Iranon was raised as a warrior of Argonia. From childhood to his twenty-seventh year of life he was trained in the art of spear combat, and the ways to move to be most comfortable and versatile while wearing thick leather armors. He lives in the most hostile area of the swamp for a decade, learning how to defend himself from both natural and unnatural threats. He was later conditioned in the use of swords and quickly learned to wield them with great efficiency and skill. He loved the sword and taught himself to mold various metals into its' shape and form. He never forgave Garonar for his prohibition of his use of the Blade of Cinders, as it was his masterpiece, and he felt the only one worthy to use it was him. For hundreds of years his grudge was held with as much anger as ever, and due to the recent coming of Gaenor and the awakening of his inner fire, Iranon followed the plan he'd made as his last resort long ago.
He removed from the inside of his cloak a long wooden pike marked with Daedric symbols and planted it into the dirt. He vanished in an instant and appeared in Garonar's shrine in Morrowind, a continent away. "Master," he said between his gritting teeth, "I've returned for you." The familiar, hideous skull of flame took its place before the black idol, but this time Iranon averted not his eyes. He stared into the empty sockets of his lord's essence with seething contempt and put his past fears to rest through thoughts of revenge. "Returned for me, Iranon," the booming voice inquired. "What means this? Why are you not setting forth my plans in Valenwood?" The Argonian trembled with fury and could contain himself no longer, after such long suppression. "SILENCE," he shrieked, then continued quietly, "for I haveth different plans with which to set forth. These years you've waved me about as would a toddler with his first training sword.. the time has come for you to play the role of the sword. Come, I shall take you, and from you smelt a new Garonar, one who I shall control!" He grabbed the statuette, forcively dissipating the skull image and left a cackling echo in the catacombs there in the Ascadian Isles before disappearing suddenly, bound for Valenwood and his vengeance.
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"I'll bet you fight like a sick monkey, elf!" Ri'Zev taunted from across the circle of stones they stood within. Almost the entire camp watched on from all around, as well as Naztheril from his short window at the jail. Gaenor had never been in an official duel with anyone but was familiar with traditional Imperial code of conduct when in one, which these Khajiit seemed to have adopted. Normally, each opponent chose a weapon blindfolded and began fighting at the count of five. Ri'Zev had already chose his weapon, the Blade, while the Bosmer was promptly given a cracked iron mace one of the onlookers tripped over while on his way to the ring. He also had never fought an inhabitant of Elswyr before, and had little to go on as to what to expect from his arrogant foe.
"Orz," shouted one from the audience and Ri'Zev tightened his grip on the hilt of his new sword. The elf looked toward the supposed counter, then back at his enemy. "Jur, Jenv, Kj'an," he continued, and Gaenor began moving slowly in place, anticipating the commencement of the fight at the last number. "FRAK, FIGHT FIGHT!!" The crowd burst into cheer with eyes of bloodlust, and Ri'Zev growled fiercely. His knees bent down and allowed for a quick, silent spring into the air, and his body's silhouette became engulfed by the bright desert sun as the Bosmer watched from below. The Khajiit threw his arms upward over his head with the Blade in hand and let out a screeching, phlegmy roar before cleaving downward upon his decent.
Gaenor was greatly and foolishly underestimated. The Blade and his Amulet were but two objects from which his inner power was channeled, and in anyone else's hands, his sword was just that; a sword that happened to catch the eye and fancy of a half-minded nomad who sorely lacked any sense of depth-perception due to his missing eye. The elf turned full his body and skipped off his feet, spinning thrice and crashing the mace down onto the back of Ri'Zev's skull, shattering it and the handle of the weapon into shards that would spell his victory. He tore the Blade from his opponent's claws and slid it into his belt, looking around at the crowd who immediately quieted themselves once they realized what had happened.
"Move."
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Full Version: Gaenor: Reloaded
The shocked Khajiit shuffled backwards and made way for the victorious Gaenor, who ripped his Amulet off the neck of his defeated foe and stormed toward the prison to release Naztheril. "Stand back," he said through the window, and sliced open the dried clay wall with his fiery Blade, exploding it apart and sending chunks flying past him on either side. The nomads, still awe-struck and frozen, simply watched the elf and his companion as they promptly left the camp to the west, headed to Valenwood and their confrontation with the Argonian necromancer.
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As for Iranon, he had already began construction of his new forge atop the broad stump of the Sun Tree. With fire of his own he melted down the iron armors and weapons of the fallen Bosmeri royal guards and built up from them a large, square anvil, and with the carved branches of the charred trunks around him he crafted a trough for cooling water, bellows, and a bucket. He never ceased his work for rest, never stopped to breath; his motivation for destruction pushed him on down the slope of his mind into a mad fervor of intense forging. Every so often he would glance back at the demonic idol he'd laid down away from his worksite, feeling a hotness of insecurity wash over him as he knew what he had done would never be forgiven if his plan did not work as intended.
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The two travelers made the border by nightfall and, despite their anxiousness to end their quest, they forced themselves down until morning. They had found a large boar grazing at the bank of the river just before the tall cliff leading down into Valenwood, and ate well. The issue of Garonar came up between them and they wondered at his capabilities. Neither had even seen Iranon yet, and knew not of his master's current condition inside the statuette.
"They were able to annihilate all of Valenwood within a day, and even to slay the Sun Tree. Clearly he's regained most of his power since his banishing by your hand those years ago," said Naztheril in thought. Gaenor said nothing but acknowledged him as he stared into the campfire. "This will be the end, you know," he continued. "We face those who've conspired against us these weeks. We face the master of Olkair Henar, the servants of darkness, the slaughterers of all Valenwood and the most evil creatures of any nightmare. My Lady Azura knows of the Elder Scrolls, Gaenor.. she has read them thoroughly, and knows your fate. She has told me of it." The elf looked up in question, the fire reflecting in his open eyes. "You've likely expected me to transform and smite our enemies with ease.. I am afraid I must disappoint you." Gaenor stood quickly and held his right hand in a fist, "Do not assume anything, Beast. My intentions remain the same - I will claim the lives of Iranon, then Garonar, in that order, and the battle will last no longer than fifteen seconds at most. You do not disappoint me as I've prepared myself for the nonsensical foretelling scripture of the Elder Scrolls and whatever plan it has for us. Do what you must, for you can do no more than what the Elder Scrolls have for you." Naztheril now looked to the fire and closed his eyes. "The Scrolls do not show you as the hero of this tale, Gaenor. There is another, an Altmer who will come in thirteen years to lift Iranon's curse from the land. He will--" but the Bosmer interrupted with a burst of flame from beneath his soles that shot upwards around him and disappeared instantly. Naztheril jumped back and stood now, bracing himself on a short tree nearby. "The Scrolls have no holding on my future," he exclaimed, "I make my own choices, no parchment has my life written down before I live it! Tell me," he raised his voice, "if you chose to aid me now, what would the Elder Scrolls have to say?!"
Gaenor's emotions were taking him. The gruesome murder of his sister, his changing at the battle with Jkoryl, the confrontation with the Nerevarine and Almalexia, the destruction of Valenwood, Terenius' murder.. it was far too much for him to deal with inside. The Blade and Amulet allowed for this wild feeling of vengeful rage to be let out in a controlled stream of energy, but not even the Elder Scrolls foretold such raw power that resided within this elf. He had lost too much to bear, and it was being purged in abnormal ways; the fire came from beneath him this time, not from his sword. He was becoming unstable, a bomb waiting for what was left of its fuse to be lit.
