes Dagon was a proud being who considered humans lesser creatures, so why would the daedric lord choose to appear as a weakling? It made no sense given the prince's disposition, and there was also the fact that Dagon was barred from this plane of existence, at least for the time being. Horace's surprise over these events must have shown, for his visitor's hood turned toward him, and the man's smile could be assumed from his tone.

“It is quite possible for our lord to come here."

“Then the barrier is breaking,” Horace nodded in approval.

“Yes, but it is not time yet. His power here will be...lesser than it would be otherwise. The dragon fires have not been extinguished long, but our day approaches...”

“What’s the occasion for Lord Dagon's visit?” Horace asked. And don’t you think that our lord will be a little noticeable? The daedric princes were all very distinct in appearance, and Dagon was less human looking than someone like Sheogorath or Azura. He actually looked like some demon from a fairytale, and Horace had visited enough shrines to know that with certainty. On another note, wasn’t the prince of destruction a little busy with his plans for world domination? Why come to the capital?

“He is looking for the last heir,” the dark figure was saying. “And he is tired of waiting for a decent contact in this city. He is displeased with your service, Horace. You have not discovered who is in the Blades or where the heir might be.”

“I am doing my best considering that I must keep up appearances.”

“Regardless, more is required. Our master will arrive in a week’s time, and he expects you to provide a front for him. He is a diplomat and nobleman from Morrowind—one who worked in the royal court as an envoy in the Mercutino family.” Hadn’t that line died off? Horace folded his hands over his lap and listened carefully, his mind already spinning possible explanations for a guest. “He will explain the details, and he shall stay with you when he first arrives.”

“Old friends?” Horace guessed, a little unnerved by the thought of Mehrunes Dagon being under his roof. Serving the prince for gold and future status was one thing, but meeting him was another. He’d only ever spoken to representatives, not the prince himself. This was going to be a real challenge, but a great opportunity if he played his cards well.

“Tell people what you like, but be prepared for his arrival. Also, he wishes for you to find out if the Blades have acquired any artifacts lately—specifically, one that might be stored at the Arcane University. He knows that it is within the city walls, but not where. He very much wishes to get his hands on this artifact, and that will be a primary reason for his presence.” Horace arched an eyebrow. Dagon was artifact hunting? He couldn’t imagine how powerful the object would need to be to draw the prince's attention and physical presence.

“You will, of course, make this worth my time,” he stated. He was surprised when his visitor laughed, and what a nasty laugh it was. It rubbed against his nerves with its harshness, and he quickly decided that he never wanted this man to visit him again.

“Perhaps you should ask our lord what he’ll offer you. After all, he’ll be here soon. I’m sure that he’ll indulge you.” Horace kept a straight face as he stood from his seat and took a sip of wine.

“Derision is unnecessary,” he calmly commented. “Can I interest you in a place to stay for the evening” Please say no. “Or perhaps you require food before departure?”

“Keep your stores. I am done here.” Horace was happy to see the man heading for the door, and he held it open while his guest left. As the cloaked figure began walking away, he stepped outside with the wine glass still in hand.

“Exactly how will I know him when I see him?” he asked.

“You’ll know.” And Horace shut the door, no longer aware of the cool breeze that swept inside with the action. This was going to be a long week. With a single motion, he downed the rest of his wine and decided that he needed another glass.

***********************

Portia read through the notes that Gilthan had given her and sighed. She wondered where he had learned all of this, for she had never even dreamed of the existence of chaos sphere or their ilk. Sure, everyone knew about the daedric princes. Children were raised being told that if they didn’t behave, Molag Bal would get them, or that if they strayed into the woods, Clavicus Vile would appear as a child and trick them. Most of them were not particularly nice stories, and the princes were intimately involved in almost every aspect of life from history to art, and even events that she’d witnessed, like the madness of one of her former neighbors. That would be Sheogorath’s doing, and his followers were absolute nut cases. Each daedra had worshippers, and Portia subscribed to none of them, especially not Sheogorath.

Gilthan's notes supplied her with information on the powerful entities that she had never before known since she'd never before paid attention to the daedra. According to his research, the daedric princes could assume human form to interact with mortals, although they usually didn’t bother. For instance, Mehrunes did not favor humans, but preferred more powerful and violent beings like dremora, and so he deemed it beneath him to assume human shape. He was only rumored to have done so once, and it had been to make the chaos spheres. Of course, if he had transformed at other times, who had lived to tell the tale? Portia didn’t imagine that many survived encounters with him, and so she turned to the next page of notes.

Mehrunes was destructive, but he maintained an orderly domain in the Deadlands. In fact, compared to other daedra, he was extremely rigid in controlling his followers. They were trained fighters and enforcers of his will, and they dwelled in a city where merit earned them rewards.

“Some preferred to wander the human plane of existence, and they could often be found at daedric shrines,” Portia read aloud. That, she had known, but what she hadn’t realized was that Mehrunes was trapped in Oblivion the majority of the time. Oh, he could leave, but his presence in this realm was never whole, and since the Septims had taken the throne, powerful wards had prevented him from leaving his realm. He rarely escaped, and Gilthan had left her a small note that suggested that Mehrunes was probably still bound to Oblivion since he hadn't managed a large assault on the human realm yet. That revelation brought some relief to Portia, but she couldn't prevent a chill from running down her back. The thought of Mehrunes searching for her...

He's in Oblivion. You're in a lovely house surrounded by guards. Summoning the resolve that had carried her through dark halls to seek a scroll and pendant, Portia flipped another page and continued to peruse the notes. Part of her knew that desperation, not pure bravery, had saved her, but then one hand lifted to touch the earring dangling beside her face, and she remembered her anger at Mehrunes' attack on her body. The anger was gone, but the determination to never break at the brute's feet remained. She was not weak, even if she had gone to the market and bought herself a discount sleeping potion this afternoon, and no matter what others might say, she wouldn't dignify Mehrunes by respectfully referring to him by a proper title. Lord Dagon her boat. She would struggle through, and maybe, just maybe, she'd keep her life.

Portia shook her head and refocused on the notes before her. She soon found herself immersed in their information, and despite her recent experience, Mehrunes’ lore was strangely fascinating. Very little was known about him besides his involvement in Mournhold's destruction and some political tampering, but he was definitely an ambitious and tampering being. Gilthan recommended a book to her, and she decided to check that out later, but until then, she supposed that it was very late. Perhaps tonight she would sleep well since Mehrunes was locked away, and she did have that potion. The seller's advice had been to take the sleeping draught directly before bed and to carefully clear her mind. Normally Portia wouldn't have even bothered to seek help, but she didn't know how much of her nightmares were her own doing or the chaos sphere's effects on her body. After all, Gilthan had warned her about a connection to Oblivion.

“Here goes nothing,” she mused, and uncorked a purple bottle. The liquid inside was oddly chilling as it ran down her throat, and the effects were almost immediate. Her knees wobbled, and she quickly slipped into bed. The window was open as usual, for she loved an autumn breeze while she slept, and the soft blankets rubbed warmly against her chin. Never mind that the air was cool, for it reminded her of home, and there was something incredibly peaceful about that. She checked to make sure that the usual knife was beneath her pillow, and then she closed her eyes.

The dreams began almost immediately, and as she tossed and turned, the orange orb against her neck began to glow. Its depths swirled like fire, almost burning her skin, and perhaps the sensation should have awoken the sleeping woman, but the potion had taken effect. Portia was lost to the world.
…
…
…
She sat on the chair where she’d been tossed, but she could barely keep upright. Her hands were tied behind her, and one eye was almost swollen shut from a sharp slap across the face. Apparently the dremora interrogating her didn’t appreciate her calling his master a sick fetcher. It was the truth though. Who else would order his assistants to do 'anything necessary' to get her to talk? So far it’d be rather mild, but she wasn’t fool enough to think that it would last. Perhaps she should just talk. She had nothing to gain by silence except maybe a twisted sense of satisfaction, and she wasn’t sure that such a sentiment would override pure physical torment.

“I told you to speak, human,” the dremora said, his voice rough, neutral, and resounding with a strange echo that a human would never be able to imitate. He clearly didn’t care about his task one way or the another, and in the silence following his words, Portia ran eyes over his red and black armor. It was grotesque but suited his intimidating presence, and the equipment was highly sought after as the top heavy armor in Tamriel. Very few people could brag about owning such magnificent protection.

“How did you get into Oblivion?” the dremora again asked.

“A spell,” Portia half-answered, knowing that it wouldn’t satisfy this being.

“Such a spell doesn’t exist. Speak the truth.”

“It is the truth!” Portia retorted. “Why don’t you just feed me some tell-all potion and get it over with?” The dremora’s face didn’t alter from its stony expression, even when he hit her so hard that she fell from the chair. Her head was spinning, and she fought for consciousness. Damn her mouth, but aggressive comments were the only way to keep from buckling under this being's demands. She could feel the cracks running through her resolve.

“Human, Master Dagon wants this information, and he will get it. If you do not tell me, he will come to question you himself, and you don’t want that.” Portia rolled over, her swollen hands aching with pain from bindings that were too tight, and stared up at her captor. She knew this was a dream--a memory of what she had already endured. She knew that she was about to be hit with destruction magic, and yet she felt powerless to avoid the pain. She would wake up bleeding yet again.

Perhaps she could change what happened and escape this nightmare, but the thought was incoherent and fuzzy as the destruction spell enveloped her. Everything felt so real, from the cold stones beneath her to the smell of charred flesh. She lost her sense of reality, and yet it whispered from the recesses of her consciousness. Fight it, Portia. You can control your own mind.

She should be waking up about now. She half expected to open her eyes and find herself in bed, blood on the sheets yet again. Wet copper filled her mouth and dribbled from her chin, and she wished that the dremora would flip her onto her side so that she could spit out her own blood. He wouldn't. He never did.

Damn it, Portia. This is only a dream!

“Enough!” she yelled, and instantly the pain ceased. She slowly opened her eyes to find that the dremora stood frozen above her, and she quickly scooted into a sitting position, the stones hard and freezing beneath her skin.

It's a dream. The full realization made her smile in grim satisfaction, but she was also confused. On the rare occasions where reason won out over pain, the awareness of dreaming was immediately followed by waking up. That was how it worked, although she almost always woke up from the pain of her hip rather than consciously escaping. So why wasn’t she awake right now? She couldn’t even fathom how she was so coherent while asleep.

“Ouch!” she gasped as she stood. In dreamland, the mark on her hip was gone, but when she touched where it should have been, intense pain shot through her side. She was bleeding in her bed, but the pain wasn’t waking her. “Damn sleeping draught,” she realized. That had to be the explanation, and so she was trapped here for some indeterminate time, left to do nothing but curse the mage who had sold her the potion. He had warned her that the draught worked differently for different people. Sometimes the drinkers were left dreaming of pleasant things, and others didn’t dream at all. In both cases, a full night’s sleep was guaranteed, and Portia wondered if that perhaps meant that you could have horrible dreams but not wake up. One would, after all, get the promised amount of sleep whether or not it was pleasant. She should have known better than to blindly trust a potion seller’s word.

With nothing to do, she began walking, and was amazed that none of the guards bothered her. They walked by her like she wasn’t there, and what was even more puzzling was that she did not recognize her surroundings. When she relived her memories, she obviously only revisited places that she’d actually seen. This was definitely still Oblivion, but she was in areas of the palace where she'd never wandered. To her left she saw a strange statue of a human wrapped in chains, his mouth frozen in a scream, and she wondered how her dreaming mind had imagined it. Perhaps these images were being conjured by her subconscious, but there was no way to know for certain.

