I posted this on the official TES forums, and although it's not finished, I'll continue updating both here and there.
If you haven't read the other two stories I've written, one of them is in the Fan Fiction section of this site, and you can PM me for the other. There really is not much needed to know when reading this one, except who the already well-known characters such as Gaenor and Almalexia are.
Enjoy--
The Nerevarine lay a lifeless corpse upon the Mournhold Temple steps. His blood trickled out of the slashed openings in his neck, limbs and torso, and down each stair, leaving its stains as it went before collecting into a shapeless pool on the tiled courtyard floor. The High Ordinators were still, their armored masks hiding the looks of terror on their faces as they stared at their defeated savior. The Temple doors were now wide open, and Almalexia hovered at the entrance. Her Hands were nowhere in sight.
"My champion," she said softly in disbelief, her golden face emotionless. "Who is responsible for this?" She spoke quietly but the entire city heard her. A Hand emerged from the darkness of the Temple and removed his helmet., engraved with the Daedric runes for S and V. "Our guards watched the battle," he explained in his low, rumbling voice. "They dared not aid your Nerevar for fear of death by his murderer - the Bosmer, Gaenor." The Demigoddess floated down the stairs, over the the corpse of the Nerevarine and turned back to the Temple. "Salas, this wood elf has gotten his revenge, but Terenius' life is nowhere close to Nerevar's in worth. Remain here and clean this mess. I will find young Gaenor and speak with him." Her Hand bowed and ordered the two Ordinators, still in a stupor, to dispose of the Nerevarine's body, as well as those of the four slain Hands within the Temple. Almalexia's wrath was unbridalled, and vengeance consumed her. Her fury at the news of Nerevar's death manifested physically, killing all but her favored Hand, Salas Volar, in an explosion of goldy flames.
She flew from her place in the Temple courtyard high above the city and into the clouds which concealed the late afternoon sun's light. The moons were now more than halfway over the mountainous horizon and brought their stars with them. With a gesture of her wrist the dense clouds parted in two and the light of the lowering sun lit the city aglow. She closed her eyes and began searching for her prey. However, this was unnecessary. Almalexia expected this mortal to flee into hiding from her might, but he welcomed it. He was sitting on a bench in the Bazaar, doodling shapes in the dirt with his sword.
His armor was sundered, dented and sliced through. One pauldron was missing as well as both gauntlets and parts of his greaves. It wasn't clear to tell from his ebony armor, but he was covered in blood from head to toe. He leaned his blade on the bench and removed his helmet, then placed it over the hilt. It was hot and sweat was dripping from his forehead to his beard. He put both hands to his face and wiped it, and ran his fingers through his stiff hair. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes, waiting with open arms for death's embrace.
Almalexia dove towards him like a starving hawk upon a field mouse, disintegrating the clouds with the aura of flame around her. This mortal wood elf defeated her martyr in combat and had the audacity to sit on a park bench in plain sight! Masser and Secunda were rising in unnatural quickness and the sun was already out of sight. The furious demigoddess did not realize in her blind rage, but Gaenor tore away from his hands and looked up past her to see it: both moons took position directly above him, Secunda in front. As they slowed to a stop everything around him turned pitch black, aside from the raging Almalexia, now halted in mid-air, as well as both moons.
The elf slowly stood and faced his enemy in partial confusion. After his ordeal he truly cared not what his fate was. 'An eye for an eye,' was his logic. 'She took Terenius and I take the Nerevarine.. but this is very strange. perhaps this witch's debt is still not repaid.' He walked past her toward the moons, which were glowing and pulsating with light, as if to communicate.
"Much has happened this day. We must speak."
Full Version: Gaenor: Reloaded
Gaenor was hardly surprised. "Talking moons, eh?" he sighed. "Grand. What is it you want?" Masser and Secunda rotated and spiralled about each other, shifting in size and color until they met as one. Their collision caused a loud explosion of many stars that promptly took their places all throughout the darkness. Soon it seemed as if the Bosmer was standing in the center of the universe itself, but he felt no different. The newly-formed moon moved towards him and elongated into the figure of a woman. Before the elfs' eyes it grew arms, then hands, then fingers. Legs sprouted from its center, then feet and toes. A bright, glimmering robe surfaced from her golden skin as well as hair, pointed ears, a nose, and smiling mouth. Eyes as red and stunning as the rarest rubies opened upon her face and looked to the elf.
"Dearest Gaenor," she echoed, "I am Azura, Daedra Lord of the Night Sky. I apologize if I have alarmed you with my stopping of time, but I could not allow Almalexia to destroy you. Your fate does not lie in her hands." Truthfully, Gaenor was in shock. Never before had any mortal experienced such as what this Azura had just displayed. 'She must be a goddess of the Dunmer,' he thought. However, he remained as emotionless as stone.
"Indeed I am, Bosmer, but fear not. The Nerevarine is slain as it is written in The Elder Scrolls. It was your destiny to defeat him, and his to die on the blade of Knight Henar." At the mention of this name Gaenor immediately broke his blank stare with a surprised cry. "Henar?! How.. how do you know about him?" Azura drew closer to him and unsheathed his sword, then held it before his eyes. "I know many things, young wood elf. I also know you acquired this blade from Nels Llendo, the Dunmer thief. Let me tell you his story.
"Twenty-three years ago, when you were but a lad, the burial grounds of Knight Henar were found by Breton excavationers. They brought it at once to the Emperor in Cyrodiil who, in his ignorance, ordered it to be placed in his Royal Museum as a rare artifact. You and I know this sword is more than a mere artifact, Gaenor. We know of Henar and his fall.
"On the night of the Emperor's anniversary it was stolen due to the lack of guards in the museum. It has been searched after for over two decades, but without any knowledge of is whereabouts. Nels Llendo hid it well, and used it to accost travellers along the roads of Morrowind. This weapon did not come to you without reason, Gaenor. It has charged you and you alone with itself, and it must be used for one purpose."