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=====
As for Iranon, he had already began construction of his new forge atop the broad stump of the Sun Tree. With fire of his own he melted down the iron armors and weapons of the fallen Bosmeri royal guards and built up from them a large, square anvil, and with the carved branches of the charred trunks around him he crafted a trough for cooling water, bellows, and a bucket. He never ceased his work for rest, never stopped to breath; his motivation for destruction pushed him on down the slope of his mind into a mad fervor of intense forging. Every so often he would glance back at the demonic idol he'd laid down away from his worksite, feeling a hotness of insecurity wash over him as he knew what he had done would never be forgiven if his plan did not work as intended.
=====
The two travelers made the border by nightfall and, despite their anxiousness to end their quest, they forced themselves down until morning. They had found a large boar grazing at the bank of the river just before the tall cliff leading down into Valenwood, and ate well. The issue of Garonar came up between them and they wondered at his capabilities. Neither had even seen Iranon yet, and knew not of his master's current condition inside the statuette.
"They were able to annihilate all of Valenwood within a day, and even to slay the Sun Tree. Clearly he's regained most of his power since his banishing by your hand those years ago," said Naztheril in thought. Gaenor said nothing but acknowledged him as he stared into the campfire. "This will be the end, you know," he continued. "We face those who've conspired against us these weeks. We face the master of Olkair Henar, the servants of darkness, the slaughterers of all Valenwood and the most evil creatures of any nightmare. My Lady Azura knows of the Elder Scrolls, Gaenor.. she has read them thoroughly, and knows your fate. She has told me of it." The elf looked up in question, the fire reflecting in his open eyes. "You've likely expected me to transform and smite our enemies with ease.. I am afraid I must disappoint you." Gaenor stood quickly and held his right hand in a fist, "Do not assume anything, Beast. My intentions remain the same - I will claim the lives of Iranon, then Garonar, in that order, and the battle will last no longer than fifteen seconds at most. You do not disappoint me as I've prepared myself for the nonsensical foretelling scripture of the Elder Scrolls and whatever plan it has for us. Do what you must, for you can do no more than what the Elder Scrolls have for you." Naztheril now looked to the fire and closed his eyes. "The Scrolls do not show you as the hero of this tale, Gaenor. There is another, an Altmer who will come in thirteen years to lift Iranon's curse from the land. He will--" but the Bosmer interrupted with a burst of flame from beneath his soles that shot upwards around him and disappeared instantly. Naztheril jumped back and stood now, bracing himself on a short tree nearby. "The Scrolls have no holding on my future," he exclaimed, "I make my own choices, no parchment has my life written down before I live it! Tell me," he raised his voice, "if you chose to aid me now, what would the Elder Scrolls have to say?!"
Gaenor's emotions were taking him. The gruesome murder of his sister, his changing at the battle with Jkoryl, the confrontation with the Nerevarine and Almalexia, the destruction of Valenwood, Terenius' murder.. it was far too much for him to deal with inside. The Blade and Amulet allowed for this wild feeling of vengeful rage to be let out in a controlled stream of energy, but not even the Elder Scrolls foretold such raw power that resided within this elf. He had lost too much to bear, and it was being purged in abnormal ways; the fire came from beneath him this time, not from his sword. He was becoming unstable, a bomb waiting for what was left of its fuse to be lit.
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It was in Naztheril's god-given nature to follow the prewritten instructions of the Elder Scrolls. He had always heeded the word and will of Azura, and hers were those of the Scrolls themselves. His entire existence had been coordinated by them, as were all things, and never before Gaenor had he thought of refusing their writings. 'I wonder,' he thought during the silence that followed his companion's question, 'what would happen if I chose my own path for once? What if my rejecting their commands is also written within them? I feel I want to aid him further, but the Scrolls show me returning to the Night Sky and merely spectating the outcome.' "I.. want to come with you," he said aloud, and the elf turned from his sleep. "I am curious to see precisely what the Scrolls have to say when I deny myself of their guidelines." Gaenor smiled.
=====
It was dawn of the sixteenth day of Rain's Hand and Iranon had completed his great forge. "My master awaits.. his destiny lies on the anvil, under my hammer, and in the shape and form of a new Blade, one to smite Gaenor and return what is mine to my hand." He bent low to the ground and took the idol, almost bowing to his former lord, and with a forceful grunt released it behind him, sending it into the heated smelting pot. He watched as it tumbled in, never to be restored, and felt a sharp, stinging pain in his chest, causing him to topple over onto his back. He opened his eyes quickly and growled between his teeth with anger as he slowly stood once more. "Your power shalst not take me again, demon!" he proclaimed, and promptly began work on his new weapon.
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The two travelers made their way together down the steep cliffs leading down into Valenwood, more and more bright green grass appearing the further they went. It reminded Gaenor of Cyrodiil, and he could no longer remember the feeling of grass. Upon reaching the bottom, the all color vanished, and the grass disappeared, leaving black powder and charred earth in its' stead. They looked at each other, as that what seemed appropriate to do at the time, and ventured forth into their ruined homeland. It was not more than thirty paces until they discovered the skeletons.
There were four on patrol at the border, each wielding a large halberd much oversized for the otherwise small undead minions, although they seemed to carry them with ease. They marched about in what would be a comical fashion if the elf and Beast didn't realize they would need to fight them before continuing, and battle with the non-living greatly differs from that with live foes. They were somewhat like Gaenor, in fact; they felt no pain, their strength was unnatural, and their movements were unpredictable. They didn't seem to notice the travelers, or at least they showed no signs of alert, even when the crusted sockets of where their eyes once were pointed in their direction. "Are you able to shift to your other form?" Gaenor whispered, and Naztheril shook his head. "Now is not the time to discuss this, but I promise to explain when we find a.. less crowded area." The Bosmer unsheathed his Blade and its flames exploded upon it at once. The sentries stopped and turned their rotted skulls in his direction, and readied their arms.
Each had pieces of chain armor draped over their bones in different spots, and torn flesh still hung from their ribs and limbs. Dirt and blood stained their dull paleness, still being fed upon by the worms and maggots inhabiting the short pockets of skin that remained. They drew closer and formed a crescent, about to surround the elf as Naztheril stood back, cursing Garonar and Iranon for what they've done. The destruction of Valenwood itself prevented him from morphing into his true self, and he was left to watch his friend fight for his life against the animate dead.
The Amulet shone brightly but the skeletal soldiers continued unhindered. One increased its speed and raised its halberd high into the air, preparing a chopping strike, but instead it met with the fiery Blade, and Gaenor behind it. "Not this day, brother," he snarled, and spun his sword through the creature's face. It collapsed immediately, forcing a surprised chuckle from Naztheril, and the remaining three burst into a charge. The vermin hidden in their bodies were strewn to the left and right, and elf prepared himself. His sharp eyes diverted themselves by instinct a moment before impact towards the one he'd just felled, and let out a furious battlecry as he threw himself into the oncoming three.
The fallen one's displaced bones rattled, and it pieced itself whole once more.