She paused beside an open room where two dremora were conversing in a strange tongue. Their voices were gruff and seemingly excited, but that was only a guess. They jabbered away, and Portia was about to leave when she caught the word ‘Skingrad’. Her eavesdropping felt strangely real rather than fabricated as she moved closer to the figures, and she was shocked when one of the dremora laughed and said something in common tongue.

“We’ll hold them.” The other joined in the laughter. Hold them? Portia hadn’t heard anything about an attack on Skingrad, but this was a dream, and it didn’t need to make sense. Her feet continued moving, and then she found herself at his rooms. Her blood chilled and she stood facing his doors in trepidation.

This is ridiculous. It’s a dream. She had taken one of his most powerful artifacts in retaliation and lived to tell the tale, so surely she could survive this. She steeled her nerves and moved forward, stepping into the familiar room that she knew belonged to Mehrunes Dagon. She nearly had a heart attack when she saw him there, pacing across the floor before his bed. Two of his arms were behind his back, and the others hung at his sides, clenching and unclenching. He only wore a black and gold cloth wrapped around his waist, exposing most of his body to Portia's view, and terrified at she was, she remained stock still and watched him. His perfectly sculpted, muscular form move back and forth as her mouth grew increasingly dry. And in her silent stance, she noticed for the first that Mehrunes Dagon moved like and had the habits of a human, even if he looked like a demon.

Then his head turned in her direction.

Portia stiffened. She couldn’t help it. Even though this was a dream and not a memory, his presence seemed to suffocate her, and those black eyes was looking right at her, not through her like the other beings that she'd encountered here. Her heart pounded, and her hand unconsciously searched her waist for the dagger that was normally there, but Mehrunes didn't move. He uttered something in the same unintelligible tongue as the dremora, and when he received no response, he continued pacing.

“Goblin's gall,” Portia breathed in relief, wanting nothing more than to leave this place, yet she stayed and watched the lord of the Deadlands. She was almost afraid that moving would break the peace and make him attack her. She knew from firsthand experience that he was incredibly strong. She had never stood a chance at escape when he seized her that first time, annoyed to find a human in his personal space. She was surprised that he had merely roughed her up and then tossed her to his guards for questioning, for she’d half expected him to personally handle the matter, and yet, he had left. Perhaps other business had called. Ruling an entire domain had to be demanding.

Are you really thinking about this now, Portia?

She took a tentative step backward and prepared to leave. Standing in Mehrunes’ room and contemplating his personal life and physical strength was not what she wanted to be doing. She backed away, but stopped when he suddenly ceased to move. Her heart began racing again, and she was unpleasantly surprised when he turned in her direction and approached. Like a frozen rabbit, her legs tensed while she remained still. He wasn’t exactly looking at her, but his eyes were roaming the general area as if searching for something.
His large frame came closer and closer, and Portia couldn’t help but back up now.

It’s a dream, she reminded herself. If she could cut and tear at the real Mehrunes, she could handle a replication in her sleep. She stopped moving and refused to budge as the daedric prince halted not two feet from where she stood. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. One of his arms extended toward her, and she gasped when it grazed her cheek. It didn’t exactly touch her, for his fingers sailed right through what should have been solid flesh, but she felt the contact. His skin was warm, but the nails sharp, and a strange burning sensation on the side of her neck accompanied his touch.

“What do we have here?” Mehrunes mused in common tongue, his voice low and thoughtful. Portia didn’t understand what was happening, for this was a dream, yet it felt as real as any memory that she’d relived. Let me out. That’s what she wanted, but she couldn't leave, and now Mehrunes was reaching for her chest, although he obviously couldn’t see her. If he could…well, she didn’t want to think about that.

His hand passed through her chest and left her tingling with an uncomfortable sensation. She spun on her heels and ran from his chambers, deciding to go before the dream grew any stranger. She kept moving until she found a dark corner where she sat panting against the wall, the feel of his hands fresh in her mind. She waited there for the draught to wear off, and she kept checking by jabbing herself in the side. Eventually the pain had to wake her, and it did, but not until the late morning hours. The potion had done its job: she’d slept through the entire night.

Wow.

First let me start off by saying SLOW DOWN!

He, he, I made the same mistake, posting three or four segments of a chapter at once when I started. Then I realized it makes it harder for others to keep up with my fiction, so I slowed down to every other day. It's still too fast for many folks, but at least I get good feedback now.

First the nits: off the top of my head, I noticed that you have a few typos, and in a couple of places, especially the second chapter, you seemed inconsistent on your capitalization of Oblivion. Also, the forum has a very strange censor, and you have a couple of honoured users instead of the more typical insult that refers to the illegitimate status of the offendee. You might want to think of a different insult than the more common one.

Now, on to the story itself: this is a very creative rewrite of the events of TES IV. Like SubRosa's Teresa, and Acadian's Buffy, I like how you start off being peripheral to the events of the crisis. Unlike them, and unlike many others, you are not staying close to the main quest plotline. Also, unlike them, you have built a very close relationship with the Deadlands and with Mehrunes Dagon himself. It's a little eerie, and quite a compelling read.

Portia is an interesting character, as are the other folks you have introduced. So far I've recognized no one from the game, but that's all right. Each of your characters, even Dagon himself, have flesh and blood to them.

One thing that kind of bothers me about your representation of the Daedric Prince, however, is the fact that you refer to him as a man - that implies that his basic nature is mortal. To me, Dagon (and the other Daedric Lords) are more like gods. In that case, Dagon makes me think of Kali Ma (though that's the goddess of destruction, she has multiple arms and favors blood and destruction as well, so that makes her much like TES's Dagon). In that case, describing him as man belittles his power and horror.

It's a very interesting fiction so far, and well-crafted. I couldn't find much to bug me, so let me be the first to tell you that you have solid writing skills and are already a craftsman at this. Well done! Just post a little slower, please!

It changes that to 'honored users'? That is really strange. I wouldn't have noticed unless you said something either, so thanks. I'll have to think of a different insult, and now I'm wondering what the other, cruder words in my story shall be changed to. I personally hate watering down character language, but I also understand that this forum includes younger people, which creates a bit of a conundrum actually. My story is definitely not appropriate for younger readers due to violence and...other content. When I get to those chapters, maybe I'll have to provide a link to another posting site for people to read the unedited chapter.

I'll certainly take your advice to post slower. I hadn't thought about readers having difficulty in keeping up with such large chunks, and since this story is 284 pages, I guess that it will take quite a while to post the whole thing.

Truly, thank you for the feedback, and yes, I have some typos and whatnot to fix. I always seem to miss a few, no matter how many times I look over a chapter. I'll go back and capitalize all of the 'Oblivions'. As for characters directly from the game, there are a few, but don't expect to see many. I created most of my own characters for this piece, as opposed to others that I've written.

Your comment about Dagon being referred to as a man is an interesting response that I've never gotten before. I personally chose the term because of his physical closeness to humans, and the fact that he's clearly male. It creates a clear gender distinction in his character as well as his thought process, which becomes important later. I hadn't thought about it lowering his status, but that's something for me to consider now. Good point.

Thank you again for the feedback! It was most supportive and helpful.

If your stuff tends to get a little racy (and I kind of got that impression already), run the riskier chapters by the moderators first. They'll let you know if it's PG-13 or needs to go elsewhere. They're pretty good about helping you with questions on the forum, too.

Chapter 4: Dreams or Visions

This wouldn't do. She had to do something with herself, and Portia knew it. She sat on the edge of her bed, the bloody bandages that she had just removed lying on the floor by her feet, and a hand gingerly rubbing a burn mark on her neck. She couldn't sit here all day and think about her dream or the burn that the chaos sphere had caused, even if the night's events consumed her thoughts. Her mind kept turning inward, visualizing Mehrunes coming toward her, and she wondered what exactly had happened. Perhaps she could ask Gilthan, but then again, speaking openly with him might prove difficult. The Arcane University was off limits to most people, and if she was granted access, the other mages would know of her presence.

And what was Arelius up to? Surely he wouldn't harm her, but she didn't think that she could speak to him about her personal distress either. Besides the fact that he was an authority figure, she didn't want to overstep her bounds and make him think that she was the same, adoring girl from before. Gods, but she could imagine him now, sitting across from her at a tavern table on one of the rare occasions that he went out with his subordinates. And she had been foolish enough to speak to him about private matters, namely the death of her parents and her desire to become something other than an orphan. He had been kind and offered comforting words, and perhaps it had been the alcohol in both of them, but he had mentioned that he too felt the urge to control his life and make it worthwhile. It had made Portia think that they were two of a kind, and maybe in some sense they were, but she never wanted him to see her as that smitten, fresh recruit ever again. The man had probably shaken his head at her suppressed feelings whenever her back was turned.

No feelings now, she thought. Now she just wanted dreamless sleep and a path that didn't involve holding other peoples' lives in her hands. She stood and moved downstairs, briefly pausing beside the entrance to the sitting room when she heard a cup rattle against a saucer. Lucretia tended to take her morning meals here, while the children were busy with lessons and Arelius was away at work. Portia was more interested in finding Gilthan, but she knew that she owed her hostess some attention and gratitude.

“Morning,” she greeted, popping her head into the room. Lucretia smiled and lifted her eyes from the book that she was reading. The woman really was lovely with her raven colored hair and elegant features.

“And good morning to you, Portia. You seem to have slept better last night.” Portia inwardly winced, knowing full well that Lucretia and Arelius heard her screams whenever a nightmare was particularly rough. The first time that she had screamed, Arelius ran into the room with a drawn sword, thinking that there was an attack. He and his wife had quickly learned to bear the unexpected yells, and Portia, for her part, had tried to sleep with her face shoved in a pillow.

“I took a potion,” she explained. “It helped.”

“But you still have nightmares?” Lucretia guessed.

“I think that I'll always have nightmares.” Lucretia's book was set aside, and the woman calmly regarded Portia with the eyes of someone who understood troubled nights. Her entire demeanor spoke of a patient and conditioned strength that Portia rather envied.

“Sometimes all you can do is bear the worries,” the woman stated. “Sometimes, you can even get used to and accept them. Arelius has a dangerous job, and sleep does not always come easily.”

“For you,” Portia knew.

“Yes,” Lucretia said with a soft smile. “He, of course, sleeps soundly. I'm the one left to toss and worry, but it's easier now. I've had years of practice. It's mainly the children that I worry about. Life without a father would be difficult.” And Portia wondered if the man who'd died under her watch had left an anxious family behind. As her sword parted his skin, had he thought about his children? She didn't particularly want to know, and she distractedly shifted her eyes to Lucretia's hand, which was reaching for a tea cup. Portia tried to think of something to say, but conversations with Lucretia tended to be a bit stilted. The women simply didn't have much of a basis for interaction, at least not one that was apparent.

“He wishes to speak with you later,” the elder woman told Portia. “He'll be home late, but I suspect that you are used to odd hours. He mentioned that you once worked under him.” Portia made a low sound of acknowledgement, and Lucretia smiled in a manner very much reminiscent of rogue. “He said that you wouldn't want to talk about it.”

“That I don't,” Portia agreed.