Gaenor took the sword from her hands and marvelled at it as it shimmered brilliantly in the starlight. But he remembered the tale of Henar from his father, and at once threw it to the stars below him, backing away in fear. Azura was right; he knew who forged that cursed blade, and wanted nothing to do with it. It tumbled to the unseen floor of the spacial expanse with a solid clang, and at once returned to his hand. "It is yours now," said the Daedra Prince knowingly and reassuringly. "Take care with it, and listen for its quest."
"Dearest Gaenor," she echoed, "I am Azura, Daedra Lord of the Night Sky. I apologize if I have alarmed you with my stopping of time, but I could not allow Almalexia to destroy you. Your fate does not lie in her hands." Truthfully, Gaenor was in shock. Never before had any mortal experienced such as what this Azura had just displayed. 'She must be a goddess of the Dunmer,' he thought. However, he remained as emotionless as stone.
"Indeed I am, Bosmer, but fear not. The Nerevarine is slain as it is written in The Elder Scrolls. It was your destiny to defeat him, and his to die on the blade of Knight Henar." At the mention of this name Gaenor immediately broke his blank stare with a surprised cry. "Henar?! How.. how do you know about him?" Azura drew closer to him and unsheathed his sword, then held it before his eyes. "I know many things, young wood elf. I also know you acquired this blade from Nels Llendo, the Dunmer thief. Let me tell you his story.
"Twenty-three years ago, when you were but a lad, the burial grounds of Knight Henar were found by Breton excavationers. They brought it at once to the Emperor in Cyrodiil who, in his ignorance, ordered it to be placed in his Royal Museum as a rare artifact. You and I know this sword is more than a mere artifact, Gaenor. We know of Henar and his fall.
"On the night of the Emperor's anniversary it was stolen due to the lack of guards in the museum. It has been searched after for over two decades, but without any knowledge of is whereabouts. Nels Llendo hid it well, and used it to accost travellers along the roads of Morrowind. This weapon did not come to you without reason, Gaenor. It has charged you and you alone with itself, and it must be used for one purpose."
Gaenor took the sword from her hands and marvelled at it as it shimmered brilliantly in the starlight. But he remembered the tale of Henar from his father, and at once threw it to the stars below him, backing away in fear. Azura was right; he knew who forged that cursed blade, and wanted nothing to do with it. It tumbled to the unseen floor of the spacial expanse with a solid clang, and at once returned to his hand. "It is yours now," said the Daedra Prince knowingly and reassuringly. "Take care with it, and listen for its quest."
The Legend of Knight Henar
as told by Thelan, father to Gaenor
On the fourteenth day of the one hundred and twelvth Heartfire in the second era, there lived the Bosmer. Much like modern Bosmer they were, but never yet have they ventured from Valenwood's protective forest borders. They were tribal in nature and shared with the sun, trees and the woodland beasts a pleasurable life, free of crime and famine. Night and day passed this way and all was good for many a year.. until the rebellion.
A group of two hundred defied the Order of Valenwood, the elder council who governed the nation at the time. They were a war-loving group and hated the tranquil balance of plant and elf, of hand and paw. On this, this fourteenth day, they revolted and killed many. They pillaged and destroyed Valenwood's Synil Velas, the shrines to nature, as well as towns and villages, even our Ebon Ro.
They were led by Olkair Henar, former Knight of the Green Temple. He was a bitter, evil Bosmer who despised the Forest. He felt it hideous and thought its' worship was poison. More than once he foolishly attempted to raze our groves to sell the timber to wealthy buyers, but each time failed to the Forest Guard or the trees themselves. But he was born with a knack for leadership, and was nearly unmatched in swordplay. After his small band of brainswashed rebels took over Rootwatch Hold in the south, the King of Valenwood decreed that their leader be found and taken back to his court alive.
Several months passed and the Royal Army wasted all but twenty of Olkair's force. Out of fear, he blindly fled east out of the country, unsure of where to go and what was waiting for him outside the Forest. He crossed Elswyr without much trouble, stealing water and food from the nomadic Khajiiti tribes he encountered. In a week he entered Cyrodiil and passed through undetected, leaping from tree to tree in the scattered woods. He would not stop until he was certain he wasn't being followed by the King's soldiers, as he knew they would not stop until finding him.
In another week he arrived in the Black Marsh, Argonia. He was able to hide from most of the lizard-men who inhabit the swamps, and those who saw him paid no mind as he presented no threat. One night while asleep in an isolated ditch, he woke suddenly to the spears of hunters. They could not understand his nervous babbling, so they took him swiftly towards their village. However, Olkair was crafty, and managed to wriggle from his rope bonds. Before his captors could react, he dove into a small cave and remained there for some days. In his haste to get away, he did not notice the runes upon the caves' boulder-laiden entrance.
On the third day he spent there, he was partly calmed and was sure nothing would find him within the darkness. He was starving but dared not venture outside, so he creeped deeper into the cave. With each step he took, the black, shadowy recesses of that evil place took him closer and closer to his inevitable fate. Olkair was nearly petrified, but took his chances and continued on until he began to see light. He was warmed by it, and so he advanced quickly towards it in the hopes of finding cooked food.
He stopped immediately in the wide, crudely-dug entrance of the large room. The ceiling was high above the pools of lava below, stalagmites reaching down to them and others below reaching up from the ground. Workshop tables made of hard wood and rusted iron stood bolted down near the natural forges of molten rock. An enormous metal block towered over him with bellows and desks laying randomly about. Swords, spears, halberds, axes, scythes and any other bladed weapon imaginable were strewn about, some hanging on the rocky walls. Olkair was amazed, and before he could gasp in awe, a cloaked figure leapt out at him from the shadows.