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=====
It was dawn of the sixteenth day of Rain's Hand and Iranon had completed his great forge. "My master awaits.. his destiny lies on the anvil, under my hammer, and in the shape and form of a new Blade, one to smite Gaenor and return what is mine to my hand." He bent low to the ground and took the idol, almost bowing to his former lord, and with a forceful grunt released it behind him, sending it into the heated smelting pot. He watched as it tumbled in, never to be restored, and felt a sharp, stinging pain in his chest, causing him to topple over onto his back. He opened his eyes quickly and growled between his teeth with anger as he slowly stood once more. "Your power shalst not take me again, demon!" he proclaimed, and promptly began work on his new weapon.
=====
The two travelers made their way together down the steep cliffs leading down into Valenwood, more and more bright green grass appearing the further they went. It reminded Gaenor of Cyrodiil, and he could no longer remember the feeling of grass. Upon reaching the bottom, the all color vanished, and the grass disappeared, leaving black powder and charred earth in its' stead. They looked at each other, as that what seemed appropriate to do at the time, and ventured forth into their ruined homeland. It was not more than thirty paces until they discovered the skeletons.
There were four on patrol at the border, each wielding a large halberd much oversized for the otherwise small undead minions, although they seemed to carry them with ease. They marched about in what would be a comical fashion if the elf and Beast didn't realize they would need to fight them before continuing, and battle with the non-living greatly differs from that with live foes. They were somewhat like Gaenor, in fact; they felt no pain, their strength was unnatural, and their movements were unpredictable. They didn't seem to notice the travelers, or at least they showed no signs of alert, even when the crusted sockets of where their eyes once were pointed in their direction. "Are you able to shift to your other form?" Gaenor whispered, and Naztheril shook his head. "Now is not the time to discuss this, but I promise to explain when we find a.. less crowded area." The Bosmer unsheathed his Blade and its flames exploded upon it at once. The sentries stopped and turned their rotted skulls in his direction, and readied their arms.
Each had pieces of chain armor draped over their bones in different spots, and torn flesh still hung from their ribs and limbs. Dirt and blood stained their dull paleness, still being fed upon by the worms and maggots inhabiting the short pockets of skin that remained. They drew closer and formed a crescent, about to surround the elf as Naztheril stood back, cursing Garonar and Iranon for what they've done. The destruction of Valenwood itself prevented him from morphing into his true self, and he was left to watch his friend fight for his life against the animate dead.
The Amulet shone brightly but the skeletal soldiers continued unhindered. One increased its speed and raised its halberd high into the air, preparing a chopping strike, but instead it met with the fiery Blade, and Gaenor behind it. "Not this day, brother," he snarled, and spun his sword through the creature's face. It collapsed immediately, forcing a surprised chuckle from Naztheril, and the remaining three burst into a charge. The vermin hidden in their bodies were strewn to the left and right, and elf prepared himself. His sharp eyes diverted themselves by instinct a moment before impact towards the one he'd just felled, and let out a furious battlecry as he threw himself into the oncoming three.
The fallen one's displaced bones rattled, and it pieced itself whole once more.
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Sometimes, shorter entries are appropriate 
'Why would Iranon send but 4 skeletons to guard this border?' thought Naztheril as he watched his companion battle the sentries. They all seemed to make the same movements and all at once, making his blocks and parries somewhat easier to perform. Despite having one arm, his fighting skills were masterful, and the strength it left behind at the destruction of Knight Henar was only added to the other. Indeed, he had already defeated one undead warrior, or so he briefly thought. Something grabbed his ankle.
The skeletal fingers pulled the creature up on the elf, bent down, and fought on with its brethren, halberd in hand. Naztheril gasped and edged further back in terror. True, he had lived for ages and experienced beings from other dimensions a thousand times more frightful than these unliving atrocities, but he was mortal as well, and knew his limits. Without the life force of Valenwood to power him, he was helpless as anyone before such danger. He prayed that none of them would notice his presence, and backed away even further, growling through his teeth at his uselessness to Gaenor. The Bosmer was now pitted against four of the mindless abominations and was quickly yet unknowingly tiring from the exertion necessary to drive their strength back from each blow. Moments later, however, Naztheril's fear turned to reality. One sentry stopped, and its cracked skull shifted in his direction.
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The Argonian toiled away at his forge, tirelessly molding and shaping his creation from Garonar's idol. With each pounding of the metal the purple-white souls once held by his past lord were let free and drifted upward to the night sky. They were being purged from centuries of imprisonment, and for each spirit loosed, Garonar's power waned. This did not phase the maddened Iranon, for he knew the power he truly desired for his new weapon resided in his former master's dark essence. He hammered on, frequently cooling the now sword-like mass of metal in his water trough, constantly muttering incoherent Daedric and shaking slightly out of insecurity and nervousness.
It had been hours, but for the necromancer it seemed an eternity. He had completed his weapon at last, and held it slowly toward the rising sun. It was black from hilt to point, solid and whole. Demon's wings spread from the center below the blade, out from the head of a snake, gaping its mouth wide, bearing its fangs. The double edge was keen and sharper than swords of Akaviri design, and was light as air. Truly, this was the finest offspring the forge of evil had ever birthed, and its maker found sanctuary in its presence. He became still, and the feel of such a thing took hold. He felt indestructable, like an entirely new being. It was utterly breathtaking to Iranon; the most perfect sword in existence in his hand.
"Past twilight hours in light of dawn your fate shines down upon Valenwood, elf. Your time on this plane hath come to an end."
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'Why would Iranon send but 4 skeletons to guard this border?' thought Naztheril as he watched his companion battle the sentries. They all seemed to make the same movements and all at once, making his blocks and parries somewhat easier to perform. Despite having one arm, his fighting skills were masterful, and the strength it left behind at the destruction of Knight Henar was only added to the other. Indeed, he had already defeated one undead warrior, or so he briefly thought. Something grabbed his ankle.
The skeletal fingers pulled the creature up on the elf, bent down, and fought on with its brethren, halberd in hand. Naztheril gasped and edged further back in terror. True, he had lived for ages and experienced beings from other dimensions a thousand times more frightful than these unliving atrocities, but he was mortal as well, and knew his limits. Without the life force of Valenwood to power him, he was helpless as anyone before such danger. He prayed that none of them would notice his presence, and backed away even further, growling through his teeth at his uselessness to Gaenor. The Bosmer was now pitted against four of the mindless abominations and was quickly yet unknowingly tiring from the exertion necessary to drive their strength back from each blow. Moments later, however, Naztheril's fear turned to reality. One sentry stopped, and its cracked skull shifted in his direction.
=====
The Argonian toiled away at his forge, tirelessly molding and shaping his creation from Garonar's idol. With each pounding of the metal the purple-white souls once held by his past lord were let free and drifted upward to the night sky. They were being purged from centuries of imprisonment, and for each spirit loosed, Garonar's power waned. This did not phase the maddened Iranon, for he knew the power he truly desired for his new weapon resided in his former master's dark essence. He hammered on, frequently cooling the now sword-like mass of metal in his water trough, constantly muttering incoherent Daedric and shaking slightly out of insecurity and nervousness.