“And he'd like you to see a healer about your injury. You're bleeding more than you should, even if the wound won't fully heal. You'd be wise to take his advice.” Portia nodded, trying to gauge how much Arelius confided in his wife.

“Thank you for your concern. I'll look into it when I go out today.” Not likely. She was off to investigate how best to contact Gilthan.

“There's no need for that,” Lucretia softly smiled. “A temple healer will be here within the hour.” Akatosh above, the woman was as bad as her husband, even if she looked more innocent when making such subtle maneuvers. Portia nearly smiled, feeling a sense of affinity with her hostess for the first time. Even if this was meddlesome, it was the first that they'd interacted at a level beyond strict business and politeness.

“He told you that I wouldn't go if you didn't make me, didn't he?” Portia asked.

“He might have implied it, but I arranged this myself.”

“He'll be pleased with you,” Portia sighed as she sat down beside Lucretia, and the other woman tilted her head with a bright sparkle to her eyes.

“You can't come from the social circles that I do without learning a few things about people, and while you are my guest, I will see to your health. Would you like anything? I can call a servant.” Portia had never been waited on by a servant in her life, except maybe when she'd been undercover once at a ball, and that had been years ago. The rest of the time she had usually been acting as a commoner or herself, watching from a distance and then switching into her armor for action. There had been better equipped agents—women like Lucretia—to move on more social missions. Of course, she could always ask Lucretia if she was a Blade, but she was certain that she wouldn't get a straight answer.

“I'm fine,” Portia said. “I don't usually eat breakfast.” It was nauseating to eat when she woke up in pain.

“Understandable, but surely you would like something to drink? Alcohol this early in the morning isn't the best idea.” So the woman had seen her little collection of bottles beside the bed. It really wasn't surprising, and Portia was sure that Lucretia knew much about her personal habits. The servants probably reported everything to their mistress, for it was Lucretia who ran the household. Arelius was too busy with Blade and guard business, and Lucretia was certainly capable of handling things on her own.

“I'll take some tea since you've trapped me here with your healer,” Portia allowed.

“Trapped is a rather ungrateful term to use. If I don't do this, I'm afraid that the servants might murder you for dirtying so many linens.”

“I'd like to see them try, but I am sorry about the sheets. I do bandage my wounds before bed. Sometimes it's simply not enough...” And just then a servant walked in to announce the healer's arrival. Lucretia and Portia exchanged a secretive smile when the servant glared at Portia, and a nonverbal understanding gently passed between them. Perhaps friendship was possible after all. It would make Portia's presence much easier on the household, and she sensed that Lucretia would be a worthwhile connection in times of trouble. Her instincts told her that such considerations were not only positive but necessary.


*****************

“And then the bubbles erupted into fireballs, and all I could do was hide beneath a table,” Gilthan stated with a wide sweep of his arms. “Ridiculous, if you ask me. If J'mira does one more reckless experiment, I'm going to request that my rooms be moved. I'm surprised that I'm still standing.” He grinned as the people around him chuckled in humored understanding.

“Come now, Gilthan,” an old, female Breton smiled. “We all know that you love the excitement, and stop acting like you're a victim.” Gilthan was about to reply when another mage entered the room, his voice muffled by the large stack of books that he carried.

“Someone is here to see you, Gilthan.” The high elf's eyebrows shot upward in delight, for he loved guests, depending on who they were. Really, he spent so much time tied to the library under Irlav Jarol's research directives, that even he got sick of books. Of course, he had been getting even less sleep than usual the last few nights, for he'd been sneaking about to read about Oblivion and Mehrunes Dagon. Progress was slow, and the counsel kept its eye on who was accessing books with darker content. It was a nuisance to be sure, and with one misstep, someone might start to question why Gilthan was suddenly interested in a daedric prince. Discovery might then lead to harsh repercussions since the subject of chaos spheres was so touchy. His forefathers help him, but he wasn't supposed to know as much as he did.

“And where is my guest waiting?” he asked.

“She's on the steps out front,” and then the overloaded herald shuffled off.

“Another admirer?” someone asked Gilthan.

“I cannot help it that I am both attractive and witty,” the elf huffed with faked disdain. “I shall see you all at some later date. Goodbye.” He was off, walking the familiar corridors and wondering who was calling on him. When he exited the university's front gate to be met by Portia, he was truly surprised and a bit concerned about the attention that her presence would bring to him. Another mage was standing nearby, easily within earshot of their meeting, and Gilthan knew that this would not look good. They stood on the arching bridge that connected the Arcane University to the Imperial City, and with a light breeze tickling his delicate ears, Gilthan warily glanced over his shoulder at the white tower that stretched into the sky behind him. Traven was a pain in the posterior at times, and by that, Gilthan meant all the time.

“Hello, Gilthan,” Portia greeted with a huge smile. “I was hoping that we could have that lunch that you promised.” His nerves relaxing, Gilthan thanked the gods for his reputation as a charmer. This would be perfectly believable if he simply acted like himself.

“And hello to you, fair Portia,” he said, walking forward and winking at her. “I thought that you hadn't taken me seriously.”

“I take you very seriously,” Portia stated. “And I know the perfect spot for a meal, if you're interested.”

“Of course I'm interested!” Gilthan beamed, honestly delighted at the prospect of going out for the afternoon. His eyes swept toward the basket in Portia's hands, and he glanced at her in question.

“Picnic,” she explained.

“Ah, that would be perfect. Lead the way.” They strolled side-by-side, Portia directing the way down a slope beside the bridge and then a short way toward the riverbank. She kept her eyes out for mudcrabs, and Gilthan kept scanning the air for any residual signs of magic in return. The Imperial City stood like a beacon of white atop a hill behind them, and the forested hills of the countryside stretched before them. Portia might have been oblivious, poor with magic as she was, but Gilthan could sense attention on them. From the university certain mages might be tracking Portia, and even if they weren't eavesdropping, the picnic would not go unnoticed.

“I hope that this won't be a problem,” Portia commented as she sat on a grassy patch of land beside the water. She faced the shimmering depths of blue while keeping a small hill to her back, the slope of which afforded convenient cover for their meeting. “I know that the mages are keeping tabs on me, but I needed to speak with you, and I didn't know how else to contact you.”

“It's quite alright,” Gilthan assured as he flopped down beside her, his blue robes spreading out around him. “I should have told you how to contact me. I'm afraid that your request to see me might be...”

“Conspicuous?” Portia guessed.

“To certain people, yes, but I believe that we are safe to talk here. So, what would you like?” Portia frowned as she stared out over the water. Mountains rose in the distance, clouds and snow crowning their peaks, and the river's surface danced with insects and lilies. It would have been beautiful if not for her concerns.

“I'd like to ask you a few questions about a dream I had,” she said.

“My dear lady,” Gilthan gasped. “There's no need to jump straight to business. Please. I was actually asking what you'd prefer to drink.” Portia blinked.

“I only brought water.”

“Ah, but I can remedy that. Red or white?”

“Red,” and she found herself smiling. This high elf really did know how to catch her off guard. He was the polar opposite of the people with whom she was accustomed to working, namely Arelius and a few other Blades whom she'd grown close to. It was business first and leisure later with those types of professionals, but Gilthan...Well, as she watched him grin and summon a bottle of red wine from thin air, she wasn't sure how to characterize the man. Certainly he was jovial and a bit impulsive, but she was willing to bet that he was rather crafty and intelligent as well.

“Here you are,” Gilthan said as he passed her a filled mug. “Now, what were you saying? And please don't forget to unload that basket. I can smell the fresh bread from here.” Portia began unpacking the food as she thought about what she should tell the elf. Honesty seemed the best approach, for despite his lackadaisical nature, she found herself trusting this man.

“I had a very strange dream last night,” she began, and from there the story unraveled with every possible detail. Gilthan munched on a sandwich as he listened, and Portia noticed the sharp, thoughtful gleam to his eyes as he digested her words. His face even twisted into a frown at one point, and by the time she was finished, his hands held forgotten food.

“So you are unsure whether the dream was only a figment of your imagination or something more,” Gilthan contemplated. “I'm inclined to agree with the latter. Dreams are funny things, but from what you've said, and the burn mark on your neck...You're sure that the burning coincided with Dagon's touch?”

“Yes.” Portia poured herself more wine.

“Interesting. The chaos sphere is probably affecting you, but the question is in what capacity. Its influence will definitely increase with time, which is why it's important that the mages find a solution soon, but...hmmm. The dream itself probably wasn't dangerous, so I wouldn't worry about that. Visions never result in physical harm to my knowledge, but whether or not you'll be negatively affected in other ways, I can't say. Magic is a living, fluid thing, and when it comes to powerful artifacts, there's no telling what could happen.”

“Do you think that it'd be wise for me to continue exploring the dreams?” Portia asked.

“I really don't know enough about it to say, but I don't think that you're in danger since technically you were in your room the entire time. It was only your mind pulling you deeper, and for all my jabbering, it might have been absolutely nothing.”

“I wasn't actually in Oblivion? I could have sworn that I was. It all felt so real, and it wasn't illogical like a normal dream. I actually felt like time was moving at a regular pace.”

“Being in Oblivion would have been impossible,” Gilthan decided. “Do you remember when I said that people sometimes have connections with other dimensions?” Portia nodded. “If you are indeed one of those people, visions and dreams still don't physically move you. They only allow you to see into another place, and we don't even know if what happened to you was a vision. It's possible that the sphere painted the scenes in your mind, and it's even possible that, since Mehrunes Dagon wears the other sphere, a brief connection formed between them. Twin artifacts have been known to retain strong ties to one another, and with a willpower like Dagon's searching for the other earring, I'd say that what you experienced was part fantasy and partly Oblivion's doing.”

“That doesn't sound as bad as I thought it would,” Portia sighed in relief.

“Keep in mind that this is speculation, but unless you have evidence that you're experiencing something that goes beyond your own mind, I don't know what else to tell you. Everyone that I could ask would, unfortunately, be unhappy with your knowledge of the sphere, and then it'd probably be out of the guild for me.”

“I'll let you know if anything happens,” Portia promised. “And thank you for your help.”

“Oh, dear,” Gilthan said. “Don't make me out to be a knight or anything. And have you looked at the book that I recommended?”

“I'll do that soon.”

“Good. Now pass the jam if you would.”

“Sometimes I wonder about you,” Portia commented.

“Really? Me too, but you have to admit that I have character.” That he did. “And strawberry jam is my favorite,” he beamed when he realized what flavor he was holding. Portia nodded absently, for she was distracted by the sound of furious hooves beating against the path overhead. Both she and Gilthan turned to watch a rider charging in their direction.

“Black Horse rider,” Portia stated.

“Yes, and a bit winded isn't he?” Gilthan said, standing. He brushed himself off and walked up the small hill to hail the rider. Now was as good a time as any to grab the news. “How goes it, friend?” he called. The rider slowed but did not fully stop.

“No time to talk,” he bellowed. “I've got to get this news to the press.”

“And what news is that?” Portia asked, curious. The rider looked like he hadn't stopped riding for hours on end.

“It's Skingrad,” the man shuddered. Skingrad? It seemed to Portia that she had recently been thinking about the city, but she couldn't remember exactly why.

“What about the city?” she asked.

“It was attacked. An Oblivion gate opened, and part of the town has been destroyed.” With that, he spurred his horse into action, and dust again flew about the path behind his disappearing form.