It was Iranon, servant to Garonar and unholy blacksmith. He was known but seldom seen, always in his cave-forge, smelting and crafting weapons never to be used. But there was one weapon, the Blade of Cinder, that would be given to this Bosmer. "I admire your spirit," said Iranon. "Take this, and use it against thine enemies. It hast been asking for you for some time now." Aghast and cursed by his words, Olkair grasped the hilt of the sword, and a flame of rage erupted in his eyes. The blade took him, and the blood of thousands would be drenched upon it. Knight Henar was born that day, and was soon known throughout the land as a merciless slayer of the innocent and guilty alike, a marauder without cause.
By 2E147, he was at last dispatched by the Legionnaire Army of Cyrodiil. His corpse was incinerated upon the Altar of Mara and his soul sent to Oblivion for his crimes.. but the Blade remained. The Emperor sent it to be a trophy for Valenwood's king when it should have been immediately dismantled. During its transfer, a party of organized bandits ambushed the transport convoy and it was lost in the struggle. Over the centuries it has travelled all throughout Tamriel, corrupting each new owner with bloodlust and madness.
[/b]
as told by Thelan, father to Gaenor
On the fourteenth day of the one hundred and twelvth Heartfire in the second era, there lived the Bosmer. Much like modern Bosmer they were, but never yet have they ventured from Valenwood's protective forest borders. They were tribal in nature and shared with the sun, trees and the woodland beasts a pleasurable life, free of crime and famine. Night and day passed this way and all was good for many a year.. until the rebellion.
A group of two hundred defied the Order of Valenwood, the elder council who governed the nation at the time. They were a war-loving group and hated the tranquil balance of plant and elf, of hand and paw. On this, this fourteenth day, they revolted and killed many. They pillaged and destroyed Valenwood's Synil Velas, the shrines to nature, as well as towns and villages, even our Ebon Ro.
They were led by Olkair Henar, former Knight of the Green Temple. He was a bitter, evil Bosmer who despised the Forest. He felt it hideous and thought its' worship was poison. More than once he foolishly attempted to raze our groves to sell the timber to wealthy buyers, but each time failed to the Forest Guard or the trees themselves. But he was born with a knack for leadership, and was nearly unmatched in swordplay. After his small band of brainswashed rebels took over Rootwatch Hold in the south, the King of Valenwood decreed that their leader be found and taken back to his court alive.
Several months passed and the Royal Army wasted all but twenty of Olkair's force. Out of fear, he blindly fled east out of the country, unsure of where to go and what was waiting for him outside the Forest. He crossed Elswyr without much trouble, stealing water and food from the nomadic Khajiiti tribes he encountered. In a week he entered Cyrodiil and passed through undetected, leaping from tree to tree in the scattered woods. He would not stop until he was certain he wasn't being followed by the King's soldiers, as he knew they would not stop until finding him.
In another week he arrived in the Black Marsh, Argonia. He was able to hide from most of the lizard-men who inhabit the swamps, and those who saw him paid no mind as he presented no threat. One night while asleep in an isolated ditch, he woke suddenly to the spears of hunters. They could not understand his nervous babbling, so they took him swiftly towards their village. However, Olkair was crafty, and managed to wriggle from his rope bonds. Before his captors could react, he dove into a small cave and remained there for some days. In his haste to get away, he did not notice the runes upon the caves' boulder-laiden entrance.
On the third day he spent there, he was partly calmed and was sure nothing would find him within the darkness. He was starving but dared not venture outside, so he creeped deeper into the cave. With each step he took, the black, shadowy recesses of that evil place took him closer and closer to his inevitable fate. Olkair was nearly petrified, but took his chances and continued on until he began to see light. He was warmed by it, and so he advanced quickly towards it in the hopes of finding cooked food.
He stopped immediately in the wide, crudely-dug entrance of the large room. The ceiling was high above the pools of lava below, stalagmites reaching down to them and others below reaching up from the ground. Workshop tables made of hard wood and rusted iron stood bolted down near the natural forges of molten rock. An enormous metal block towered over him with bellows and desks laying randomly about. Swords, spears, halberds, axes, scythes and any other bladed weapon imaginable were strewn about, some hanging on the rocky walls. Olkair was amazed, and before he could gasp in awe, a cloaked figure leapt out at him from the shadows.
It was Iranon, servant to Garonar and unholy blacksmith. He was known but seldom seen, always in his cave-forge, smelting and crafting weapons never to be used. But there was one weapon, the Blade of Cinder, that would be given to this Bosmer. "I admire your spirit," said Iranon. "Take this, and use it against thine enemies. It hast been asking for you for some time now." Aghast and cursed by his words, Olkair grasped the hilt of the sword, and a flame of rage erupted in his eyes. The blade took him, and the blood of thousands would be drenched upon it. Knight Henar was born that day, and was soon known throughout the land as a merciless slayer of the innocent and guilty alike, a marauder without cause.
By 2E147, he was at last dispatched by the Legionnaire Army of Cyrodiil. His corpse was incinerated upon the Altar of Mara and his soul sent to Oblivion for his crimes.. but the Blade remained. The Emperor sent it to be a trophy for Valenwood's king when it should have been immediately dismantled. During its transfer, a party of organized bandits ambushed the transport convoy and it was lost in the struggle. Over the centuries it has travelled all throughout Tamriel, corrupting each new owner with bloodlust and madness.
[/b]
I understand that most forum-goers have not read my previous two stories.. so here are links to both of them. One was asked to be posted on Waiting4Oblivion, something which I personally am proud of 
The other I posted myself on a free Tripod account. I copied Trials directly from this forum after posting it, so you'll see some color and font codes around. Since The Tale of Gaenor is already on this site, I'll link Trials alone.
http://kaiton4.tripod.com/trials.html - Trials of the Mad God
--------------------
"You hold the Blade of Cinders, Gaenor," Azura continued. "This weapon, forged of evil and chaos, has come to you." The Bosmer looked up at her from the sword and asked, with newfound intrigue, "I don't understand.. if the story of Knight Henar is true, it should have corrupted me. Why am I unaffected by its curse?" She smiled and looked at his amulet, and he followed in understanding. "It is more than Garonar's undoing, Gaenor. You are very special and a hero to Tamriel. You have done much for the land and the people, but there is one final task ahead."