It had been hours, but for the necromancer it seemed an eternity. He had completed his weapon at last, and held it slowly toward the rising sun. It was black from hilt to point, solid and whole. Demon's wings spread from the center below the blade, out from the head of a snake, gaping its mouth wide, bearing its fangs. The double edge was keen and sharper than swords of Akaviri design, and was light as air. Truly, this was the finest offspring the forge of evil had ever birthed, and its maker found sanctuary in its presence. He became still, and the feel of such a thing took hold. He felt indestructable, like an entirely new being. It was utterly breathtaking to Iranon; the most perfect sword in existence in his hand.
"Past twilight hours in light of dawn your fate shines down upon Valenwood, elf. Your time on this plane hath come to an end."
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Very nice and interesting as usual....really good work ShraX!
More fine work from ShraX! Still an epic story, with great scenes and wonderful characters.
The skeletal warrior burst straight through the battling elf and his kin toward the defenseless Naztheril, some yards away. It raised its halberd high and thrashed it about in the air as if it were nothing, and stamped its steel greaves, charging at him. The Beast knew Gaenor's skill was abnormally high in combat, but the sentry was too fast. Within seconds it was upon him, its putrid, scorched bones rattling in its armor, shaking violently while raising its arms to strike a downward cleave, severing his ancient life force from Azura and the mortal plane. The Bosmer's eyes grew red once more, and he shoved hard the three guards on him in hopes of saving his companion, but it was in vain. Gaenor's Blade was powerless to stop it, and it swung with full strength.
No, the elf's sword was unable to rescue Naztheril.. but another's was. As if by some miracle of unknown proportions, there he stood, clad in the royal plate of Cyrodiil, his tabard shimmering brightly and branding the undead's twisted memories with the Septim Dragon; it was the Prince, and his timing was much appreciated by the Beast, now toppled on the ground after losing balance from bracing for impact. "For the Empire!" he cried, and slid his edge off the skeleton's weapon as what seemed like an army of Imperial soldiers stormed into Valenwood, quickly dispatching their foes and securing the perimeter.
The travellers and the Prince greeted each other warmly and exchanged tales of their exploits since they last met. "Our abrupt parting bore fruit after all, my friend," explained the Prince, "for shortly after you left, my messengers from the southwest brought me news of Valenwood's sundering. I noticed your friend's badge depicting the Sun Tree, and only assumed his illness was due to this disaster. I called for anyone with a sword from throughout Cyrodiil in the name of the Empire, and so amassed this force to combat whatever evil dwells here. We are at your command, Gaenor." With that, he gave an enthusiastic bow to the two, and Naztheril smiled. The elf nodded in acknowledgement and pat the Prince on the shoulder, then sat off of weary legs.
"Iranon is our enemy," the Bosmer informed, "It seems he's taken unexpected precautions with his protection. Those undead fell to my Blade, but rose again moments after my killing blow had been inflicted. It was your Imperial steel that truly vanquished the fiends, from which a question arises; is Iranon himself immune to my Blade? My amulet had no effect either.. this troubles me." Naztheril gazed into deep thought as he did at such times, and the Prince gave an answer. "You realize Azura brought us together to bring light to this darkness. If our Imperial weapons were capable of smiting that which you could not, one could merely guess that simply any of my soldiers have the ability to defeat Iranon. So, take my sword, and we will defeat him with ease."
Gaenor knew it was more complicated than that. Although he was still unaware of Garonar's demise and transformation, he saw Iranon as a vicious and powerful threat, and doubted the Prince's men had what was necessary to best him. The other weight on his mind consisted of the Blade itself. It was his. He had become attached to it since first gripping its hilt long ago in the Ascadian Isles. He remembered Nels Llendo and his insane drive to but hold the Blade again outside Eredjan. 'Erek dian tor grodek.. that's what Nels said. Probably Daedric,' he thought.
Erek dian tor grodek. Freedom banish the wielder.
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No, the elf's sword was unable to rescue Naztheril.. but another's was. As if by some miracle of unknown proportions, there he stood, clad in the royal plate of Cyrodiil, his tabard shimmering brightly and branding the undead's twisted memories with the Septim Dragon; it was the Prince, and his timing was much appreciated by the Beast, now toppled on the ground after losing balance from bracing for impact. "For the Empire!" he cried, and slid his edge off the skeleton's weapon as what seemed like an army of Imperial soldiers stormed into Valenwood, quickly dispatching their foes and securing the perimeter.
The travellers and the Prince greeted each other warmly and exchanged tales of their exploits since they last met. "Our abrupt parting bore fruit after all, my friend," explained the Prince, "for shortly after you left, my messengers from the southwest brought me news of Valenwood's sundering. I noticed your friend's badge depicting the Sun Tree, and only assumed his illness was due to this disaster. I called for anyone with a sword from throughout Cyrodiil in the name of the Empire, and so amassed this force to combat whatever evil dwells here. We are at your command, Gaenor." With that, he gave an enthusiastic bow to the two, and Naztheril smiled. The elf nodded in acknowledgement and pat the Prince on the shoulder, then sat off of weary legs.
"Iranon is our enemy," the Bosmer informed, "It seems he's taken unexpected precautions with his protection. Those undead fell to my Blade, but rose again moments after my killing blow had been inflicted. It was your Imperial steel that truly vanquished the fiends, from which a question arises; is Iranon himself immune to my Blade? My amulet had no effect either.. this troubles me." Naztheril gazed into deep thought as he did at such times, and the Prince gave an answer. "You realize Azura brought us together to bring light to this darkness. If our Imperial weapons were capable of smiting that which you could not, one could merely guess that simply any of my soldiers have the ability to defeat Iranon. So, take my sword, and we will defeat him with ease."
Gaenor knew it was more complicated than that. Although he was still unaware of Garonar's demise and transformation, he saw Iranon as a vicious and powerful threat, and doubted the Prince's men had what was necessary to best him. The other weight on his mind consisted of the Blade itself. It was his. He had become attached to it since first gripping its hilt long ago in the Ascadian Isles. He remembered Nels Llendo and his insane drive to but hold the Blade again outside Eredjan. 'Erek dian tor grodek.. that's what Nels said. Probably Daedric,' he thought.
Erek dian tor grodek. Freedom banish the wielder.
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The Prince brought with him approximately 200 soldiers, mostly the men and women who saught revenge for Henar's near purging of Cyrodiil. Not all wore armor, but each were outfitted with a broadsword and tunic with the Septim family crest. The majority had fair combat training, as do the middle-class Imperials of the Empire, but some were farmers and peasants, unaccustomed to the ways of war. There were even a small few of different races that chose to take up arms against the darkness from Valenwood, including a Bosmer or two. Despite their differing lives, however, they stood ready to challenge Iranon and the threat he posed to all Tamriel.
A crude map of the nation was drawn in the rough dirt, and the two travellers and the Prince formulated a strategy.
"The Sun Tree has been felled," said Naztheril, "I felt its death in Goldstone Ridge. You see, since being sent to Valenwood those ages ago, I've grown a strong bond between my own spirit and that of this once-forested land. Iranon dwells on its severed trunk.. I know it."
"It will be difficult, but the only choice we have is to charge him. Tactics will do us nothing in combat with such a being, and Garonar could be with him," suggested Gaenor. "I will lead the charge with your men catching me up. I have experience with the warlock."
"Indeed. I can think of no better plan, and I trust your judgement. We march for the Tree's base in one hour. I will prepare our forces.