“Damn,” Gilthan cursed. “Something has got to be done about the dragon fires. It's hard to sit and do nothing, isn't it?”

He received no answer.

“Portia?” The woman had gone incredibly pale, and the elf was suddenly concerned for her health. “Portia? Is something wrong?” The woman merely shook her head and muttered something about dremora. With a gentle touch, Gilthan forced her to look at him.

“I think something is definitely happening when I sleep,” she stated. It was going to be a very long night, but she decided then and there that she needed to get another sleeping draught and see if perhaps there wasn't valuable information to be found in the palace of her nightmares.

Oooh, but Portia best be careful! There's more going on here than just a simple dream or vision!

No honoured users this time! I would suggest 'fetcher' in place of the more customary epithet. 'S'wit' also works, too, especially in reference to women, it seems.

I haven't read it yet (I will when I have the time) but would like to comment about the word S'wit.
It can refer to male and female. For instance, in Morrowind, the first bandit you encounter in Addamasartus adresses you as S'wit.

Chapter 5: Accepting Duty

It was late in the night, but Portia knew that going to bed was pointless. Arelius the night owl wanted to speak with her, and so a candle burned beside her bed while she kept a silent vigil. Sand ran through her hourglass, and tired, green eyes watched its course. Her fingers gently clasped a sleeping draught, and the more she considered drinking it, the more she wondered whether or not she would be endangered in her dreams. If she could see Mehrunes, why couldn't he see her? Just because he couldn't see her last time didn't mean that he wouldn't tonight. He had sensed her presence before, even if he had no idea who she was.

But you will go.

She smiled humorlessly and set the potion on the nightstand beside her bed. Yes, she would go, because ignoring her problems wouldn't solve them. For now, it seemed that perhaps she was safe, and if she could constantly be reaffirmed that Mehrunes was in Oblivion, then she had nothing to fear in the city. It seemed like a good deal, and perhaps there was more to be found, but Portia quickly put that thought out of mind. She was no longer a Blade. She didn't need to think like one; yet her instincts to investigate and act had never truly left her. After the accident she had thought that her desire to be involved would fade. Damn it, but she'd been sure that it had until Arelius found her. Now she realized that the peace she'd found in stagnation had been a farce at best, and one maintained only through a fragile layer of distance from the rest of the world.

Thump.

She didn't even turn, for she knew who was knocking at the door.

“Come in,” she invited, and stood to greet her former leader. He was out of his armor, wearing only a tunic, britches, and boots, but he still managed to command attention in the half-light of the room.

“I saw the light beneath your door,” he stated.

“Your wife gave me the impression that what you have to say is important,” Portia replied. “I thought it best to wait for you.” Like the good little Blade that I was. “Long night?”

“Blade business,” he allowed, but gave no further details. Instead, he leveled brown eyes at her that were too official to appear sympathetic, but too human and knowing to be cold. “You have been letting yourself go since you left,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “I knew that you'd gone to the harbor and found another job, even bought yourself a small shack, but I always thought that you'd come back once you had some time alone.”

“I didn't want to come back.”

“That's a lie,” Arelius bluntly asserted. “And it's the first one that you've ever told me.” He stepped closer, and Portia found herself irritated for inwardly agreeing with him. “You had more drive than most of the people beneath me. You were less aggressive and took time to make decisions, but once they were made, you gave everything to completing your task. I watched your progress, Portia, and I was sorry to lose you. Given time, I thought that you'd make a great captain, but part of the job description is understanding that people die on your watch. Everyone accepts the possibility of death.”

“At the hands of the enemy,” Portia clarified.

“Accidents happen, and it's time that you let go of yours.”

“You still have use for me then,” Portia commented, but she could find no heat to begrudge the man that. He was his job, and he made no apologies for it.

“There is always use for a person like yourself,” Arelius stated. “You shouldn't be drifting. It's doing more harm to you than a mission ever did.”

“You have something specific in mind.”

“I need your assistance.”

**************

1...2...

Tamil counted the number of shadowy figures that she saw disembarking the boat. This was strange indeed, and she didn't like it one bit. With her hawk-like eyes, she kept to the shadows and settled a hand on the hilt of her short sword. A dark green cloak covered her leather armor, and a spell that her former superior had once called the Black Cat kept her movements from creating sound. Still, she was cautious beyond the usual, and for good reason. She'd been watching this boat for two days now, and only the crew had tested their land legs, but she knew that there were more people on that ship. She could imagine them lurking within the vessel's hold as it bobbed in the harbor, its sails tightly furled, and moonlight barely illuminating the bold, red letters beneath the prow: The Golden Ram.

Lex also had his eyes on the crew, for they were unfamiliar to the harbor, and Arelius had asked his fellow captain to be on the lookout for trouble. Why? Well, that had to do with sensitive information coming from barely whispered rumors. Tamil might hate to admit it, but she had the Dark Brotherhood to thank for that, for they'd assassinated a nobleman whom the Blades had long suspected of Mythic Dawn sympathies. Now the man was dead, and it had given her an opportunity to root through his belongings. Among his holdings had been a letter confirming that the Mythic Dawn was trying to gain a stronger foothold in the capital.

Her attention was diverted to the emergence of a third figure from the boat, who, despite a chameleon spell, could be detected moving toward the city gates. Perhaps now was the time to investigate the ship, and she carefully moved across the stone walkway that formed a horseshoe around the harbor's water. The crew was out drinking, and the captain and a few men were in the main cabin, but they wouldn't prove a problem if she was quiet.

Light feet treaded across planks, and quick hands unlocked the hold. It was a quick descent, and then Tamil was in a narrow passage that she did not appreciate. It was a little tight for swinging a sword, and escaping a two-way assault would be difficult. Eyes narrowed in displeasure, she reached toward a door but froze with her hand against the wood. The hairs were rising on the back of her neck, and she turned to see who was behind her only to find an empty, dark passageway. Of course, appearances could be deceiving. The feeling of being watched was uncomfortably nagging.

With a dagger unsheathed incase of a surprise attack, she moved into a small, private cabin, and found a large chest. It was time to see if the unknown figures had left behind any evidence of their allegiance, and even if they weren't with the Dawn, they were probably shifty undesirables anyway. And so Tamil worked with the ease of the professional snooper that she was, and it took mere moments before the chest's lock clicked and opened. Then she was rooting through a stack of clothing and potions that seemed ordinary and harmless enough, but then her hands came across a thin scroll tucked into the folds of a red robe.

The Mythic Dawn wear red, she darkly thought, and a wave of disgust washed over her. They would disrupt the peace and stability of the empire—sell themselves to destruction for personal gain. They were pathetic, and she almost wished that they would return now so that she could slit a throat or two in vengeance for the emperor's murder. They were cowards to kill and run--to hide while they waited for their lord to deliver them.

Again, the sensation of being watched plagued her, and Tamil froze, listening for the slightest noise only to hear nothing. She was a woman who trusted her intuition though, and so knew that she had little time to spare. A few more seconds and then she would leave. The ship gently rocked, and the scroll in her hand unfurled.

Jackpot.

Dawn members had arrived here, and they were to remain hidden and await their master's call for assistance if he should desire it. What was Dagon planning for the city? Tamil's forehead furrowed in thought, and she tucked the scroll into her belt. With her mind occupied, she didn't notice that as she left the cabin, a thin shadow shifted behind her. She reached for the ladder, and a hand reached for her. When fingers tightened around her shoulder, instinct made her spin with her dagger already lashing outward. Blood fell, a scream tore the air, and feet pounded across the deck overhead. Tamil hoped that the approaching people were guards and not enemies...

******************

“There are other Blades,” Portia pointed out, unsure of where Arelius was going with his vague comment about assistance. “And if this job is anything like the last one that you sent me on, I'd prefer to have no part in it.” Arelius' stern face shifted ever so slightly, and she could tell that he was displeased with her. Shirking duty was perhaps the one act that truly irritated him, sometimes to the point of expressing anger. She knew that he was about to use his lecturing tone on her.

“Enough, Portia,” he said. “You would have done that job whether I blackmailed you into it or not, and don't act otherwise. You could never stop yourself from taking a task that you thought was important. Once I explained to you the horror that could result from failure, you would have accepted my proposal. It's not in you to surrender.” And then she saw it, the extent of his disappointment at her decision to leave the Blades. It was there, in the lines of his face, and the steel edge of his voice. He had expected more from her, and that he wasn't voicing those exact words was a product only of his controlled nature.

“I have never been able to forget his face,” Portia said, feeling the urge to explain herself. She had never really talked about the accident since that night. “When he realized that he would die by my hand, his face was so confused—like he was asking me why. It wasn't supposed to be like that. A Blade shouldn't die at the hands of a friend.” Gods, but Arelius had to understand her hesitancy to reenter her old life. And why the hell did he have to let her see his disappointment after all this time? Didn't he know how that stung?

“I don't want your pity,” she told him. “I've had a lot of time to think about what happened...and I know that it wasn't my fault, but I need you to understand that I can never be that captain you envisioned. I learned my limitations that night, and I can't handle having the blood of someone whom I was supposed to protect on my hands. You...you weren't the only one disappointed that night.”

“You can move beyond that,” Arelius assured her. “You do not have to return in the capacity that bothers you.” And his words sounded so good. Portia wanted to be active again. She yearned for the purpose that being a Blade had imparted, and this entire fiasco with the chaos sphere was actually making her more enlivened than she'd been in months. This was the opportunity that she'd been waiting for, and she'd only avoided it because she'd been too ashamed to go to Arelius on her own accord after her flight. Akatosh, but he was still the hand guiding her toward promise after all these years.

“Do you want to hear what I have to offer?” Arelius asked.

“Yes. You win.”

**************

Tamil ducked beneath the wide arch of a longsword and nearly lost her footing in the process. Her attacker was partially camouflaged by a spell, and in the cool night air of the ship's deck, she was having difficulty escaping his thrusts and swings. The person was skilled, whoever he was, and he was not alone. Footsteps were running from the front cabin, and was that another person behind her? Where were the guards? She tried to keep the railing to her back so that she could not be encircled, but lunges were forcing her toward the ship's middle.

“Fetching boat,” she cursed. She was quickly being surrounded, and there was nowhere to go on such small a vessel. Perhaps...Yes, there was a little magicka left in her after all. The tips of her fingers glowed with energy, and then a small flame leapt from her palm. She aimed directly at a stack of crates.

“Stop her!” someone yelled. The world erupted in chaos as the deck burst into flames, the blaze's edge licking the mast, and the confusion of who was foe or friend mounting. Smoke blew into Tamil's face, and she coughed as she ran for the gangplank. She could make it. She'd made it out of tougher situations before, and though hands reached for her, she knocked the assailant into the inferno that had become the Golden Ram.

She was almost free from the deathtrap as the smoke cleared from her vision and gave her a view of the stone docks. She jumped over a small wall of flames, her agile body easily clearing the flickering tips, but a second thump accompanied her landing. Who...?

“Ugh,” she gasped, feeling a sharp sting in her abdomen. A hand instinctively went to the source of the pain, and warm blood soon coated her fingers as she probed the now open skin. It wasn't a deep wound, she realized in relief. It was a gash that wouldn't cost her life if she found help soon, but that was an afterthought to striking back at her opponent. He wasn't one of the crew members, but a tall figure cloaked entirely in black, and his dagger shone with her blood. He raised the blade to strike again, but a vicious slice of her own blade caught him across the back of the hand, causing him to drop his weapon with a hiss of surprised pain.