She told him of Iranon and his continued existence in Argonia, as well as Knight Henar. "He has defied his purification and death, and walks this realm again.," she said, "searching for the Blade and slaughtering any who confront him. Iranon knows of Garonar's defeat, and he knows it was your Blade which struck him down. You, the Bearer of Fire and Light, must defeat these foes and set Tamriel free of this crippling devastation. Make the journey to Goldstone Ridge in Cyrodiil. Seek out the prince. Go now, and with all my blessings." Gaenor looked at her in silent wonder but he knew to do what she had commanded. "And Almalexia?" he asked.
"Allow me. Be off!"
In an instant the stars gleamed with light as bright as the sun and the moons flickered and vanished. The light grew and engulfed the darkness, then faded into the city of Mournhold once again. Gaenor stood where he was before, facing the enraged demigoddess.. but something had changed - Almalexia was gone! He looked all about him but it appeared time was still stopped. Suddenly, the birds and crickets began chirping, the butterflies drifting about on the wind. Soon the Ordinators' heavy footsteps could be heard and the vendors in the Bazaar where Gaenor stood started their clammoring once more.
He sheathed the Blade and removed what was left of his armor, revealing his sweat-soaked shirt and pants beneath. He's been on adventures before, and knew such garments were not fitting for any such quest, especially one of this mangitude of importance. He pawned off the scraps of ebony to the local blacksmith in exchange for money, which would then turn into sundries and new clothing. 'This isn't enough for a new suit of armor,' he thought, 'but I shouldn't have much trouble as long as I stay on the roads.' Aside from food, water, a sleeping bag, and a compass, he purchased a map including paths running from Mournhold to southern Skyrim and Cyrodiil.
Finally prepared to leave the city, he started toward the main gate, but stopped just before it. "Leaving Mournhold, traveller?" asked a guard. It was remarkable but it seemed no one had even heard of Almalexia or the Nerevarine, and they never knew of what had happened that day at all. "Not just yet," Gaenor replied, and sat near the fountain statue. How could Azura expect him to simply follow her orders without question? She was not even a god of his people, but of the Dunmer, a race of elves he was not particularly fond of to begin with. However, he thought of the quest at hand, and realized there was no time for questions. Olkair Henar was a Bosmer, and he had his Blade. Iranon he knew of as well, from stories other than the one his father told him. Whether he wanted to believe it or not, he was linked to these two villains, and it was his duty to stop them from taking back the Blade which so many lives depended on.
He stood after some time of thinking on these things, and approached the gate once more. "Ready to leave Mournhold, Bosmer?" the guard asked again. "Yes, and never to return." he answered. The guard looked at him awkwardly through his mask, then turned and nodded to the other on the opposite side of the gate. He nodded back and they simultaneously pulled down two large levers, and Gaenor watched as the massive gates slowly spread apart, opening his path.. a path that he may never return from following.
--------------------
The other I posted myself on a free Tripod account. I copied Trials directly from this forum after posting it, so you'll see some color and font codes around. Since The Tale of Gaenor is already on this site, I'll link Trials alone.
http://kaiton4.tripod.com/trials.html - Trials of the Mad God
--------------------
"You hold the Blade of Cinders, Gaenor," Azura continued. "This weapon, forged of evil and chaos, has come to you." The Bosmer looked up at her from the sword and asked, with newfound intrigue, "I don't understand.. if the story of Knight Henar is true, it should have corrupted me. Why am I unaffected by its curse?" She smiled and looked at his amulet, and he followed in understanding. "It is more than Garonar's undoing, Gaenor. You are very special and a hero to Tamriel. You have done much for the land and the people, but there is one final task ahead."
She told him of Iranon and his continued existence in Argonia, as well as Knight Henar. "He has defied his purification and death, and walks this realm again.," she said, "searching for the Blade and slaughtering any who confront him. Iranon knows of Garonar's defeat, and he knows it was your Blade which struck him down. You, the Bearer of Fire and Light, must defeat these foes and set Tamriel free of this crippling devastation. Make the journey to Goldstone Ridge in Cyrodiil. Seek out the prince. Go now, and with all my blessings." Gaenor looked at her in silent wonder but he knew to do what she had commanded. "And Almalexia?" he asked.
"Allow me. Be off!"
In an instant the stars gleamed with light as bright as the sun and the moons flickered and vanished. The light grew and engulfed the darkness, then faded into the city of Mournhold once again. Gaenor stood where he was before, facing the enraged demigoddess.. but something had changed - Almalexia was gone! He looked all about him but it appeared time was still stopped. Suddenly, the birds and crickets began chirping, the butterflies drifting about on the wind. Soon the Ordinators' heavy footsteps could be heard and the vendors in the Bazaar where Gaenor stood started their clammoring once more.
He sheathed the Blade and removed what was left of his armor, revealing his sweat-soaked shirt and pants beneath. He's been on adventures before, and knew such garments were not fitting for any such quest, especially one of this mangitude of importance. He pawned off the scraps of ebony to the local blacksmith in exchange for money, which would then turn into sundries and new clothing. 'This isn't enough for a new suit of armor,' he thought, 'but I shouldn't have much trouble as long as I stay on the roads.' Aside from food, water, a sleeping bag, and a compass, he purchased a map including paths running from Mournhold to southern Skyrim and Cyrodiil.