=====
The sword never left Iranon's grasp. He had been infused with such energy as to never tire from swinging it about, as it weighed nothing. He cleaved at burnt columns and trees, cackling wildly and sweating blood out of anxiousness. It seemed Garonar would not return, but the Argonian was deeply paranoid; he knew well what happened to his betrayers. He envisioned the hell he would experience if his essence was freed, and the unbearable transmogrifying of his soul into a twisted Daedra. He quickly glanced toward the eastern border and snarled. "Erek dian tor grodek! Erek bol hazik, ehk trun.. ehk trun.. ...Gaenor flur warkoz bitrim mubuz.. Master forgive me! Thine whim shalst be carried out, and my Blade shall welcome these hands as it did long ago!" He raised his arms and his sword grew darker than the charred earth on which he stood.
He paced back and forth quickly and returned to the great stump and his forge. The crafting tools and metal shavings on his work tables were then shoved off, leaving a ringing in his earholes. He shook violently yet his weapon remained still, and with a shattering screech he split his anvil in two and toppled to the floor.
"Hurry, elf.. I can feel the Blade's warmth more now," he muttered to himself. "You must be close. I've finished what you started, see?" He lifted the sword above his limp body and forcefully drove it into the stump below. "Now let us barter.. your sworn enemy for my Blade.. fair trade is it not?!" He laughed some more at empty space and rolled over, clenching his legs up to his chest. He was beyond desperation, and his yearning for the Blade of Cinders was stronger than ever. He would stop at no obstacle to hold it once more.
--------------------
A crude map of the nation was drawn in the rough dirt, and the two travellers and the Prince formulated a strategy.
"The Sun Tree has been felled," said Naztheril, "I felt its death in Goldstone Ridge. You see, since being sent to Valenwood those ages ago, I've grown a strong bond between my own spirit and that of this once-forested land. Iranon dwells on its severed trunk.. I know it."
"It will be difficult, but the only choice we have is to charge him. Tactics will do us nothing in combat with such a being, and Garonar could be with him," suggested Gaenor. "I will lead the charge with your men catching me up. I have experience with the warlock."
"Indeed. I can think of no better plan, and I trust your judgement. We march for the Tree's base in one hour. I will prepare our forces.
=====
The sword never left Iranon's grasp. He had been infused with such energy as to never tire from swinging it about, as it weighed nothing. He cleaved at burnt columns and trees, cackling wildly and sweating blood out of anxiousness. It seemed Garonar would not return, but the Argonian was deeply paranoid; he knew well what happened to his betrayers. He envisioned the hell he would experience if his essence was freed, and the unbearable transmogrifying of his soul into a twisted Daedra. He quickly glanced toward the eastern border and snarled. "Erek dian tor grodek! Erek bol hazik, ehk trun.. ehk trun.. ...Gaenor flur warkoz bitrim mubuz.. Master forgive me! Thine whim shalst be carried out, and my Blade shall welcome these hands as it did long ago!" He raised his arms and his sword grew darker than the charred earth on which he stood.
He paced back and forth quickly and returned to the great stump and his forge. The crafting tools and metal shavings on his work tables were then shoved off, leaving a ringing in his earholes. He shook violently yet his weapon remained still, and with a shattering screech he split his anvil in two and toppled to the floor.
"Hurry, elf.. I can feel the Blade's warmth more now," he muttered to himself. "You must be close. I've finished what you started, see?" He lifted the sword above his limp body and forcefully drove it into the stump below. "Now let us barter.. your sworn enemy for my Blade.. fair trade is it not?!" He laughed some more at empty space and rolled over, clenching his legs up to his chest. He was beyond desperation, and his yearning for the Blade of Cinders was stronger than ever. He would stop at no obstacle to hold it once more.
--------------------
Oh aye...impressive as always....itīs amazing how much personality there is in the lilībastarde..... 
Like Minque said. Quite impressive as always. Now that I am all caught up again I will be eager to read more!
I will be eager to read more!
He's totally nuts. 
Nice updates. I can't wait to see what happens next.
Nice updates. I can't wait to see what happens next.
I've been following this story for a long time, and I'm excited to see new updates. It sounds like we are rapidly approaching the "final battle;" if so, I'm quite excited, although I will be sad to see the story end. I will continue to look forward to new updates.
It was night and the week-long smoldering left the skies choked in black smog. The moons of Azura, Her Eyes, grew dry and cracked, and with shadows were closed, unable to bear the sight any longer. As was now well known to all Tamriel, Valenwood in its entirety had been sundered, and over the past days since its destruction, the sun had been washed of color, leaving a grey light which hung in mourning of its Tree. The rain was hot after falling through the searing wall of ash above and only added to the drudgery as Gaenor and the force at his command marched toward the center of his homeland. Soldier's voices could be heard between the hard slogging into the damp ruin.
"From out near Bruma I was picking seeds when I saw it; a great pillar of smoke, bigger than anything that far off that ever filled my vision. It was huge, and in a few minutes the sound arrived at my ears.. one 'boom', out of a nightmare."
"Some of the others were in the City at the time, they say. I was on duty in the palace, and I heard it too.. three windows that faced Valenwood's direction shattered, and the halls became uncomfortably warm. I'm lucky not to have been injured by the glass shards."
"This 'Iranon' is news to me, but everyone's heard about Garonar, the Lord of Fire. They say he can take your very soul and add it to his own twisted essence. How we're going to defeat him is beyond me.. but I'd give anything for the Empire."
They acted more as a curious audience to the scene rather than an army, but no one blamed them. Such measures of death could not be fit on any scale. They truly did not know how to act, and remained in awe for the two days it took them to reach the center of the country. It was difficult to sleep as they brought no bedrolls or supplies of any kind, save for what Naztheril carried from the nomad camp in Elswyr. They were hungry, and most of the food, which was enough for the two travellers as was the only amount they expected to need, was reserved for Gaenor. No one asked how he lost his left arm, but they had the sense to respect his unusually large appetite to make up for the energy and blood he was still replenishing.
The Bosmer directed himself to the Prince after having had his fill of listening to these peoples' discussions on their grave situation and surroundings.
"Tell me your name, Prince."
"Garen Septim, Son of Uriel Septim, Fourth Heir to the Cyrodiilic Empire and humble servant of Tamriel. My apologies for not introducing myself properly earlier.. it really never occurred to me. I suppose I expected Azura to have told you my name, but the Daedra Princes are a bit eccentric, no? Probably just ordered you to my hideaway and hurried you along.. I am no stranger to the communing with Gods, you know."
Garen was presumably on edge at being faced with such an ordeal in Gaenor's mind. 'Then again, he could likely just be your average, talkative royalty,' he thought. He lowered his voice and spoke again, "Your army is understandably negative about all this.. I have my doubts as well." The Prince managed a short chuckle and responded, "As would all who are so foolishly brave as we in such times. I know I hide my nervousness, but be assured that I will do whatever is necessary to put this threat to an end."
They stopped and the clattering of metal was hushed by a breath of wind, sharp as a spear and howling past the looming stump which marked the death of the Sun Tree. "There is not 'an' end to this...perversion of life, Prince," said the elf with seething contempt.
"This will be one end, singular and absolute. This end will be his."
--------------------
"From out near Bruma I was picking seeds when I saw it; a great pillar of smoke, bigger than anything that far off that ever filled my vision. It was huge, and in a few minutes the sound arrived at my ears.. one 'boom', out of a nightmare."
