Old Gods-Part 1 of 3
Kvatch. Born again, rising from the ashes of the Oblivion Crisis like a phoenix from the flames. The city forged from the ruins of old into a new place, something golden, something fresh, new and pure. In an empire without an emperor, Kvatch represented the hope that Tamriel desperately needed.
And in the darkest parts beneath the great plateau that the city resided on, something far older, far more sinister, stirred. Fifty years ago it was woken. It had feasted. It had slept.
But it had remembered.
#
“Fine fresh bread, baked just this morning!”
“Wine! Surilie cousins vintage, finest you can get in all Cyrodiil!”
“Smoked Guar meat, straight from Vvardenfel. No better in all Tamriel!”
Thentian Honorius limped through the market place, his walking staff clacking on the ground as he made his way along the long cobbled square. He avoided handcarts selling goods, declining offers of fresh fish or poultry, the large paper bag he had tucked under his arm full of all the food he needed.
“Mornin' Mister Honorius,” a voice called, and Thentian glanced around to see Nahmus, a local merchant, pushing his handcart towards him. “Care for a few bottles of beer?”
“I'm alright Nahmus,” Thentian said, shaking his head. “Disagrees with my stomach nowadays.”
Nahmus gave a tut of sympathy, setting his cart down on the cobbles.
“I suppose it's what happens when you get old,” he said. “So where you off to?”
“Just to the barracks,” Thentian replied. “Collecting my pension.”
“Ah, right,” Nahmus said. “I won't keep you then. You take care now.”
The merchant picked up his handcart and pushed it away, the cart rattling and bouncing on the cobbles as he headed off to ply his trade. Thentian shook his head and carried on to the castle, past the remade statue of Antus Pinder, Kvatch's most honoured hero, and across the drawbridge. The castle was one of the few buildings that had survived the daedric assault that had occurred half a century ago, and had, along with the chapel, provided an initial shelter for Kvatch's refugees. Once the houses had been rebuilt, people had moved back in and life in the city had restarted.
But Thentian avoided the new arena, rebuilt on the site of the old. There were too many bad memories there. Old, vengeful memories that stirred in the dead of night when his guard was down, whispering, tempting. He was no fool. He would fight his enemy on his terms. He had learned a lot of things in the Legion, and patience was just one of them. Only fools rushed in. Wise men waited for the enemy to come to them.
The gates to castle Kvatch were open and Thentian limped through, his walking stick still clacking on the cobbles. One of the soldiers there, off duty but still in his uniform, nodded him a greeting. He took a left, towards the barracks. The door was a new one, but there were still scorch marks around it that couldn't be removed, a permanent scar on the mortar of the castle.
Within, the blackened wall, ceiling and floor seemed to absorb the light. In some places, the dark, polished coat of the floor was scuffed where people had ran, or where somebody had fallen. The fire had raged through this part of the castle, hot enough to incinerate anybody within and reduce any furniture to cinders.
In the days after the invasion, when Thentian had worked his way through the ashes of the barracks, he had found the bones of Legionnaires soldered to the floor, their armour melted onto the remnants of their skeletons.
At a barracks desk, made of oak taken from the surrounding Colovian Forest, the desk sergeant sat, peering critically at a few reports from behind his half moon spectacles. He glanced up as Thentian pushed the door open, before saying; “Mr Honorius?” in the same caustic tone he reserved for every creature under the sun.
“Here for my pension,” Thentian said.
“Of course,” the desk sergeant said. He reached beneath his desk and pulled out a modest bag of coins. “Here it is.”
Thentian took the gold with his free hand, the veins on the back of his thin, liver spotted hand standing out against his skin as he picked it up. Gods, it was heavy. He grunted under its weight as he turned and left. He remembered the days that he would have been able to carry something ten times its weight, but now he struggled with just that. He was unsure as to whether or not he could even carry his old sword any more. And he knew that that would not be a good thing, once it returned.
As he headed back towards his house, he viewed the city that had been torn apart, torn apart and painstakingly rebuilt, brick by stone. The people here thought that they were safe-to them another disaster was something incomprehensible, something impossible.