Finally prepared to leave the city, he started toward the main gate, but stopped just before it. "Leaving Mournhold, traveller?" asked a guard. It was remarkable but it seemed no one had even heard of Almalexia or the Nerevarine, and they never knew of what had happened that day at all. "Not just yet," Gaenor replied, and sat near the fountain statue. How could Azura expect him to simply follow her orders without question? She was not even a god of his people, but of the Dunmer, a race of elves he was not particularly fond of to begin with. However, he thought of the quest at hand, and realized there was no time for questions. Olkair Henar was a Bosmer, and he had his Blade. Iranon he knew of as well, from stories other than the one his father told him. Whether he wanted to believe it or not, he was linked to these two villains, and it was his duty to stop them from taking back the Blade which so many lives depended on.
He stood after some time of thinking on these things, and approached the gate once more. "Ready to leave Mournhold, Bosmer?" the guard asked again. "Yes, and never to return." he answered. The guard looked at him awkwardly through his mask, then turned and nodded to the other on the opposite side of the gate. He nodded back and they simultaneously pulled down two large levers, and Gaenor watched as the massive gates slowly spread apart, opening his path.. a path that he may never return from following.
--------------------
Ahhh great to see the story of Gaenor here as well! very well written! Thisi is gonna be awesome.... :goodjob: :goodjob: :goodjob:
Cool. I was disappointed when trials of the mad god ended, but you killed off Lord Nerevar reborn, and you now have a sequel.
Despite his seriousness, his plan was simple, really. Judging by his map, from Mournhold he would travel west to Skyrim, snowy land of the Nords. Once at the border he would head south and west towards Cyrodiil. 'The Nords and Imperials are allies,' he thought, 'so they must have tade routes between their nations I can follow.' He did not have any money left, so he departed with what supplies he had. He felt uneasy about his lack of protective garb, but there was nothing he could do. His mission was urgent, and he had not the time to work for pay.
Thoughts swirled about in his mind and out his mouth. "Bearer of Fire and Light?" What in the world could that mean?" was what he found himself saying over and over again. "The fire," he said aloud, walking briskly down the cobblestone road, "could be the Blade.. after all, it is the Blade of Cinders, and cinders are hot! But the light? Maybe they're metaphors for my spirit and.. good looks.. no, that doesn't seem right. But she is a Daedra Prince after all, and the godly types are mysterious. Perhaps it will be revealed to me later."
In a few hours he arrived at a crossroads where he turned southwest onto a rough dirt path, which straightened along his map westward as he continued. It was a pleasurable walk, and he smiled as he listened to the multitude of birds and small creatures sing and chatter all about him. Their harmonic sounds eminated from every tree, bush, mushroom, and flowerbed, the beauty of which was not without appreciation from the nature-loving Bosmer. But something bothered him; all this was happening so quickly, and for reason he did not yet know. He was doing what Azura had asked, but that seemed both lacking and enough to obey, even from such a being as she.
As was expected from the start, hunger took his mind off the quest at hand. He last ate the day before and it was now well into late afternoon. He was still on the hilly, wooded trail, half a day from the Skyrim border, so he sat on the side of the road near a tree to eat. He slid off his pack and untied it, unleashing a powerful aroma of meats, cheeses, and dry kindling. He gathered some rocks and started a small campfire, then a spit onto which he placed his dinner. It was a relaxing moment, sitting with his back to the tree, watching the meat sizzle above the fire.. but an elf's senses are never completely turned off. Although it was dark, he could hear for miles, and listened to the sound of something advancing from off the road. 'Three of them' he guessed, crouching with both hands at his sword. 'Four-footed.. and big.'
At once they lept onto the path before him and presented themselves in a patch of Masser's light. Gaenor was right; there were three, each with red, hungry eyes that shone as they looked at him, a glare of sinister happiness spread across their tentacle-hidden faces. They were enormous, even for Nix, their muscular legs and necks bulging almost out of their tough, green skin. The one afront the other two, which seemed to be the packleader, put one paw forward, and his minions immediately attacked.
They lunged at the Bosmer, now with his sword unsheathed and standing out as darker than the pitch blackness that held the forest. Their leader followed but turned sharply left off the road. 'They must have smelled my food,' he thought, and threw up his sword to block both beasts at once. He slid its razor-sharp edge across their faces and carved off the tops of their mouths, thick liquid spirting from each piece as they wriggled about on the ground. One let out a screeching yowl that was muffled by the darkness, but the other snarled with pain-driven rage and pouched at the elf again, this time with full force behind its rending claws.
At the same time, the packleader was skulking in the shadows behind the struggling Gaenor, salivating puddles at the thought of feasting upon his raw flesh. The Bosmer swung his Blade across the attacking hounds' neck, then upwards, halting it in place. It collapsed with a forced gurgle from the gash in its throat, and the leader looked with its piercing eyes to the other for assistance. Black blood seeping from its face, it whimpered and fled into the forest. The elf quickly raised his sword, dripping with blood, to the growling leader. With a great howling roar it charged, bloodlust in its eyes.
--------------------
Thoughts swirled about in his mind and out his mouth. "Bearer of Fire and Light?" What in the world could that mean?" was what he found himself saying over and over again. "The fire," he said aloud, walking briskly down the cobblestone road, "could be the Blade.. after all, it is the Blade of Cinders, and cinders are hot! But the light? Maybe they're metaphors for my spirit and.. good looks.. no, that doesn't seem right. But she is a Daedra Prince after all, and the godly types are mysterious. Perhaps it will be revealed to me later."
In a few hours he arrived at a crossroads where he turned southwest onto a rough dirt path, which straightened along his map westward as he continued. It was a pleasurable walk, and he smiled as he listened to the multitude of birds and small creatures sing and chatter all about him. Their harmonic sounds eminated from every tree, bush, mushroom, and flowerbed, the beauty of which was not without appreciation from the nature-loving Bosmer. But something bothered him; all this was happening so quickly, and for reason he did not yet know. He was doing what Azura had asked, but that seemed both lacking and enough to obey, even from such a being as she.