"Some of the others were in the City at the time, they say. I was on duty in the palace, and I heard it too.. three windows that faced Valenwood's direction shattered, and the halls became uncomfortably warm. I'm lucky not to have been injured by the glass shards."
"This 'Iranon' is news to me, but everyone's heard about Garonar, the Lord of Fire. They say he can take your very soul and add it to his own twisted essence. How we're going to defeat him is beyond me.. but I'd give anything for the Empire."
They acted more as a curious audience to the scene rather than an army, but no one blamed them. Such measures of death could not be fit on any scale. They truly did not know how to act, and remained in awe for the two days it took them to reach the center of the country. It was difficult to sleep as they brought no bedrolls or supplies of any kind, save for what Naztheril carried from the nomad camp in Elswyr. They were hungry, and most of the food, which was enough for the two travellers as was the only amount they expected to need, was reserved for Gaenor. No one asked how he lost his left arm, but they had the sense to respect his unusually large appetite to make up for the energy and blood he was still replenishing.
The Bosmer directed himself to the Prince after having had his fill of listening to these peoples' discussions on their grave situation and surroundings.
"Tell me your name, Prince."
"Garen Septim, Son of Uriel Septim, Fourth Heir to the Cyrodiilic Empire and humble servant of Tamriel. My apologies for not introducing myself properly earlier.. it really never occurred to me. I suppose I expected Azura to have told you my name, but the Daedra Princes are a bit eccentric, no? Probably just ordered you to my hideaway and hurried you along.. I am no stranger to the communing with Gods, you know."
Garen was presumably on edge at being faced with such an ordeal in Gaenor's mind. 'Then again, he could likely just be your average, talkative royalty,' he thought. He lowered his voice and spoke again, "Your army is understandably negative about all this.. I have my doubts as well." The Prince managed a short chuckle and responded, "As would all who are so foolishly brave as we in such times. I know I hide my nervousness, but be assured that I will do whatever is necessary to put this threat to an end."
They stopped and the clattering of metal was hushed by a breath of wind, sharp as a spear and howling past the looming stump which marked the death of the Sun Tree. "There is not 'an' end to this...perversion of life, Prince," said the elf with seething contempt.
"This will be one end, singular and absolute. This end will be his."
--------------------
Scaling the wide stump was more difficult for the iron-clad soldiers than it was for Gaenor, and even his companion displayed masterful climbing skill and found himself standing with the Bosmer, facing their wooden battleground. The air was especially thick, and the elf's command for the rest to catch him up was muffled. He and Naztheril continued westward for a short while before they noticed its silhouette in the clear horizon ahead; it was the forge, and the two halves of the anvil towered over the tables and trough around them. Gaenor unsheathed his Blade and turned to his friend. He had made a decision.
"It was the pain that changed me, Naztheril. My sister taken, Terenius slain, my home burned, our forests torched.. and all I have for it is this stump under my shoulder, these scars on my back, and my heart in shreds. I will never be as I was, and not even the destruction of my enemies will fix what has happened.. but it will prevent such things from occurring in the future. You can do nothing, but you are not useless. Being at my side during these hardships has helped me, although I cannot display my gratitude, and I thank you and call you brother."
The Beast nodded respectfully and didn't say a word, and gave him Valenwood's national salute, throwing his right fist to his chest and standing tall. They both realized Gaenor would not be guaranteed his life from then on, but only that the evil lurking in that place would be purged. The elf faced the forge and walked toward it steadily, unknowingly exhibiting the many scrapes and wounds on the backs of his legs and ankles from trudging through the wastes.
The remainder of the Prince's army had reached the top of the stump and marched onward to meet Naztheril shortly after the Bosmer left his sight. He turned to Garen and informed him of his companion. "He has chosen to face them alone without Imperial steel." The Prince was shocked, "But what of our strategy? We were to charge them with.. gah, why would he challenge them by himself?! Come, people of Cyrodiil," he called out behind him, "we must aid Gaenor in this battle!" He led the attack and advanced on the forge with great speed, his army following him up with swords in hand.
--------------------
"It was the pain that changed me, Naztheril. My sister taken, Terenius slain, my home burned, our forests torched.. and all I have for it is this stump under my shoulder, these scars on my back, and my heart in shreds. I will never be as I was, and not even the destruction of my enemies will fix what has happened.. but it will prevent such things from occurring in the future. You can do nothing, but you are not useless. Being at my side during these hardships has helped me, although I cannot display my gratitude, and I thank you and call you brother."
The Beast nodded respectfully and didn't say a word, and gave him Valenwood's national salute, throwing his right fist to his chest and standing tall. They both realized Gaenor would not be guaranteed his life from then on, but only that the evil lurking in that place would be purged. The elf faced the forge and walked toward it steadily, unknowingly exhibiting the many scrapes and wounds on the backs of his legs and ankles from trudging through the wastes.
The remainder of the Prince's army had reached the top of the stump and marched onward to meet Naztheril shortly after the Bosmer left his sight. He turned to Garen and informed him of his companion. "He has chosen to face them alone without Imperial steel." The Prince was shocked, "But what of our strategy? We were to charge them with.. gah, why would he challenge them by himself?! Come, people of Cyrodiil," he called out behind him, "we must aid Gaenor in this battle!" He led the attack and advanced on the forge with great speed, his army following him up with swords in hand.
--------------------
"And there it is.. I've not seen it in quite some time. How hath it treated thee, Gaenor? How hath ye it treated? I can see you two hath fused into one over time.. just as what happened to me. But you see, my Master bid me endow it unto Henar.. my Master here." He displayed his sword in both hands and closed his eyes with a smile. "Thou hath no villain in Garonar any longer, for he is mine now, see? I control him now." He stood atop the anvil, each leg on a half. "You see your combatant, elf. I am Tamriel's enemy. You burn for my death, and this is understandable.. and for reasons of my own, I wish to see you fall. Let us wasteth time no longer.. tonight we give this land, for better or worse.. its victor."
Iranon launched himself into the air and crashed his sword into the hard wood where Gaenor was standing and slashed it around him in defense before rising once more. He simply stood there under the sheets of rain beating down, his weapon dangling from a limp arm, taking no particular battle stance. The Bosmer acknowledged Garonar's transformation and didn't question it; he felt no reason to request explanations. Garonar was never to return, now it was certain. His essence crushed and mangled into the blade Iranon now wielded, he was banished from all existence. The elf held the Blade out before him, his opponent's eyes widening. There was a loud clattering of metal armor to the east, and they both turned their attention to the Prince's army.
He revealed a bronze horn from under his tabard and blew with all his strength, rallying his force. "This is nonsense," laughed Iranon, and flew at the Bosmer who quickly blocked, sending ashes spurting from where the two swords collided. The stump caught them, and from them the dry air sprouted a wildfire, disconnecting the two fighters from the soldiers and Naztheril. "Gaenor! Your Blade will be ineffective!" The Argonian let out a strained cackle which turned to a hacking cough, and replied in a yell after spitting out a small puddle of mucus. "The Blade may carve through anything, fools! Only those of whom the wielder's heart would disallow any harm may deflect its power!" Gaenor and Naztheril then remembered the skeletal sentries; they were former guards of Valenwood. The Blade of Cinders did not affect them because Gaenor would never seek to slay his own people. "You defeated Olkair with my Blade, however," he continued over the roaring flames, "but keep in mind he hath abandoned any trait of the living long ago." His open hand shot up to the black clouds and clenched a fist. "Undeath take you!"