Tamil ran for her life then, ignoring the sting of destruction magic that flew at her back, and leaving the glow of the burning ship behind her. Her wound was sending the strangest shivers through her body, and she wondered if blood loss or shock was affecting her. One hand remained clasped to the painful cut while the other reached for the closest stone wall. She felt cold, lethargic, like her limbs were burdened.

Poison.

The sound of pursuit echoed in her foggy mind as her feet ran for the one safe place that stood out in her mind. She had to get her information to Arelius, and he would see to her wounds...if she could be saved by the time she reached him.

*************

“You will answer only to me,” Arelius explained, and Portia was all ears. “No one will work directly with you. And you won't need to command anyone, because you won't hold rank. This is a sort of unofficial position, but I'm willing to overlook that and still give you information so long as you understand that I will hold you accountable to your vow of service.” There was no need to say that, for Portia took these matters as seriously as he did, but she supposed that some formality was in order.

“What kind of work did you have in mind?” she asked.

“The Mythic Dawn is active in the city, even if they're weak, and there are certain nobles that I don't trust. They might wish to take advantage of the empty throne, and the Blades will not allow that. It's bad enough that we have Dagon to deal with, without having to watch our backs. You know the secret passages throughout the city and palace, so I'd like you to be the contact for people who are already my informants. It's as simple as that, and while I might need you for other various tasks, it really depends on what is required and when.”

“What's my excuse for being in the palace?” Portia asked. “I'm no longer a guard.”

“Your past and skills are known here, so I'd like you to take up the position of training a few aristocratic children in swordsmanship. No lies; they'd be pointless anyway since you'd be fairly easy to investigate. You really did leave active service after an accident, and you're finally returning after a break.”

“You've given this a lot of thought,” Portia said. “Tell me, did you ever plan to let me go peacefully? This whole Oblivion thing is a nice excuse for you to rope me back in, isn't it?”

“I don't really need to answer that,” Arelius said with a subtle smile. Perhaps that was where his wife had learned it from. “Do you have an answer for me?”

“I'll do it.” And he gave her an approving look that she interpreted as, “That's my girl.”

“Then report for your new job tomorrow morning. I'll make sure that you're expected.”

“Arelius, come quickly!” Lucretia's shout jerked both Arelius and Portia out of their exchange. The door flew open to reveal his wife standing there in a robe, one hand clasping a candle that etched her worried expression into sharp relief. “This way,” she ordered, and then she was rushing down the hallway. Portia followed, but her presence was forgotten as Lucretia and Arelius softly but urgently conversed ahead of her. “I don't think she'll last long,” Lucretia stated.

“Where is she?” Arelius asked. Portia was stunned by the scene that awaited her as the group rushed into the front foyer. There, laying in the doorway and propped against the wall, was a female Dunmer whose tattooed face was tightened in pain. A hand cradled her stomach, where her shirt and ruined leather armor were soaked with blood, and the liquid was beginning to trickle onto the floor.

“Get bandages!” Arelius ordered as he crouched beside the injured woman.

“Poison...” the Dunmer gasped, and Arelius' frown deepened.

“Lucretia,” he said. “There is a small blue bottle in the chest beside our bed. Bring it to me.” His wife scurried to do his bidding, and Portia watched in bewilderment as the Dunmer's attention turned toward her. There was recognition on the elf's part, and then the woman gasped as a tremor shot through her body.

“What happened?” Arelius asked.

“The Mythic Dawn is here, in the city,” the elf forced out. “Three of them came on the ship...waiting here for orders...dangerous.”

“Enough,” Arelius soothed. Lucretia reentered the room, and tender hands angled an antidote into Tamil's mouth. The woman nearly choked on the potion, violently coughing as it went down her throat.

“I'll ready a room,” Lucretia said, and she turned to a servant who was nervously waiting at the edge of the scene. Portia heard her hostess giving orders, but she was more concerned with the whispered conversation going on between Arelius and the Dunmer. She had never seen the elf before, but she highly suspected that the woman was a Blade. Now she was dying, and the thought of the Mythic Dawn being in the city sent Portia's mind down a road of dark contemplation. The Dawn followed Mehrunes, and she didn't like to think that they were here, possibly looking for her. She had to return to her dreams and look for answers.

“Don't...” the elf suddenly spat, her body shaking as if in fever, and sweat drops running down the sides of her face. “Can't...breathe...”

“Tamil,” Arelius urged, holding her by the shoulders.

“Need to stop...protect her...” The woman was clearly delirious, but she was still trying to speak, and feeble hands reached for Arelius' shoulders. “I...”

“It's okay,” Arelius soothed, face blank and voice low. “Go to sleep. I'll take care of it.” The woman nodded, and her hands dropped, leaving Portia to wonder if she was dead or alive. Judging by the way Arelius gently traced a symbol on her forehead, the woman's chances of survival were slim, and there was something reserved and sad in Arelius' posture that made Portia feel as though she were intruding on a private scene for which she was not meant.

“The room is...oh, is she gone?” Lucretia asked. She stood in the doorway, waiting.

“No,” came Arelius' soft response. “But she may be soon. I'll move her myself.” He remained crouched, one hand on the woman's hand as if willing her to live. He had worked with her for a long time, and seeing her on the verge of death on such a peaceful night came as an unpleasant surprise. Lucretia wordlessly moved toward him and placed a kiss on the top of his head, one hand stroking his brown hair. She whispered something, and then she seemed to remember Portia's presence, eyes shifting toward the silent figure.

“I'll be in my room,” Portia announced. Arelius glanced at her before straightening with the Dunmer cradled in his arms. From outward appearances, it was difficult to tell if he was feeling anything, but Portia knew that he was. “Blade business,” she acknowledged. “I know. Goodnight.” And she retired to her rooms, wondering if Arelius felt as responsible for the woman's condition as she had once felt for her own comrade's pain.

I am enjoying Portia's character development, but I am also pleasantly surprised at how well you are fleshing out Aurelius's character as well - presenting him as a man driven by a strong sense of honor and duty, who expects the same from his subordinates that he expects from himself.

And introducing a new character in Tamil - though she may not live long, she is already a fully developed personality that just jumps off the screen at me.

A small nit: I think the 'd' ran off on you - it should read It wasn't supposed to be like that.

More please.

As I stated before; I would read and I have. And...oh my..... what a rich and deep story. You got me hooked.
Only 1 nit, It's Sheogorath. It would seem madness stole your "o" from it making it into Sheograth.

@Remko: I cannot for the life of me find where I mentioned Sheogorath. I'll have to go back and skim through the chapters again. Oh well. Also, I'm happy that you like this story as well as 'Lex and the Thief'. This one's quite a bit different from that one.

@haute: I'm glad that the characters come across as very real, and Portia is probably one of my favorite characters in anything that I've ever written. Surprisingly, she did not rank as the favorite when I asked people for their opinions on this story. I'll be very interested in hearing your take on the various personalities as the story progresses, especially in regard to Aurelius. I've heard such mixed things about him, when I personally consider him a very strong and admirable person. It's funny how readers sometimes see characters in a totally different light than the writer, but so far, what you've said about him meshes perfectly with my view.

On a different note, I want to explain something that I should have mentioned sooner. Namely, that I make some alterations to the Elderscroll's world. The game world just seems too small to be realistic for the purposes of this story, the Imperial City being a prime example. Being the center of an empire, it's a small place in the game, especially when one considers that the Imperials are modeled after the Romans, and Rome was enormous. As such, I've taken some liberties in expanding the city and certain cultural aspects of everyday life, which will be apparent at various points in the story. The most obvious one thus far is probably the fact that Aurelius lives in Silver Wells, which is an aristocratic neighborhood that I made up.

Okay, I finished the first two chapters of this story. Here are my impressions so far:

Portia Augustine is a wonderfully indelible character. Her odyssey through the Deadlands is both the stuff of legends, and nightmares. I hope we will be seeing more of Gilthan. His all too brief presence on stage turned this story in a whole new direction.

Arelius comes across as a field version of Captain Steffan up at Cloud Ruler. The way he refers to Jauffre as ‘the monk’ perfectly fits in with the world of secrets that the Blades occupy.


I like this rebuke coming from Arelius, but I think you should add something to the effect that gods have a pride that dwarfs even the pride of great men. As it reads now it seems as if you are equating a god to an aristocrat.

Be careful of your ‘revealing’ adjectives. Any adjective ending in ’ly’ tells us how someone is feeling or what they are doing . . . ‘He glared balefully’ or ‘she laughed sweetly’. Telling is not showing. Remember Chekhov’s words:

If you want to see an example of a novel written without a single revealing adjective check out Kazuo Ishiguro’s An Artist of the Floating World. Set in post WWII Japan, the story is about an aging painter who looks back on his life and how he has lived it. Craft such as his is what we should all strive for.

And this may just be a personal thing, but it feels as if you take away some of Dagon’s thunder every time one of your characters refers to him as ‘Mehrunes’. I realize that it is his first name, but the informality of it makes him sound like a skinny poet who smokes too many cigarettes and rides around on a Vespa. I would stick with ‘Dagon’. Not only does it just sound more menacing, but it also denotes a healthy respect/fear for/of the figure being named.

I will try to finish the rest of this in the next few days (schedule permitting). I love what you have written so far. I can see why this story is closer to your heart than Lex and the Thief.

@Melarg: I've never heard of 'revealing' adjectives, and no one has ever pointed them out to me before, but you've definitely given me something to think about. I can see how such words are more telling then showing, and I've always aimed to do the later in my writing. As such, I've already decided to cut back on using them, and although I wasn't conscious of it before, I don't believe that there are an overabundance of them in my stories. Either way, thank you for the pointer.

As for the whole 'Dagon' vs 'Mehrunes' thing, it was actually a rather strange decision on my part, and one that I've never given much thought to. It arose because, when I hear the word Dagon, I don't think about the Elderscrolls world. I immediately think about the Dagon that the Philistines used to worship, and quite frankly, I really don't like that fishy-god guy. As such, I simply wrote Mehrunes instead, although I can see how that shows a lack of respect among the characters. I have since swallowed my dislike of the word, and I've made a few changes to the chapters that I've already posted. Certain characters will speak about him differently, which makes more sense.

Oh, and I'm glad that you're liking the story.

Chapter 6:

She was more familiar with the palace this time around. Its black corridors, angular statues, and red curtains no longer stole her attention, for she was preoccupied with warily watching out for dremora. Despite the fact that she was fairly confident that they were unaware of her presence, she still found herself ducking into the shadows whenever they approached, and their hulking frames and red eyes made her breathing hitch. She had learned that eavesdropping on them was pointless, for their garbled language was lost on her. Yet she found herself trying to listen anyway, in an attempt to make her snooping profitable. In truth, she was avoiding the one place where she knew that she should be going: his room.

She came to a massive chamber, and stared down a central runway of red tiles that were so deep in color that they almost appeared black. Muted red like old blood. Maybe that was how she'd describe them, and gazing into their glassy surface, she wondered it they weren't polished lava rocks. The pathway cut down the center of the long room, joining the door through which she'd entered with a raised platform where a throne sat, and as she began walking toward that seat, her eyes flickered to the tall pillars that flanked her on either side, their incredible height making her feel like a speck of dirt. She couldn't even tell how high the ceiling was, but from the blackness above dangled blazing cages of fire, and then her feet reached the throne.