As was expected from the start, hunger took his mind off the quest at hand. He last ate the day before and it was now well into late afternoon. He was still on the hilly, wooded trail, half a day from the Skyrim border, so he sat on the side of the road near a tree to eat. He slid off his pack and untied it, unleashing a powerful aroma of meats, cheeses, and dry kindling. He gathered some rocks and started a small campfire, then a spit onto which he placed his dinner. It was a relaxing moment, sitting with his back to the tree, watching the meat sizzle above the fire.. but an elf's senses are never completely turned off. Although it was dark, he could hear for miles, and listened to the sound of something advancing from off the road. 'Three of them' he guessed, crouching with both hands at his sword. 'Four-footed.. and big.'
At once they lept onto the path before him and presented themselves in a patch of Masser's light. Gaenor was right; there were three, each with red, hungry eyes that shone as they looked at him, a glare of sinister happiness spread across their tentacle-hidden faces. They were enormous, even for Nix, their muscular legs and necks bulging almost out of their tough, green skin. The one afront the other two, which seemed to be the packleader, put one paw forward, and his minions immediately attacked.
They lunged at the Bosmer, now with his sword unsheathed and standing out as darker than the pitch blackness that held the forest. Their leader followed but turned sharply left off the road. 'They must have smelled my food,' he thought, and threw up his sword to block both beasts at once. He slid its razor-sharp edge across their faces and carved off the tops of their mouths, thick liquid spirting from each piece as they wriggled about on the ground. One let out a screeching yowl that was muffled by the darkness, but the other snarled with pain-driven rage and pouched at the elf again, this time with full force behind its rending claws.
At the same time, the packleader was skulking in the shadows behind the struggling Gaenor, salivating puddles at the thought of feasting upon his raw flesh. The Bosmer swung his Blade across the attacking hounds' neck, then upwards, halting it in place. It collapsed with a forced gurgle from the gash in its throat, and the leader looked with its piercing eyes to the other for assistance. Black blood seeping from its face, it whimpered and fled into the forest. The elf quickly raised his sword, dripping with blood, to the growling leader. With a great howling roar it charged, bloodlust in its eyes.
--------------------
This is the last entry which was already written. I've been posting them much more quickly than I normally would if I hadn't already finished them, so the rest will come every one or two days :goodjob:
--------------------
"Gaenor you say? Apologies sir, but no one by that name's been to the Shalk recently. Good day!"
The cloaked figure snarled at the barkeep and left in haste. The patrons of the Black Shalk Cornerclub in Vivec watched him as he closed the door behind him, not able to see anything but his heavy, dark-colored robe and repitilian tail. He walked quickly in an awkward way, down the canton and out into the Ascadian Isles. The lampposts along Vivec Road lit brightly the traveler's way and the glistening plants and tree-leaves on either side.
He turned at a fork to a hidden clearing where a rectangular runestone stood, glowing red with intricately-carved Daedric markings. He spoke lowly the entrance phrase, "Gion toh grelac siev," loosely translating into, "Darkness, grant me passage." The stone shifted and slid back, revealing the narrow, dim-lit stairway below. The figure grasped a torch from the wall and the stone covered the moon's light with a hollow, abbrasive *clank*, which echoed as he advanced down the ancient steps.
He continued on for some time when at last the way was ended by a large, golden altar. Candles of think, black wax adorned the floor before it, as well as the short shelves behind. An idol of a winged, sharp-fanged demon stood in its' center, a sword in each hand and held up high above its horned head. The traveler kneeled down with respect, as well as slight fear, and asked, "Is my Lord ready for his servants' news? 'Tis of his search for Gaenor." The statues' open mouth let out a jet of gray smoke, engulfing it and the altar on which is rested until taking the shape of a mangled skull, its fiery essence illuminating the place with a red glow. It looked hideous even to his servant, and he averted his eyes in silent disgust.
"Iranon. What news?" he boomed in question.
"I have travelled far, from southern Argonia, to seek out Gaenor and my Blade." He paused but his master kept silent. His physical form ruined, he was bound to the altar, never to be freed. "Indeed," he continued, "I first discovered his ownership of the Blade two days ago upon defeating Nels Llendo, a Dunmer thief of no importance. Olkair brought me this information and I immediately left for Vvardenfell to seek it out."
"Why did not Olkair dispatch the elf then?"
"You see, my Lord," he went on, filling with terror after each word the skull spoke, "Olkair may not kill by day's light. My skill at puppetry is nowhere near your mastery, and 'twas all I could to do control him." He lowered his head further, "Upon his summoning back to my lair, I brought his news swiftly to ye." "Yes," the skull bellowed, "You are a faithful servant, and still ever eager to carry out my will. Stay hidden and speak with no one. Send Olkair to Mournhold to.. question the public. Leave me."
Iranon stood and bowed elaborately, then took up the torch again and started back up the steps. He stopped and turned back to the altar, but his master was gone. 'Gaenor, why didst thou slay my master with the Blade?' he thought. He sighed heavily and continued up to the surface. "No matter," he said to himself, "My Blade is no hero's toy. It shall be returned to its rightful owner and be set loose upon Tamriel once more." The runestone slid shut and he was gone.
--------------------
--------------------
"Gaenor you say? Apologies sir, but no one by that name's been to the Shalk recently. Good day!"
The cloaked figure snarled at the barkeep and left in haste. The patrons of the Black Shalk Cornerclub in Vivec watched him as he closed the door behind him, not able to see anything but his heavy, dark-colored robe and repitilian tail. He walked quickly in an awkward way, down the canton and out into the Ascadian Isles. The lampposts along Vivec Road lit brightly the traveler's way and the glistening plants and tree-leaves on either side.