But Thentain knew better. It was asleep now, but it was stirring. The dreams had been stronger than ever, more vivid. And when it woke, it would bring with it a horror that had never been witnessed before.
#
With a 'click,' the door creaked open, Thentian pushing it over the threshold and into his home. The floor moaned beneath his boots as he made his way to the kitchen, placing his freshly purchased supplies on the kitchen table. He carefully and methodically took each item out, placing them on their shelves on the pantry. His work done, he made his way through to the cupboard.
There were old memories in here, painful ones, but important ones. Ones that had to be kept.
He pulled the door open and as always, paused for a moment to regard his arsenal. His old suit of Legion armour, meticulously polished and oiled, free of any specks of rust or dirt. His shield, a few words of spell banishment and protection carefully painted onto its surface, and his sword. A long blade, polished and clean, a razor edge ground into its blade thanks to hours of fastidious work with a whetstone.
Slowly and reverently, Thentian took the sword from its place and ran a cloth over it, removing any oil or grease that he may have missed when he had cleaned it before. He then repeated the process with his armour and shield with the same meticulous care that he used with his sword, wiping away the dust in order to keep the steel in prime condition.
Once that was done, he did the exercises, stretches needed in order to stop his joints from seizing up. It was harder now-in small yet relentless ways, his age was catching up. When he had first begun them, they were easy. Now pain flared each time he did them, and refused to leave, loitering in the crooks of his elbows, in the depths of his knees, returning whenever his guard was down. The local healer had given him an ointment for it, but he knew that that was just staving of the inevitable-he was getting old, and he couldn't stop it.
His exercises done, he pulled the sword from its rack and felt its weight. It was heavy, but well made, carefully balanced and weighted. He swiped at the air, practicing a few of the legion's stab maneuvers, ones that he had been taught so many years ago.
After just five minutes of the exercises, he was exhausted, and slumped down on a wicker chair. He intended to just catch his breath, but before he knew it, he was asleep.
#
The dreams had, as always, swept him up and taken him away. Taken him through the flames, into the darkness. Into the tunnels.
Into its nest.
Thentian woke with a start, gasping for air. A hacking, damp cough forced its way from his throat and for a minute or so he sat there gasping, recovering from the fit.
It was dark outside as he woke, and Thentian climbed gingerly to his feet, his knees creaking painfully as he did so. Taking his walking stick, Thentian unlocked his door and stepped into the cool night air.
The stars were out, along with the two moons, and Kvatch was well lit with silvery light. Here and there, lamp-poles cast pools of golden light on the cobbles, sending shadows extending around them. Thentian clacked his way along the streets, towards the chapel that had once been destroyed in the attack on the city half a century ago. The clock mounted on top of the spire, one of the first of them to be made in Tamriel, chimed and Thentian glanced up to see that it was pointing to midnight.
He went around the back of the church, to the graveyard. The neat rows of headstones glistened in the moonlight, and slowly he went along their length, looking for the name. This cemetery was devoted to those who had died, but never had their bodies recovered.
He knew where her body was. Down in the darkness, beneath the plateau. In the home of his old adversary. Once his hatred for it had raged with an inferno that was powerful enough to consume everything. But now it had dampened and smoldered, a furnace fueling him as an engine of vengeance, but as hot as the day it first sprang into life.
He found the name carved into the white headstone and for a while, it could have been a minute, it could have been an hour, Thentian stood, staring at the gravestone and contemplating. It was waking, that much he knew.
It would wake to find Thentian Honorius. It would wake to find retribution.
#
Monster. That was what they called him. Monster, Killer, The Mangler, Champion. All those names were given to Angrad Kor-Juckyet, the champion of Kvatch Arena. A six foot tall, musclebound chunk of raw aggression, given a sword, shield and armour and permission to kill anything that had the misfortune to share space with him in the arena.
“People of Kvatch!” the commentator announced. “Welcome to today's match.”
The crowd, eager for blood, responded with a roar of joy.
“Today, we have a very special fight,” the commentator continued. “The Grand Champion, Angrad Kor-Juckyet, against a challenger, the Bloodied Mace!”