She wondered if this was where Mehrunes Dagon held audiences. The chair was large, with rubies glittering across its blackened, stone frame, and its owner's symbol carved into the backrest. It was the same symbol that marred her flesh, and in sick fascination, Portia gravitated toward it. She laid a hand against the stone, feeling the rough lines of the carving beneath her palm. It was cold to the touch, and her fingers traced its outline. Apparently Mehrunes liked to mark what was his, and if his goal had been to never let her forget her transgressions, he'd succeeded.

But I'm not his, Portia vehemently thought, and now she was advancing in the direction of his quarters. She soon found herself standing on the threshold of her destination, and coldness seeped into her bones from the clammy, stone walls, the chill clashing with Oblivion's warm air in a strange contradiction of sensations. It was night in the Deadlands, as on her previous visit, and so a fire crackled in a golden brazier near Mehrunes' bed at she entered. Perhaps night in her world coincided with night here, and the possibility sent unease down her spine. Whereas before she had thought that she was dreaming, now she knew that this was much more—that she was actually somehow moving about within Oblivion, and seeing what was happening in real time. It was unnerving, much more so than when it had only been an odd dream.

She did not see Mehrunes in the empty room, but she could hear voices beyond the doors on the far side of the room. Taking care to be quiet, she moved toward the table where she had collected Sable and her spell scroll. There were still a myriad of artifacts scattered across it, and she recognized none of them, although she made a detailed note of each for later research. Perhaps Gilthan could help her identify them, but she realized that acting upon his knowledge would probably be impossible. She doubted that she could take things from Oblivion in these visions. Most of the time her hands simply passed through what she meant to touch, only occasionally making contact that felt physical.

Creak.

A door opened, and Portia glanced upward to see Mehrunes marching into the room with fire in his eyes. Before the doors closed, she saw a type of dremora that she did not recognize standing in the doorway. He was larger and more imposing than others that she had seen, but he was quickly lost from view, and her attention went solely to Oblivion's master.

He looked exactly as before, only angrier, as if the news that he'd just received was displeasing. His dark mood consumed the room, and Portia could almost feel energy crackling around him. Such power, she marveled. She stepped backward to let him pass, still extremely uncomfortable in her supposed safety, and he seemed too preoccupied to notice her presence. He flexed his arms and stretched, again showing off his toned limbs and torso, and then he reached for a dagger that sat upon the table. He twirled it between his fingers with an ease and agility that Portia would not have thought a being of his bulk possessed. She'd always pictured him artlessly bludgeoning someone with a mace, but as the prince stared into space, perhaps mindless of what he was doing, she had to correct herself. To think how accurately he could probably throw that thing...

He can't see you. He can't hear you. He can't hurt you.

She remained where she was, curious, worried, and a bit proud of her own courage. Mehrunes most certainly did not own her, even if he'd plague the back of her mind for eternity. As she watched him, she noticed for the first time that his red skin was decorated with lighter patterns that formed swirls and intricate lines across his body. The dagger continued moving between his hands with practiced ease, and for a moment his eyes closed. A dip of his head drew Portia's attention to the chaos sphere that hung from his ear, and she began to wonder whether it glowed like that all of the time. Hers only carried the faintest aura, and she didn't think that it'd ever been as vibrant in color as his was. Then again, he could channel its power, and she couldn't.

"I know you're there...again," Mehrunes stated with a hint of annoyance. Portia nearly fled from the room, but then remembered their previous encounter. She could do this, and if she learned to withstand him, perhaps her nightmares would altogether vanish. "No one comes and goes as they please in this part of the palace, so tell me," he turned to look in her direction. "What are you that even the most powerful dremora cannot sense you?" Portia tried not to make eye contact with him, as if doing so would somehow unveil her.

"You try to deny your own existence," Mehrunes growled. "Very well." And he tossed the dagger toward her. It clattered to the floor at her feet, but she didn't move to touch it as Mehrunes found himself another dagger. He advanced on her with his weapon at the ready, and Portia tensed with each methodical step that he took. He wouldn't attack thin air, would he? Should she...? He dove forward with the dagger, and Portia couldn't help herself. She frantically retrieved the weapon at her feet and lifted it, barely deflecting what was no doubt a weak attack for the daedric prince. Her heart was still pounding as she held the dagger to her chest, and Mehrunes stared at the seemingly floating weapon with a curious expression.

"Goblin's gall," Portia cursed, and she dropped the dagger to the floor.

"You can move things," Mehrunes considered, sounding displeased. His eyes momentarily flickered toward his table of treasure, and Portia could guess what he was thinking. He'd just been stolen from, and yet he hadn't locked the items away. Perhaps this incident would make him reconsider, and Portia didn't understand why he hadn't taken more precautions before this time. Was he really that arrogant to assume that it couldn't happen again?

"You don't belong here," he growled. "And your trespass will not be overlooked." He retrieved the dagger from the floor and stared at it. "You're too quick to be a spirit. Ghosts are about as fast as ogres, the stupid fetchers." He then cocked his head to the side, and his mouth parted to reveal sharp incisors that made him look even more intimidating. He was curious, Portia realized, for he couldn't touch her, and he didn't know what she was.

"Don't be stupid enough to attack me," he ordered. Because it would be so effective, Portia sarcastically thought. Mehrunes could probably snap her in half without much effort. "You seem smarter than that, but you're not leaving..." He stepped away from her, and placed his daggers back on the table. "Perhaps not so intelligent after all." Out of nowhere he threw a fireball at Portia, making her heart leap with such force that she was surprised that it hadn't left her chest. The heat of the deadly spell as it passed through her was uncomfortable, but not damaging, and she was left in a cold sweat as it seared across the wall behind her. Mehrunes growled low in his throat and moved closer with the measured steps of a predator. It was a bold, steady walk unlike her quick, furtive steps.

Seeing him approach on a battlefield must be a terrifying experience.

"Be warned," he threatened in a matter-of-fact tone. "If you continue to come here, I will find a way to unearth you." And Portia marveled that he then returned to his various tasks as if she didn't exist; although she was willing to bet that he was plotting a way to get at her.

"Master Dagon?" a voice called. Of course, Portia only caught 'Dagon'.

"Enter," Mehrunes ordered, and the doors swung inward to reveal the same imposing dremora that Portia had seen before.

"My lord," and the dremora fell to his knees in a bow. His head remained lowered as words fell from his lips, but the guttural language was gibberish as far as Portia was concerned.

"Very well. You may go," Mehrunes stated. The dremora rose and departed without a backward glance, and Portia considered the strange expression settling over Mehrunes' face. She would almost say that the slight tilt to his lips made him look...satisfied? Which naturally made her uneasy. Perhaps he had come up with a plan to capture her, but maybe it was something else entirely. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of victory if it was the former, and so decided to leave before events took a turn for the worst. She moved toward the still opened doors, and as she passed through them, she chanced a look over her shoulder. Mehrunes stood still, his eyes fixed on her.

"We shall see how foolish or wise you are, being." His eyes narrowed, and he turned away, reaching for something on the table. Portia saw that it was the knife, which he again twirled in thought. She didn't know when she would return to Oblivion as she retreated toward the doors closest to her, but the parting stare that Mehrunes sent in her direction would remain stamped on her mind for a long time.

She ended up returning the next night, and even the next, during which Mehrunes only acknowledged her presence with a quick flick of his eyes as she trailed him like a shadow. He was in the throne room, his bedroom, or perhaps on a balcony overlooking the lava flows of his world. He would tell her that she was annoying him--that he did not like her presence, and that he would rip out her heart and feed it to his dogs. At least he was blunt. Portia would give him that much, and while he might growl and try a new spell on her, it never worked.

She found it uncanny that she could sense him on that third night. The chaos sphere would glow hotly against her skin, and she would intuitively know whether he was giving audiences or wandering in a certain part of the palace. Lesser daedra scattered in fear before him. Dremora bowed and uttered respectful phrases, but she stuck to nearby shadows, waiting for...well, she was working on that. If nothing else, she was becoming bolder and stronger as she balanced an act of wary distance and close observation, as she'd once done in her own world, but there was a point to her actions. She did not go into Oblivion or tolerate Mehrunes' often suffocating personality for her health or enjoyment. The prince downright startled her when he unexpectedly focused on her, and one more unexpected spell might send her over the edge of paranoia.

What she was trying to accomplish was to garner information from him, but it wasn't working. Sometimes he'd be looking at maps, and Portia recognized locations, but never the language being used to discuss them. Once she'd climbed onto a chair and looked directly over his shoulder to get a better view, and on the first night when he'd barely acknowledged her, she'd even reached out to touch his earring. Mehrunes had instantly whipped around to face her with raging eyes that would have scared the fur off of a Khajit. If she'd been physical, no doubt he would have killed her then and there, and she'd fled, not knowing when she'd return. Now it was morning again, and as she awoke, she realized that if she was going to gain anything from her trips into Oblivion, she'd need to understand a new language. It was fortunate that her new job granted her access to the palace libraries, and Gilthan thought that her idea was brilliant.

Portia smiled as she readied herself for another day of schooling. With her dreams mostly under control, and with her new position, she felt as if her life was in order for the first time since her departure from the Blades. She was even enjoying sneaking around again since she was responsible only for herself. She moved alone through hidden corridors to collect information for Arelius, and she was pleased that he approved of her work. He had yet to ask her for special assistance, and for that she was grateful. She was busy enough as it was.

******************************

"How is she doing?" Tamil asked. She was laying in one of Arelius' guest chambers, and he sat in a chair beside her reclining form. Her wounds were healing, but the poison was still ravaging her system with fever, which meant that she'd been confined to bed since arriving bloody and half-dead on his doorstep five days ago. Arelius visited her every day when he returned from work, and her lack of progress was a matter of personal worry and frustration for him.

"She's as good as she used to be," he stated in reference to Portia.

"Is she still holding back? Only acting if given direct orders?"

"Actually," Arelius smiled, "She just questioned several beggars the other day and found a lead on your missing threesome."

"Thank Vivec, because we need her. If she's ready, you could..."

"No," Arelius bluntly anticipated. "She's too valuable not to use, but I can't have her getting too close to the Dawn. If she draws attention to herself, she could cause disaster, and it would be on our heads. Protecting the artifact is our first and foremost concern until those damn mages decide how to handle it." Tamil nodded with an annoyance that was quite clear to Arelius' trained eye, and she eased back further into her mountain of pillows.

"And are they making any progress?"

"They're displeased that she is even allowed to leave this house," Arelius smiled. "They don't understand that if she is to know nothing, I can't be overly restrictive or she'll get suspicious. Giving her the job will at least keep her in the city."

"And keep her under your guidance," Tamil grinned. "You're grooming the pretty, little Blade for a future position, aren't you?" Arelius nodded. There was no reason to deny it. He'd never wanted to see Portia go elsewhere with her talent, and given time, she would be ready to lead others again. He was sure of it, and if not, he'd push her in that direction. "So what else are the mages doing, sir? And don't spare any details. Being confined to this room is driving me crazy. I'm going to scream one of these mornings...or kill something." Arelius smiled and leaned forward to rest his hands on his knees.