He turned at a fork to a hidden clearing where a rectangular runestone stood, glowing red with intricately-carved Daedric markings. He spoke lowly the entrance phrase, "Gion toh grelac siev," loosely translating into, "Darkness, grant me passage." The stone shifted and slid back, revealing the narrow, dim-lit stairway below. The figure grasped a torch from the wall and the stone covered the moon's light with a hollow, abbrasive *clank*, which echoed as he advanced down the ancient steps.
He continued on for some time when at last the way was ended by a large, golden altar. Candles of think, black wax adorned the floor before it, as well as the short shelves behind. An idol of a winged, sharp-fanged demon stood in its' center, a sword in each hand and held up high above its horned head. The traveler kneeled down with respect, as well as slight fear, and asked, "Is my Lord ready for his servants' news? 'Tis of his search for Gaenor." The statues' open mouth let out a jet of gray smoke, engulfing it and the altar on which is rested until taking the shape of a mangled skull, its fiery essence illuminating the place with a red glow. It looked hideous even to his servant, and he averted his eyes in silent disgust.
"Iranon. What news?" he boomed in question.
"I have travelled far, from southern Argonia, to seek out Gaenor and my Blade." He paused but his master kept silent. His physical form ruined, he was bound to the altar, never to be freed. "Indeed," he continued, "I first discovered his ownership of the Blade two days ago upon defeating Nels Llendo, a Dunmer thief of no importance. Olkair brought me this information and I immediately left for Vvardenfell to seek it out."
"Why did not Olkair dispatch the elf then?"
"You see, my Lord," he went on, filling with terror after each word the skull spoke, "Olkair may not kill by day's light. My skill at puppetry is nowhere near your mastery, and 'twas all I could to do control him." He lowered his head further, "Upon his summoning back to my lair, I brought his news swiftly to ye." "Yes," the skull bellowed, "You are a faithful servant, and still ever eager to carry out my will. Stay hidden and speak with no one. Send Olkair to Mournhold to.. question the public. Leave me."
Iranon stood and bowed elaborately, then took up the torch again and started back up the steps. He stopped and turned back to the altar, but his master was gone. 'Gaenor, why didst thou slay my master with the Blade?' he thought. He sighed heavily and continued up to the surface. "No matter," he said to himself, "My Blade is no hero's toy. It shall be returned to its rightful owner and be set loose upon Tamriel once more." The runestone slid shut and he was gone.
--------------------
Gaenor held his sword with both palms forward at both ends and ran towards the charging monster. He was a strong elf, but a Nix packleader outweighs even the mightiest of warriors in muscle. They clashed and his Blade grew noticeably warm. The hound toppled him over but he stood quickly enough to parry another swipe. Each time his Blade met with the beasts' claws it would grow hotter to the touch, and after many blocks with it, a small flame was ignited along its sides. The hound pulledback and Gaenor glanced at it and his enemy, confused as to what exactly was happening.
It would have retreated then if it wasn't so far beyond starving, as such creatures can easily become due to their size and mandatory intake of large amounts of meat. It rushed at full force in a desperate effort to end the fight and consume the Bosmer, but he was ready. The fire on his sword did not matter at the moment, so he swung with all his strength and leapt to the side, ramming his shoulder into a thin tree. He grunted slightly as the bark tore his sleeve on the way down, but he immediately turned back to see if his attack was successful. He did not feel the Nix as he swung, but heard a terrible ripping and crackling of flames. It could have been that the hound knocked over his spit and campfire, but to his astonishment, it was slain! He stood, holding his shoulder and sword in one hand, and walked slowly toward his incapacitated enemy. No careful inspection of how he killed it was necessary, for it appeared his Blade completely slashed through and halved it down the spine. He looked more closely and saw that the outer layer of skin which he cut through first was smoking and small bits of ash lined every inch inside. "Well then," he exclaimed, looking around as if to announce to a crowd, "that's.. the end of that. Mm hmm."
His arm injured, he sat back down to his meat, now thoroughly blackened on one side and cold on the other, wrapped his wound, and tried to enjoy the meal. His sword was now cool and the flames disappeared, and he examined it for runes, small gems or anything else that could possibly harness the power of fire in such a way as to annihilate his opponent in one fell swing. He sighed and his mind returned to the pain of his shoulder and of his quest. 'This weapon was forged of evil and chaos,' he thought while eating, 'as Azura had said. But it is extremely powerful, and my amulet allows me to wield it un..hindered...' And then he realized what Azura meant.
He quickly finished what was left of his food, grabbed his pack, and dashed off down the road with all energy from his second wind into his nimble legs. It was still dark, but nothing could stop him now; he felt like challenging both Henar and Iranon to a duel right then and there, and was impatient in all meaning of the word. He had just discovered what was meant by "Bearer of Fire and Light," and now knew that he could complete this quest. However, Gaenor had always been headstrong, and could not simply step up to his foes and vanquish them without breaking a sweat. He knew deep in his mind that he would need to find more information on both the Blade and his amulet, and become that which Azura had called him.
He ran down that lightless road all through the night, and by daybreak, he was exhausted. The trees were less plentiful and the giant mushrooms that once littered his path vanished below the horizon behind him. It was now much colder and the sun hid behind the blanket of clouds above, its pale glow shining through the occasional opening. He could see great mountains ahead, and rocky hills turned the road into a valley pass. He was exausted, and tumbled to the cold grass, the strong wind on his back. He unfolded his map and noticed he had nearly entered Skyrim. 'Another few hours, I'd guess,' he thought, and removed the sleeping bag from his pack with the last ounce of his strength. It was hard to tell from the oncoming flurry of snow, but he estimated it to be early in the morning. He grasped the hilt of the Blade for warmth, but it gave none.