The crowd gave a cheer for both competitors. The Bloodied Mace, as he was known, waved from his enclosure with his signature weapon, a steel mace died pure crimson. Angrad gave a roar in return, brandishing his sword, one the size of a claymore.
“Should the Mace win this battle, he shall be given the honour of becoming the new Grand Champion!” the announcer said. “But there can be only one way to find out who shall live to gain honour and glory, and who shall die. Let battle...COMMENCE!”
The iron gates dropped and the two gladiators charged onto the dirt of the arena, their weapons raised and ready to draw blood. They met in the grille in the centre, their shields slamming together. The Mace stumbled back under Angrad's weight, managing to keep his footing on the iron lattice, and stepped back nimbly before Angrad could swing his weapon. The Mace threw a blow with his signature weapon but it clanged off the razor edge of Angrad's sword.
The orc gave a roar and swiped at the dark elf again, forcing the man to dive back. But the gladiator had expected this, and using the momentum of the swing he barreled forwards, straight into his opponent. The Mace was slammed onto the iron grille, dropping his weapon, and Angrad, still snarling in bloodthirsty triumph, slammed his boot into the hapless elf's chest, knocking the wind out of him.
“The shield!” the crowd bayed. “The shield!!”
Angrad grinned, baring his yellowing, jagged tusks, and slammed the edge of his shield down on the elf's neck. The shield's rim, sharpened to give him an extra edge in battle, sheared through the spine and neck and sent the elf's head rolling. Blood poured from the wound and down into the darkness beneath the grille.
The crimson stream trickled down through the dank air and dripped onto the floor of stone far below. Swiftly, a puddle was formed, and once it was filled with the slowing supply of blood, its source beginning to dry, it overflowed, a tiny trickle of crimson rolling down a gentle slope.
A hoarse and dry growl echoed in the darkness, so quiet it was hard to hear, but one that could freeze any who heard it in terror.
On swollen and scraped knuckles it dragged itself forwards, fingers, clawed like the talons of some kind of obscene vulture, curled into bunched fists as it pulled itself towards the tiny trickle. It hauled itself onwards, exhausted from its long, tiring journey through the caverns and desperately hungry.
A long, purplish tongue, dry as sandpaper, extended between cracked lips and licked at the trail of blood, drawing the sustenance it desperately needed from the liquid. It rested, panting and rasping after its meal, the hunger still gnawing at its belly.
After a while, it stopped resting and reached forwards, pulling itself up the slope, atrophied legs kicking weakly as it tried to climb. It was draining, and any strength it had gained from it meager meal was gone by the time it had reached the top. But it had found its goal. There was food. It didn't care of the weak, but still painful sunlight filtering down into the darkness, so desperate it was for food. It just needed to feed.
It didn't lap at the blood like it had done before, but simply plunged its face into the puddle, gulping at the salty, life giving liquid. It was by no means the finest it had tasted, mixed with dirt, laced with alcohol and heavily congealed, but in its desperation it didn't care. It gorged itself, drinking as much of the liquid that remained and chewing on that which had solidified.
After it had eaten, its strength returned. It pulled itself to its feet, glanced furtively around the cave with red, bloodshot eyes, and loped away into the dark, the scar on its leg still throbbing with pain.
#
Thentian slept, this time in his bed. In his dreams, the fires raged, staining the sky crimson. In his dreams, the daedra once again tore through the city, levelling anything in their way.
“What do we do?” Fahnus asked. “What do we do?”
They were hiding in a cellar. The trapdoor above was closed and bolted shut, but even through the thick oak you could feel the heat radiation from the other side.
“I don't know,” the young legionnaire replied. He leant against the cool stone wall of the cellar, resting his cheek against it, letting the stone cool the burning warmth.
“We can't stay here,” Klarrin said. “They'll find us sooner or later if we do. We'll be caught and butchered.”
“And its a better idea to head up into the streets, is it?” Fahnus asked. “Up where the daedra are? We won't get five paces before we're cut down!”
“There's got to somewhere we can go,” Silas said. The Imperial was close to panicking, that much was obvious, pacing the length of the cellar and pulling randomly at his hair. “I'm not going to be stuck down here like a rat. I won't!”
“Maira?” the legionnaire asked quietly, holding his wife close. “What do we do?”