The putrid arms of Iranon's undead minions broke out from the stump and climbed onto its sleek surface, and charged toward the mortal army on the other side of the wall of fire. Prince Garen threw away the warhorn and unsheathed his sword. "For the Empire!" he cried, and his people roared with mixed bloodlust and fear as the ghouls advanced ever more quickly towards them, and the battle began.
The elf and necromancer fought on, never tiring and void to all distractions. The fire's intense heat, the searing rain from the clouds of ash above, the small war being waged not thirty paces away from the forge near which they clashed blades; all put out of their vision. The only purpose their presence served anymore was the destruction of the other, and nothing more. Iranon's frail appearance was deceptive, but Gaenor kept his mind clear and expected nothing less than a sword fight with the devil who destroyed his home. Every slice of the Blade forced together the Argonian's jaws and he grit his teeth in jealousy and rage. Glowing sparks leapt from each strike, and the Amulet awoke in its familiar blue light. Gaenor heard something between the thunder above. Iranon's sword moved slower, and left false copies of itself as it waved about at him.
"From blackness I call, and speak from emptiness the name of my foe from years past - Gaenor, Bosmer of Valenwood." He shook his head furiously and cleaved at his opponent, and the sword spoke again in muffled echoes. "Incapable of destroying you, with my amulet I placed upon your neck my insurance.. but your spirit proved too great in power, and overwhelmed was I. Betrayal I tasted from the hand of this fool who now wields my broken essence. He knows not of our past. I am undone, and as non-existence takes me I bid you.. be not wary. Believe my hallowed words and feel his sword cleave your flesh, impenetrable to its edge. Smite down this false servant of darkness and have your revenge. Unguarded it lies before you.. take it!"
The elf's eyes began to ache. Soon his enemy became a blur, and his steps unbalanced. The Argonian grunted with a dread grin, and he swiped ever more fiercely at the Bosmer. Gaenor blinked repeatedly and quickly wiped his brow before holding out the Blade in blind defense. He squinted hard and upon renewing his sight, the wild flames from within him burst free, engulfing his entire being in the untamed blaze of his very soul. Red embers shot out in every direction and consumed Iranon's vision. The rising silhouette of Gaenor fixed his eyes, and he held up his sword in hopelessness. The fiery elf spoke in many voices, and they set frozen all action around him.
"MAY FIRE AND LIGHT TAKE YOU, SPAWN OF OBLIVION, AND STEAL PEACE FROM YOUR GHOST FOR ETERNITY!"
The Blade of Cinders cracked as it spun vertically at unreal speeds before him, and it exploded with a clap of flames, boring itself into Iranon's forehead where the Amulet's light shone. The red fires dispersed from the Bosmer, now singed of clothing, and both he and the Argonian's corpse toppled to the damp ground. The Blade was destroyed, and the sword made from Garonar's idol turned promptly into black dust, and was carried off into nothingness with the shrill wind. The necromancer defeated at last, his minions crumpled apart and fell, leaving the uproarious cheers of the soldiers and Garen Septim, and Naztheril. He stood in a bewildered stupor, and he sensed his friend's life leaving Tamriel unlike he would ever have expected: calm, pure, and free at last. Gaenor had sacrificed his physical self so he, and all the land, may wrest their shackles of darkness from their wrists and become new.
The Beast took longer than the army to return to Cyrodiil, and he cried until exhaustion forced him into sleep. Gaenor was dead, and he could imagine no ceremony to perform in which to honor such greatness. He lay alone in the waning downpour, clutching the Amulet, grateful beyond words or action to have ever known this elf whom he once called friend.
--------------------
Iranon launched himself into the air and crashed his sword into the hard wood where Gaenor was standing and slashed it around him in defense before rising once more. He simply stood there under the sheets of rain beating down, his weapon dangling from a limp arm, taking no particular battle stance. The Bosmer acknowledged Garonar's transformation and didn't question it; he felt no reason to request explanations. Garonar was never to return, now it was certain. His essence crushed and mangled into the blade Iranon now wielded, he was banished from all existence. The elf held the Blade out before him, his opponent's eyes widening. There was a loud clattering of metal armor to the east, and they both turned their attention to the Prince's army.
He revealed a bronze horn from under his tabard and blew with all his strength, rallying his force. "This is nonsense," laughed Iranon, and flew at the Bosmer who quickly blocked, sending ashes spurting from where the two swords collided. The stump caught them, and from them the dry air sprouted a wildfire, disconnecting the two fighters from the soldiers and Naztheril. "Gaenor! Your Blade will be ineffective!" The Argonian let out a strained cackle which turned to a hacking cough, and replied in a yell after spitting out a small puddle of mucus. "The Blade may carve through anything, fools! Only those of whom the wielder's heart would disallow any harm may deflect its power!" Gaenor and Naztheril then remembered the skeletal sentries; they were former guards of Valenwood. The Blade of Cinders did not affect them because Gaenor would never seek to slay his own people. "You defeated Olkair with my Blade, however," he continued over the roaring flames, "but keep in mind he hath abandoned any trait of the living long ago." His open hand shot up to the black clouds and clenched a fist. "Undeath take you!"
The putrid arms of Iranon's undead minions broke out from the stump and climbed onto its sleek surface, and charged toward the mortal army on the other side of the wall of fire. Prince Garen threw away the warhorn and unsheathed his sword. "For the Empire!" he cried, and his people roared with mixed bloodlust and fear as the ghouls advanced ever more quickly towards them, and the battle began.
The elf and necromancer fought on, never tiring and void to all distractions. The fire's intense heat, the searing rain from the clouds of ash above, the small war being waged not thirty paces away from the forge near which they clashed blades; all put out of their vision. The only purpose their presence served anymore was the destruction of the other, and nothing more. Iranon's frail appearance was deceptive, but Gaenor kept his mind clear and expected nothing less than a sword fight with the devil who destroyed his home. Every slice of the Blade forced together the Argonian's jaws and he grit his teeth in jealousy and rage. Glowing sparks leapt from each strike, and the Amulet awoke in its familiar blue light. Gaenor heard something between the thunder above. Iranon's sword moved slower, and left false copies of itself as it waved about at him.
"From blackness I call, and speak from emptiness the name of my foe from years past - Gaenor, Bosmer of Valenwood." He shook his head furiously and cleaved at his opponent, and the sword spoke again in muffled echoes. "Incapable of destroying you, with my amulet I placed upon your neck my insurance.. but your spirit proved too great in power, and overwhelmed was I. Betrayal I tasted from the hand of this fool who now wields my broken essence. He knows not of our past. I am undone, and as non-existence takes me I bid you.. be not wary. Believe my hallowed words and feel his sword cleave your flesh, impenetrable to its edge. Smite down this false servant of darkness and have your revenge. Unguarded it lies before you.. take it!"