"They're researching the matter, and that's all they would say. Open communication would be preferable, but I'm telling them as little as they tell us. They have no idea that Portia's back in service, and I want to keep it that way. No one except us will know—for her own safety. If the monk hadn't ordered us to cooperate with them, I'd as soon put the chaos sphere in our own possession for safe-keeping, but we have our directives."

"Telling her about the artifact might help matters," Tamil stated. "I would want to know."

"It's not about what we want," Arelius reminded her.

"Of course not, sir, but you must admit that it's tempting." He thought about it before standing to depart.

"Portia always was one to take on her own problems. I fear that if she were to know, she'd try to do something about it without my consent. I'd rather bide my time than risk exposing her, even if she is one of the sneakiest Blades that I've ever seen."

"Sneakier than me?" Tamil teased.

"No, but you weren't originally a Blade either." His reference to the woman's dark past had no effect on either, for they'd long grown comfortable with her open secrets. "And our directives are for silence, operative," Arelius stressed. "Don't say a word to Portia about what we've discussed."

"Yes, sir," Tamil conceded, but unsure if what they were doing was for the best or not. "If I don't recover soon, you might consider expanding her role in our operation. From what you've said, I'd trust her to take over my job."

"Get some rest," Arelius ordered. "If the need arises, I'll use my own discretion."

"As always. Good day, sir."

Another compelling read. The growing tension between Dagon and Portia is terribly fascinating in its own way.

Just one nit:


The sudden change in pacing in the middle of the paragraph is rather disorienting. First we're in the moment, being shown what is going on, then suddenly we're being told what is happening over the next few nights, all in one sentence. That's jarring to me, the reader, as well as me, the writer. Using the change in pacing to start a new paragraph would be more appropriate here, in my humble writer's opinion.



I'm still enjoying this and wondering where it will go next!

I just finished reading the rest of your story. I should warn you that since these comments will cover Chapters 3-6 this will be a fairly long post.

Okay, where to begin? First, I think this is great. It is compulsively readable, and it is simply impossible not to empathize with Portia. Her feelings toward the death of her fellow Blade are rendered in stunning clarity. Yet, despite her best efforts, her own nature won’t allow her to remain on the sidelines. I admire your understanding of the simple truth that conflict is life and stagnation, death.

Despite the terror and the pain, the atmosphere that you create around Portia’s dream forays gives the impression of a strangely seductive pull towards Dagon. How deliciously twisted is that?!? I have a feeling that the link developing between the two of them via the chaos spheres goes both ways.

I am equally impressed with Arelius and Lucretia. I don’t envy him commanding his group of Blades in the wake of the assassination of the Emperor and all his heirs. But at the same time he should consider himself fortunate, we should all be blessed with a spouse as understanding and supportive as Lucretia.

I agree with haute when she says that Tamil jumps off the screen, but I disagree when she calls her a new character. Wasn’t Tamil the one hiding behind the invisibility spell in Arelius’ house earlier?

And finally, I would be remiss if I didn’t make a comment about the plight that poor Horace finds himself in. How does one prepare to accommodate the Prince of Destruction? Talk about an unwanted house guest! Changing the sheets and cleaning the house just seems like a waste of energy.

All that said I did find a few nits to pick:

From Chapter 4:


Do you think the word ‘residual’ might work better here? And I think you should break this into two sentences:



Did you mean ‘shimmering’ here? A ‘shim’ is a small wedge of metal or wood driven into crevices to level them.

From Chapter 5:


A silence spell keeps one from casting, it does nothing to mask sound or hide the caster. I think you were referring to an invisibility or chameleon spell, unless it was your intention to have Tamil use a custom spell to muffle the sound she makes. If that is the case, then you need to call it something other than ‘silencing’ to avoid confusion.


This is a bit confusing. If this third figure is invisible, how could Tamil detect him/her? If Tamil has a spell active or an item enchanted with detect life then such a figure would be detected, but I see no mention of such a spell or item. Invisibility is just that, invisibility. If the figure is wrapped in a chameleon spell then the barest hint of an outline would be visible.


This should be disappointment.

From Chapter 6:


The word ‘conversation’ is slightly confusing here. I don’t think that Dagon and the Dremora had a conversation at this moment, strictly speaking. The conversation that they had subsequently was heard and understood by Portia.

Sorry if I’m being a pain about these things. It's your own fault, really. If I didn't like what you are doing with this story so much I wouldn't feel compelled to go into this level of depth with my comments.

More please!

@haute: I actually started writing this story with only one thought: let's build a twisted, tense relationship between the lord of destruction and a mortal whom he wants to make suffer. It grew into much more somewhere along the line, and I'm not quite sure when (I blame it on growing attached to an array of characters.), but either way, it's great to know that the tension is working for you. I love suspense and disquieting situations. Also, and as always, thanks for the pointer. I fixed the pacing.

@Melarg: You, a pain? I'm actually quite flattered that you like my story enough to make such in-depth comments, and after going back and editing every single one of these chapters in the last three or so days, I'm finding that my story is vastly improved because of advice. I certainly went back and fixed the magical elements, which sometimes prove a bit of a problem for me since I don't use magic in the games. I've never even joined the Mages' Guild. Concerning the silencing thinger, I've since dubbed the spell the 'Black Cat', or rather, that's what Tamil's former superior named it.

And finally, concerning your comments about the characters themselves:



That's exactly what I was going for, and I'm thrilled that the other characters jump off of the screen as well. And yes, Tamil was the one in Arelius' house earlier. Now it's onward to editing a new chapter!

Chapter 7:

"Casperian, be careful not to throw yourself off balance!" Portia called from the sidelines of the training room. The large, grassy yard was enclosed by white walls and a colonnaded walkway that provided shade for some of her pupils as they rested their aching limbs. They were seated on benches or the broad steps that led into the yard, and of course they were clustered around the fountain that protruded from the wall closest to the storage room. Water spouted from the glacial face of a stone maiden to splash into a circular bowl, and in typical, Imperial style, the woman was looking outward with her head held high. Her porcelain skin and graceful pose stood in contrast to the wooden practice dummies that hung scattered about the yard, as if she did not quite belong here amidst sweat and blood.

“That's enough rest, boys,” Portia stated. “Pick up your swords, and get back out there.”

This yard was part of the palace grounds, and had been used by upcoming noblemen for decades. Portia had never before openly roamed this area or cared about doing so, but she found that being able to stroll as she pleased with her new title of swordswoman was pleasant. Open access to most of the palace was proving a real advantage in contacting Arelius' allies as well, for most of them worked here, and so her position facilitated the passing of information.

"Parry left!" she called. Too late. The kid got a crack across the head with a wooden sword. "No. Try again, and do it the way that I showed you." The practice continued for another hour before Portia dismissed her pupils and packed up the training gear. Locking it inside of a storage room off of the yard, she moved toward her favorite part of the palace: the library loft, which was another perk of her new position. The place was a small and seldom-used sitting room in an elevated nook of the library, and to reach it, one had to climb a narrow flight of stairs hidden by shelves that toward over the tallest of visitors. In such a place she was left alone to research Oblivion and its lord without threat of interruption, and Gilthan was helping her in that respect, for he had already sent a runner by Arelius' house to drop off a book on ancient languages.

“Spying on old, grumpy Dagon, huh? Brilliant. Fantastic. But about these strange vibes that you're feeling...”

Portia thought back to her morning routine, and she too wondered whether she was perhaps pushing the limits of safety. She had been walking to the palace when she'd first heard the voice, its tone disembodied and almost recognizable. Then the burning had started, building from a pinprick of energy to a roaring inferno. It hadn't caused any damage, but it had made her body throb in muted pain, and the power surge had shot through her system with such force that she'd stumbled and nearly fallen. Never had she felt such overwhelming power, and then her vision had flashed red, affording her a view of Mehrunes' dark palace, and then the prince himself before everything had gone black. It was a wonder that she wasn't left a crispy piece of flesh, and not knowing what the artifact had been doing gnawed at Portia's mind.

Akatosh guard her, but she hadn't told Gilthan about that yet, and the elf was already worried. He didn't like that the chaos sphere sometimes made her feel warm and sleepy, as if beckoning her toward Oblivion, and here she was, getting the rush of a lifetime on a street in broad daylight. She didn't like it either, but her course was set, and she was both prepared for and dreading a worsening of her condition. At least she had yet to suffer physical harm. What was happening now was far less painful than what had transpired when she'd actually been in Oblivion at any rate, and so she would use another draught tonight, even if she was nervous. Her last encounter with Mehrunes had given her doubts about seeing him again. If looks could kill...but she had to do this.

Here it is.

Portia sat down in her favorite armchair and cracked open the large tome that she'd slid beneath it. The ancient letters inside no longer appeared as unintelligible squiggles, but she was still a long way from easily reading them. She was searching for the page that she'd left off on when her hip gave a sharp stab of pain. She didn't need to look to know that the chaos sphere was glowing, for this had started yesterday—a pulling sensation and an internal burning that triggered pain in her hip.

Gilthan warned that it might be an unavoidable effect of the sphere's presence, but Portia had a feeling that it was more than that, for when the warmth began to spread, she could feel Mehrunes' mood. Sometimes she sensed that he was angry, and sometimes he simply seemed to be channeling power. The draw was almost unstoppable either way, but it never lasted long. She'd be left in a cold sweat but otherwise whole in the aftermath, and then her hip would seep redness.

"Damn body," Portia muttered, forcing herself to focus on the page before her. Her eyes scanned the angular letters, and she stifled a yawn. She had forgotten how much energy it took to run Blade business late into the night and rise early for a regular job. Thank the gods that Arelius didn't ask her to work every night, but if he did, she would do it. There was nothing to temper her dedication, and there never had been.

Sitting in the library, Portia thought back to how she had lost her parents and been kicked off of their property as a teenager. Afterwards, she'd been searching for something to make her life less empty and groundless, for with no home and no one to take her in, she'd been miserable. Service to the empire had promised to change that, and as she thought about her past decision, she realized that if she'd never accidently killed that man, she probably would have turned into a younger version of her mentor. Her entire identity had been centered on her occupation at that point in her life, and she supposed that without it, she really had lost part of herself—a part that she hadn't been able to find outside of her role as a Blade. Funny, how it had taken Oblivion and the most painful and dangerous event of her life to make her realize that.

Portia yawned again, and her eyes briefly drifted shut. She had been up most of the night, and teaching all morning. Perhaps a nap would be a good idea, but what if someone saw what she was reading? She didn't want anyone to know, especially when she and Gilthan had been so careful thus far. And that mage--what did Gilthan call him? Traven the Tyrant. Yes, him. He was watching Gilthan so closely that Portia only contacted the elf by short messages passed along by a servant. The cleaners tended to be overlooked by the Arcane University. Well then, it was settled: no sleeping.

Portia gathered her belongings and headed straight for Arelius' home, where she could study in relative privacy.

****************************

The bell rang a second time, and Gilthan rolled his eyes. This customer needed to learn some patience, and that thought was reaffirmed as he ran eyes over the male Imperial beside him. The man embodied blue blood and the attitude that accompanied it, his nose even sporting the slight kink that was distinctly Imperial. Hair slicked back over a high forehead, and olive skin perfectly smooth, the man reached for the bell yet again. Such arrogance, but the high elf had long suspected that it was mostly for show. Surely these people couldn't maintain such a facade in the confines of their own homes.