“I think we need to go outside, Thentian,” she said. “We need to find a way out.”
“We need to leave,” Thentian announced. “Silas and Klarrin are right. We're too easy to find here.”
“But how in the Nine's name are we going to get to the gates?” Fahnus asked. “We'll be spotted. There's got to be some other way out.”
“Hang on,” Klarrin said suddenly. “There are tunnels we can use.”
“Tunnels?” Thentian asked, getting up from his place on the wall. “Where?”
“Underneath the Arena, that's what I heard,” Klarrin said. “They're pretty much unexplored, but we might be able to find a way out.”
“Good, good, good,” Silas said hurriedly. “Let's just get out of this damn cellar.”
Thentian cautiously approached the trapdoor, grabbed the bolt and stepped back before opening it it. There was a crash a burst of heat, and a log, one end smouldering and red, tumbled down, but nothing else. Cautiously, Thentian poked his head out of the top of the trapdoor, and surveyed his surroundings. The house built above the cellar had become all but a ruin, a pile of rubble with only half a wall still standing. Thentian glanced around the street, but it was empty, with no sign of any daedra present.
“It's clear,” he hissed down to the others. “Come, quickly.”
Like mice who knew they were being hunted, the survivors hurried out of their refuge, glancing furtively around in order to spot any daedra that could, for all they knew, still be roaming the streets.
Carefully they made their way towards the arena, climbing through the ruins of buildings and hiding behind piles of rubble whenever a daedra appeared. Once, they watched with horror after what looked like a walking battering ram tore through the gates of Kvatch castle. But after almost an hour of traveling and nerve shredding terror, they made it, rounding the corner to see the dirty sandstone of the arena. Or at least what was left of it.
“What?” Klarrin said impotently as he saw the pile of rubble. “The arena. It's gone. It's gone!”
“There's got to be a way down somehow,” Thentian said.
“Where though?” Silas asked. “There's no way we can get to the lower levels.”
“I told you we should have stayed,” Fahnus said. “Now what do we do?”
“What about that grille there?” Maira asked. The iron grille, where not so long ago gladiators had fought and killed each other. It was now bent and twisted under the heat, and a hole had been punched through it. “We can head through there.”
“I suppose it's worth a try,” Silas said.
“I'll go first,” Thentian said. “If there's anything down there I'll deal with.”
He sounded a good deal braver than he felt, but it was enough to calm the others. Drawing his sword, Thentian advanced cautiously, stepping carefully over the grille towards the hole. Gingerly, gripping one of the iron bars, Thentian lowered himself down. His legs found nothing to held on, but it was hard to maintain his grip in full armour. With a cry, he lost his grip and fell down into the darkness.
Onto something soft and white. He coughed as he involuntarily inhaled it, before sneezing violently. It was ash.
“It's alright,” he called up. “It's not a long fall.”
One by one, the group dropped down into the pile of ash, throwing up a pale cloud of fine motes. Silas threw up a small orb of magical light to illuminated the darkness of the pit, his Breton blood giving him a natural affinity with the arcane. It showed a single tunnel leading off into the blackness of a cave.
“Let's go,” Klarrin said. “There's bound to be a way out somewhere.”
Huddled together, the group went as one into the darkness.
Thentian woke with a start, gasping in fear. For a moment, he lay there, before sitting up and turning over the side of the bed. He sat there for a few minutes in the shadowy confines of his bedroom, weak dawn sunlight filtering through the window, and thinking.
It was fully awake now. He knew it. Sometimes, when it stirred, the dreams came and stirred up the mire of his sleeping mind, the memories returning as dreams to taunt him. But he had never had one so detailed, one so vivid and real.
It was awake.
And now the killing would begin.
#
After his flashback, Thentian rose fully and got dressed and had some breakfast. Then, taking his sword and strapping it to his belt, he left his house and headed into the town. It was time to get some supplies for a final patrol.
He felt on edge as he headed up the main street, expecting to hear a scream of terror at any moment. But as he reached the marketplace, there was nothing. The town was still its usual self, no screams of terror cutting the air as people discovered any victims of murder.
He found a stall laden with potions and recognised Harane Tahnis, Kvatch's alchemist, standing behind it.