The elf's eyes began to ache. Soon his enemy became a blur, and his steps unbalanced. The Argonian grunted with a dread grin, and he swiped ever more fiercely at the Bosmer. Gaenor blinked repeatedly and quickly wiped his brow before holding out the Blade in blind defense. He squinted hard and upon renewing his sight, the wild flames from within him burst free, engulfing his entire being in the untamed blaze of his very soul. Red embers shot out in every direction and consumed Iranon's vision. The rising silhouette of Gaenor fixed his eyes, and he held up his sword in hopelessness. The fiery elf spoke in many voices, and they set frozen all action around him.
"MAY FIRE AND LIGHT TAKE YOU, SPAWN OF OBLIVION, AND STEAL PEACE FROM YOUR GHOST FOR ETERNITY!"
The Blade of Cinders cracked as it spun vertically at unreal speeds before him, and it exploded with a clap of flames, boring itself into Iranon's forehead where the Amulet's light shone. The red fires dispersed from the Bosmer, now singed of clothing, and both he and the Argonian's corpse toppled to the damp ground. The Blade was destroyed, and the sword made from Garonar's idol turned promptly into black dust, and was carried off into nothingness with the shrill wind. The necromancer defeated at last, his minions crumpled apart and fell, leaving the uproarious cheers of the soldiers and Garen Septim, and Naztheril. He stood in a bewildered stupor, and he sensed his friend's life leaving Tamriel unlike he would ever have expected: calm, pure, and free at last. Gaenor had sacrificed his physical self so he, and all the land, may wrest their shackles of darkness from their wrists and become new.
The Beast took longer than the army to return to Cyrodiil, and he cried until exhaustion forced him into sleep. Gaenor was dead, and he could imagine no ceremony to perform in which to honor such greatness. He lay alone in the waning downpour, clutching the Amulet, grateful beyond words or action to have ever known this elf whom he once called friend.
--------------------
Iranon's corpse turned loose and broke apart with the rain, and by morning, naught but his cloak remained. Miraculously, the skies over Valenwood cleared overnight, and the sun's still-grey light warmed the land. Naztheril wrapped carefully the body of Gaenor, and with a heavy heart, carried it with him to an old, familiar site.
Although the trees stood lifeless and black around him, he recognized the village; it was Ebon Ro, and the flowervines adorning the trunk of Gaenor's home would be in full bloom. He spoke quietly and softly to the cradled elf in his arms, and prayed to His Lady Azura for his spirit's safe arrival to Her Kingdom. He laid him down on a cleared space of ash, turned, and left knowing his body would join the earth and nourish new life to regrow the Sun Tree.. and two years later, a seedling would sprout from the Tree's stump with the promise of its rebirth.
As for Naztheril, he would wander Tamriel for the remainder of his days as a mortal man. With Valenwood razed, his link to nature was severed, and the ability to shift into The Beast of the Night Sky was lost to him. He discovered his new mortality and accepted it in time, but avoided civilization on most days, as he was never able to leave behind the depression over his lost companion. His death was of old age half a century later, and Azura took him in peace.
Those that made up the Prince's army that night were the only survivors of Olkair Henar's purging of Cyrodiil, and so they worked to rebuild their once mighty nation, and Garen was crowned Emperor as Uriel was presumed killed by the undead menace.
The Bosmer of Valenwood were said to have been born of the trees in ancient days, and this myth was proved fact in the years after its destruction. As the Sun Tree grew ever larger, the ruin around it sank into the dirt and was consumed, and with its roots replenished of life-giving energy, gave rise to the lush, green forests it once boasted, and from them, the Bosmeri race would be grown anew.
Gaenor's name was passed down into the ages with stories of his triumphs, near defeats, and epic adventures since first leaving Mara's Hole In The Wall in Sadrith Mora. He was proclaimed to be one of the elite few named Grand Hero to Tamriel, and each year, on the night of his selfless death, a great celebration would be held in his honor, and to commemorate the sacrifice he gave to defeat the evil that threatened the land. He set himself free, lifted the dark curse that shadowed his world, and was remembered for all time as: Gaenor, Champion of Fire and Light
==========
The End
--------------------
I thank those who've been reading this series about Gaenor and I appreciate all feedback I've received, "good" and "bad". I also apologize for my unexplained, year-long absence, but please be satisfied in knowing it was a necessary break. I'll be back here eventually.. and next time, I want some hardcore criticism!
Although the trees stood lifeless and black around him, he recognized the village; it was Ebon Ro, and the flowervines adorning the trunk of Gaenor's home would be in full bloom. He spoke quietly and softly to the cradled elf in his arms, and prayed to His Lady Azura for his spirit's safe arrival to Her Kingdom. He laid him down on a cleared space of ash, turned, and left knowing his body would join the earth and nourish new life to regrow the Sun Tree.. and two years later, a seedling would sprout from the Tree's stump with the promise of its rebirth.
As for Naztheril, he would wander Tamriel for the remainder of his days as a mortal man. With Valenwood razed, his link to nature was severed, and the ability to shift into The Beast of the Night Sky was lost to him. He discovered his new mortality and accepted it in time, but avoided civilization on most days, as he was never able to leave behind the depression over his lost companion. His death was of old age half a century later, and Azura took him in peace.
Those that made up the Prince's army that night were the only survivors of Olkair Henar's purging of Cyrodiil, and so they worked to rebuild their once mighty nation, and Garen was crowned Emperor as Uriel was presumed killed by the undead menace.
The Bosmer of Valenwood were said to have been born of the trees in ancient days, and this myth was proved fact in the years after its destruction. As the Sun Tree grew ever larger, the ruin around it sank into the dirt and was consumed, and with its roots replenished of life-giving energy, gave rise to the lush, green forests it once boasted, and from them, the Bosmeri race would be grown anew.
Gaenor's name was passed down into the ages with stories of his triumphs, near defeats, and epic adventures since first leaving Mara's Hole In The Wall in Sadrith Mora. He was proclaimed to be one of the elite few named Grand Hero to Tamriel, and each year, on the night of his selfless death, a great celebration would be held in his honor, and to commemorate the sacrifice he gave to defeat the evil that threatened the land. He set himself free, lifted the dark curse that shadowed his world, and was remembered for all time as: Gaenor, Champion of Fire and Light
==========
The End
--------------------
I thank those who've been reading this series about Gaenor and I appreciate all feedback I've received, "good" and "bad". I also apologize for my unexplained, year-long absence, but please be satisfied in knowing it was a necessary break. I'll be back here eventually.. and next time, I want some hardcore criticism!
I will admit to mixed feelings at the end of this masterpiece: I am sad to know that there will be no more additions to this story, but also thrilled and awed by its amazing ending. I, for one, can forgive you for your mid-stream absence, especially because you did come back to complete the epic. Thanks for sharing your amazing talents; I hope that one day, you will return and compose for us another modern marvel of linguistic creativity.
What a magnificent ending to a magnificent story. Somewhere before, I used the word "epic" to describe this tale- that comment stands. I thank you for sharing your vision and your talent.
Me too will express my gratitude to having had the opportunity to read this wonderfully written story. Believe me I look at Gaenor with different eyes now!
I do hope you will return again and share your writing-talent with us once more!
Thank you ShraX!
I do hope you will return again and share your writing-talent with us once more!
Thank you ShraX!
Great end to it mate, I too have followed this for some time and I'm glad to see that you finally finished it. Though I am sad as well because I know there will be no more, I am glad that you have shared your talents with us and hope you will again in the future.
Great job with a great story!
Great job with a great story!
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