"This shop is open, isn't it?" the man sarcastically asked. Then again, maybe he was just a jerk. Gilthan was accustomed to their sort, and while he mostly brushed such people off, he sometimes couldn't help making a comment or two. After all, his cheerful disposition allowed him to get away with statements that would usually offend or earn a reprimand. Even when he was caught breaking the rules, he tended to laugh it off in such a way that his superiors merely shook their heads in exasperation. There were advantages to being seen as a guar of a different color.

"I believe that the owner is fetching me some stinkhorn caps," Gilthan told the Imperial. Why did his boss need the fungus? He didn't know, and he didn't particularly care. The details of the project always eventually made their rounds, and in the meantime, it was a lovely day for a walk through the city. Plus the alchemy shop that he now stood in smelled heavenly—like research, rare ingredients, and careful preparations, all of which he respectfully adored as his eyes ran over the drying plants that hung from the low ceiling.

"I ordered ahead for my supplies," the Imperial continued. Well aren't you special? Gilthan smiled to himself. Then it occurred to him that it was odd that this man should be doing his own shopping. Perhaps the Imperial wasn't as high born as he acted...? Gilthan looked the man over again, and noticed the slightly worn edges of his doublet and the scuffed toes of his boots. This man was definitely out and about on a regular basis, and so he couldn't be at the top of the class ladder. There were plenty of Imperial families that were prestigious but whose old money had dried up, and he figured that this might be one of them. Then again, perhaps the man was simply a bit different from his social comrades.

"I'm coming!" an annoyed alchemist shouted from the back room when the Imperial rang the bell for the tenth time. An old, wrinkled Altmer emerged from a nearby doorway with a huff of indignation. She was stooped with age, and her dark eyes flashed in anger when she saw the Imperial. Gilthan could only imagine her thoughts, for here she was, a notable professional and easily twice as old as this impatient customer, and the Imperial had the nerve to disrespect her. He stood there with his sleek, black hair, brown eyes, and fine if worn clothing, and stared at his elder like she was there to serve him. Coming from Summerset Isle, the action irked Gilthan, who had been taught to respect older Altmer—wise advice since elders could often throw spells about with little thought.

"Sir Pantrov," the storekeeper scowled. "You will kindly wait your turn like every other customer in my shop." Gilthan nearly choked to prevent himself from laughing at the Imperial's bored expression. The arrogant ones had a tendency to do that: look indifferent when they realized that they couldn't get their way. Now, Gilthan didn't normally associate with people like that, but he had it on good report from other mages that some noblemen had perfected boredom to such an extent that you could start humping their leg and they'd barely bat an eyelash. Few as those Imperials were, he did not doubt their existence, and the fact that they so closely resembled a high elf when they cast such expressions amused him. This Imperial would even give his Altmer father a run for his money.

"Ah, Gilthan," the alchemist greeted when she saw him. "I was expecting you. Here you are," and she handed him a bag of stinkhorn caps. "I'll charge your boss for it, but I'm afraid that he has a rather long tab running. You'd best remind him that I'm starting to charge interest." She gave him a stern look, and Gilthan grinned.

"I'll tell him, but he's not likely to listen to this humble messenger." The Imperial wasn't even looking at them, although Gilthan sensed the man's attention. "I'm going to look at your mushrooms over here," Gilthan told the shopkeeper. "Maybe you'd best take care of fancy pants," he added in a softer tone, but not so soft that the Imperial would miss the comment. He then turned his back on the scene and pretended not to be eavesdropping.

"Here's your daedra heart," the shopkeeper was saying. Daedra heart? That was an interesting need. Gilthan didn't recognize the Imperial, and he knew every skilled alchemist in the city by name and face, so why would this man need an ingredient usually reserved for upper level potions? Now his interest was piqued. Coins exchanged hands, and he listened for the Imperial to leave before turning around.

"Who was that?" he asked, and the old woman placed hands on her hips.

"Horace Pantrov," she answered. "He's a real class act."

"I wouldn't have guessed," Gilthan said, face turning serious. "Why did he need a daedra heart?" If an amateur tried using the recipes that called for that ingredient, it could spell disaster. He'd once seen a friend's face burned off by an exploding potion.

"You'd have to ask him, but good luck. The man is only a minor noble, but he likes to lord it over us commoners on his bad days. He's polite and even winning if he feels like putting forth the effort, but..."

"He obviously wasn't in the mood today?" Gilthan guessed.

"Clearly. It's a shame too, but I suppose that a diplomat can't keep up the act all the time. I hear that he's less condescending and demanding with his fellow aristocrats, but what can you expect? He's not the big fish in the pond when he's at the palace. Everyone's got a place, but get him around a few beggars and it's a massacre. He's verbally ripped Simplicia the Slow apart to the point where she cries. Makes me want to throw a potion at him some days, but some days he'll turn on that Imperial charm, and he's got it; trust me. Half the time I hate him, and half the time I forget that he's a prick."

"Hmmm," Gilthan mused. "I suppose that people act differently for the audience. Although I am fairly consistent."

"No, you're inconsistent to the point where it becomes consistency."

"That makes sense...in a strange way," he mused. "I must be going now, but I will keep my promise to sing for you one day."

"Oh, get out of here. I've had enough of you for the day. You talk terrible nonsense for an Altmer! Your parents must be embarrassed."

"Oh, they are, and your wish is my command." And Gilthan left with a chuckle. Daedra heart...Well, if the man blew himself up, it might at least impart some humility. He whistled as he moved along, thinking of returning to work and his current experiment. He might have found the Imperial interesting, but he did not dwell on the matter as he walked, and so he did not see the man moving in the opposite direction of himself. If anyone had been looking, they might have noticed that Horace Pantrov was testier than usual, and that had everything to do with the heart clutched in his hand...

***********************

He did not appreciate these Mythic Dawn members having him run their errands like some lackey, but it was rather inevitable since they couldn't risk being seen, and they needed this heart for some kind of ritual. Horace assumed that it had something to do with Mehrunes Dagon's arrival, but they'd only told him that he would know in a few days. He wasn't surprised by their curtness, for they were much higher in Dawn rank than himself, but he had expected some appreciation for allowing them access to his stores. They were a damned nuisance, and yet part of him was impressed with their leader, Ruined Cloak.

Don't ask him what kind of a symbolic name that was, but the man was the same enigma who'd visited him before, and just as cooly taunting. Still, the fetcher had earned Horace's grudging respect by proving himself cunning, for he had been the onsite ringleader in executing the emperor, and, as it turned out, the first one to suggest that Horace be admitted into the Mythic Dawn. Horace handled the man well enough, and he gave all three visitors the proper formalities, but he didn't have to like it. His master ordered it, and serving his master had always been his priority...or most of time at least. When Dagon grew weaker in this plane, he tended to shift his attentions elsewhere.

In truth, Horace had his doubts about whether Dagon would be successful in his bid for power, but it didn't matter. He played his part well but kept it hidden, ensuring that he'd come out unscathed no matter who won. He might sometimes seem like a mere pawn, and he might boss someone around only to bow to someone else within a span of minutes, but he knew what he was doing. He stood to the side and watched other chess pieces moving, even Ruined Cloak, and his mind was always turning, judging his next step. It really wasn't much different from what he'd been doing his entire life, whether going to Skyrim to broker deals or down to Black Marsh to assure the lizards that no more land would be taken. The difference was that he usually won the respect or at least the camaraderie of his fellow Imperials, but the Mythic Dawn ignored such distinctions. To them he was only a nobleman who might earn a piece of the pie.

He entered his house and thought about grabbing some wine, but resisted the urge. He was attending a dinner later tonight, and he didn't need to drink so much, even if he felt driven to it. Instead, he moved down to his basement and threw open a heavy trapdoor. He hated the filth, and more than that, he hated getting it on himself, but he would survive. He descended a ladder into a stone room sealed off from the rest of the sewers by a heavy, iron door, and found himself standing in the faint light of a fire that produced no smoke. As he had learned, Ruined Cloak was an accomplished mage.

"Here's your heart," Horace stated, holding out the bag for one of the cloaked figures to take. Two of them wore robes that appeared blood red in the firelight, but Ruined Cloak wore solid black. Three shadowy faces turned toward him in acknowledgment.

"Were there any difficulties?" the tallest figure, Ruined Cloak, asked. The man carried such a beast-like name, yet his voice didn't sound like it hailed from Black Marsh of Elsweyr.

"None at all," Horace replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Is there anything else that you require for this ritual? I've already sent a servant for the bonemeal." That, at least, could be handled by a regular servant. The daedra heart had been too delicate an issue to delegate in such a manner, for it would have raised questions since he was no alchemist. The bonemeal, on the other hand, was readily available from certain poor peddlers who sold the ashes of the buried as goodluck charms against disease. Silly belief, but useful at the moment.

"Our lord will be pleased," one of the figures stated.

"One can hope," Horace commented before giving a curt bow of his head. "I shall see you at some later time. Your food will be left in the usual place." He turned to go, anxious to leave these figures behind, and not hearing the whispered conversation at his back. They sounded excited about something, but about what, Horace didn't care. He was far too occupied with wondering if his accommodations would suit the lord of Oblivion. He had a lot to live up to in the next few days.

I see the forum's censor has struck again!

Irritating, ain't it?

So the plot is thickening even more. Dagon isn't happy these days, and Portia is starting to feel it. Yet she manages to keep busy. I like the woman!

And now we see Horace again. Has he yet begun to realize how deep he is these days? For that matter, do any of the Dawn realize it?

The POV's were better managed this time around. I really felt things flowed very smoothly here.

More please.

No! Not the forum censor. That honoured user!

And I'm glad that POV management was smoother this time.

I just love the idea of poor peddlers selling bonemeal as good luck charms. Not that it did the former owners any good. Why do I get the feeling that Gilthan’s encounter with Horace is going to draw the mage deeper into these events?

Here is something that has bothered me for the last couple of chapters: If the chaos sphere is causing Portia such distress, why then doesn’t she just take it off and put it in a drawer someplace? It’s a bit on the nose as solutions go I admit, and I am sure that in the planning of this story you have worked out any number of reasons for why it won’t solve her problem. But right now it seems as if Portia can spare herself some needless pain and blood by simply removing her earrings before she goes to bed. So far the only thing that has hinted at Portia’s justification for wearing the thing is that she holds it as a kind of trophy to mark her escape from Dagon’s clutches. But that justification begins to weaken when confronted with the suffering that the thing is causing her.

Well I've caught up, it took a while but having done so I like it. The Oblivion crisis from a distinctly different point of view and (as far as I can tell) no champion of cyrodiil to sort it. And there's cool new artifacts.

As far as not removing the earring I was reading it to suggest their use might be a tad addictive, though I could be wrong.

My general thoughts so far: a good introduction which showed her character well, that character has continued to show more and it's a good one. The real jewel in the character front is Gilthan, he's such an odd character but still believeable and has the potential to change hugely.

The plot is excellent, it's thick and I'm not sure what's going on but there's enough hooks and MacGuffins to keep the reader in deep. You show a variety of plots and subplots which involve each character well and offer hints at how they tie together which fall shy of revealing enough to spoil interest. All in all it's rather fine and I look forward to seeing it pay off.

One thing which did strike me is why, if the mages know how poerful the chaos sphere is, haven't they taken it for themselves for protection or study. They needen't touch it but I'd have thought they'd be interested to poke it with a stick (or whatever the magical equivalent is).

ARGH !!! I've got some catching up to do!