“Morning Thentian,” she said cheerfully. “What can I do for you today then?”
This was going to be an unusual order, but it was one that had to be made.
“I need healing potions, and endurance ones,” he said. “As many as I can get with this.”
He took a bag of gold from his belt and placed it on the tall. Hopefully that would keep any questions at bay.
Harane blinked for a moment, before taking a handful of potions, a few red and some leaf green, and announcing; “Those are the finest healing and restoration potions in all of Tamriel. You won't find anything better, believe me.”
“Thank you,” Thentian said. He placed the potions carefully in a bag, taking care that the glass phials did not crack against each other.
He left the stall, heading off to the Dazzling Burst in order to get some scrolls. He made it half way across the square before the scream came.
It was high pitched cry of terror, one that was suddenly and swiftly cut off. Thentian span to see where it was and found it in one of the houses that lined the square. Drawing his sword in one swift moment, Thentian displayed none of the shock that the square's other inhabitants were paralysed with and charged straight into the door, sending it flapping wildly.
He saw the bloodstain by a trapdoor, one leading down to the cellar, and knew what happened. If he was quick, he could perhaps finish it somehow, end it before it truly began.
He ignored the shell shocked high elf woman staring at the door and wrenched it open, age forgotten as adrenaline coursed through his veins. He hurried down the steps, grabbing a torch from the bracket on the side, and into the darkness of the cellar, sword ready for a fight.
It was empty.
Thentian glanced around him, in the dancing shadows, but there was nothing, just a gaping hole punched through one of the brick walls. Behind him a woman ran down, presumably the victim's wife.
“What is it?” she asked, wild eyed with panic. “What happened?”
“I'm not sure,” Thentian lied. He stepped forward cautiously towards the hole, torch in one hand and sword in the other. He poked his torch forwards within the gap, the light illuminating the stone walls of a cave. “Where do these tunnels lead?”
“I...I don't think they lead anywhere,” the woman said. “When my father built the cellar he looked around them a bit, but he said both ends were blocked by a rockfall.”
Thentian retreated from the cave after giving them another glance.
“I'm not sure they are now,” he said. He inspected the rim of the hole in the wall, and saw five long, jagged and bloodied lines in the brick. Whoever the victim had been, he had been so desperate to escape that he had dug his fingernails into solid limestone. “What's your name?”
“Selvia,” she said, breathing deeply in an effort to calm her nerves. “Selvia Aerius. I think that was my husband, Corenius.”
“Right, Selvia, can you tell me what you heard?” Thentian asked. He could see she was going to lapse into shock soon, and he needed to know what happened.
“I was in the kitchen,” she said. “I was getting lunch prepared, and then I heard a scream and a thud and I thought it could have been Corenius and so I rushed out and then I saw you come in and into the cellar. What happened to him? What happened to him?”
She grabbed the elderly man by his shoulders, pleading desperation in her eyes. Slowly and gently, Thentian took her by the wrists and lowered them.
“Listen to me, Selvia,” he said. “Corenius will be dead by now. Right now it's not safe in the house, not with that hole in the wall. Do you have anybody you can stay with in town?”
“There...there's my sister,” Selvia said. “She should let me stay with her. But what about the hole? What's in there?”
“I'll deal with that,” Thentian said gently. “You get over there now while I try and sort things out.”
Thentian gently led her up the steps and out of the cellar, almost in time to run into a fully armoured watchman.
“What happened here?” the man asked, before recognising Thentian. “Thentian? What are you doing here? You're retired.”
“I was just going by when I heard Selvia scream,” Thentian said. “Her husband just disappeared, down a whole in the cellar wall.”
“Where does that go, sir?” the guard asked.
“Hang on, you're Nartus, aren't you?” Thentian asked. “I've seen you around the castle a few times.”
Thrown off by this sudden change in conversation, Nartus nodded.
“Yeah, sir,” he said.
“Right, Nartus, there are caves behind that wall,” Thentian said. “I want you to guard them and make sure nobody gets inside. Get some men and cover it up.”
“What's behind that?” Nartus asked.
“Something bad,” Thentian said. “Something really bad.”