--------------------
It would have retreated then if it wasn't so far beyond starving, as such creatures can easily become due to their size and mandatory intake of large amounts of meat. It rushed at full force in a desperate effort to end the fight and consume the Bosmer, but he was ready. The fire on his sword did not matter at the moment, so he swung with all his strength and leapt to the side, ramming his shoulder into a thin tree. He grunted slightly as the bark tore his sleeve on the way down, but he immediately turned back to see if his attack was successful. He did not feel the Nix as he swung, but heard a terrible ripping and crackling of flames. It could have been that the hound knocked over his spit and campfire, but to his astonishment, it was slain! He stood, holding his shoulder and sword in one hand, and walked slowly toward his incapacitated enemy. No careful inspection of how he killed it was necessary, for it appeared his Blade completely slashed through and halved it down the spine. He looked more closely and saw that the outer layer of skin which he cut through first was smoking and small bits of ash lined every inch inside. "Well then," he exclaimed, looking around as if to announce to a crowd, "that's.. the end of that. Mm hmm."
His arm injured, he sat back down to his meat, now thoroughly blackened on one side and cold on the other, wrapped his wound, and tried to enjoy the meal. His sword was now cool and the flames disappeared, and he examined it for runes, small gems or anything else that could possibly harness the power of fire in such a way as to annihilate his opponent in one fell swing. He sighed and his mind returned to the pain of his shoulder and of his quest. 'This weapon was forged of evil and chaos,' he thought while eating, 'as Azura had said. But it is extremely powerful, and my amulet allows me to wield it un..hindered...' And then he realized what Azura meant.
He quickly finished what was left of his food, grabbed his pack, and dashed off down the road with all energy from his second wind into his nimble legs. It was still dark, but nothing could stop him now; he felt like challenging both Henar and Iranon to a duel right then and there, and was impatient in all meaning of the word. He had just discovered what was meant by "Bearer of Fire and Light," and now knew that he could complete this quest. However, Gaenor had always been headstrong, and could not simply step up to his foes and vanquish them without breaking a sweat. He knew deep in his mind that he would need to find more information on both the Blade and his amulet, and become that which Azura had called him.
He ran down that lightless road all through the night, and by daybreak, he was exhausted. The trees were less plentiful and the giant mushrooms that once littered his path vanished below the horizon behind him. It was now much colder and the sun hid behind the blanket of clouds above, its pale glow shining through the occasional opening. He could see great mountains ahead, and rocky hills turned the road into a valley pass. He was exausted, and tumbled to the cold grass, the strong wind on his back. He unfolded his map and noticed he had nearly entered Skyrim. 'Another few hours, I'd guess,' he thought, and removed the sleeping bag from his pack with the last ounce of his strength. It was hard to tell from the oncoming flurry of snow, but he estimated it to be early in the morning. He grasped the hilt of the Blade for warmth, but it gave none.
--------------------
Cool! More Gaenor. I enjoyed the previous one very much and am happy to see a new story.
Several hours passed and Gaenor rested well. Except for the cold winds on his face, his sleep was well worth the time. At about noon he awoke, still very tired but motivated to move on. As he folded his sleeping bag he recollected a strange nightmare, but only fragments. In it, he sat upon a small cloud wearing a silver robe, his amulet, and the Blade at his side. The sun shone brightly above him as he looked down at the world, but realized it was not the one he knew; a charred, smoldering wasteland, blanketed with rivers of steaming lava, molten rock, and heavy, black smoke. He stared down at this ruined land and felt great confusion, then anger. He stood and cried out, his vision turned white, and he opened his eyes to find the snow. He could not interpret its meaning, and shrugged it off with the help of his want to find shelter.
He started off again at a good pace up the slushy road, his arms tucked under themselves for warmth. With each mile he set behind him it got colder, and he saw nothing but a wide, white horizon ahead. The sounds of birds and insects were gone now, and only the howling of the wind accompanied him. 'No caravans or travelers this way,' he thought with a scarf wrapped over his head and across his face. He went on for three more hours with no signs of life until a wooden sign caught his eye. He approached it since he was now having a hard time seeing exactly where the snow-caked road was anymore, and took hold of it to stop it from moving with the harsh wind. It read, [ Now enters ye the Snowfold ].
Caring not what the Snowfold was and guessing it was some sort of safe haven, the Bosmer turned north, following the pointing signs. Each one said something new, but like the last: [ Snowfold welcomes ye ], [ Mead runs as water in Snowfold ], [ Thirsk knows not Snowfold ]. After four or five signs he stopped taking the time to read them, and continued on for a short while longer before arriving at what he had guessed was Snowfold. From the advertisements he expected an enormous mead hall with the sound of the pouring of beer and merrymaking, but it appeared the Snowfold had long been abandoned. In fact, it was the ruin of a once prominant lodge. He approached it and found its roof to have caved in, some walls sundered, and the second floor to have been burnt down. He looked to the ground to find yet another sign that read, [Snowfold - Warmth from the Cold ].
His hope of finding shelter gone, he pulled open the double doors to see what had become of the inside. He entered a small space between the front and inner doors, put his hands on the handles, but stopped just as he was about to open them. He heard something he would not have expected to hear in such a place; the roaring of a great fire, chewing of food, men laughing and the pouring of drinks. He was greatly intrigued and peeked through crack in the entranceway, and found the entire hall to still be in one piece! He quickly glanced out and to the roof, but it was caved in. He went around the building and saw that the walls had been destroyed, and nothing was left of the place but a broken stool and a dented axe. He circled the establishment once more and returned to the inner doors, looked again, and was amazed to find an intact room within.
There was a large fireplace filled with burning logs in the back which sent its heat up the chimney and across the mead hall. Thick wooden pillars lined each wall with a bench and a small table at the base of each, and under them a gray-tiled floor. Drunken, laughing Nords sat and guzzled their tankards, tore away at haunches of meat, and basked each other's happiness and joy. Gaenor was still speechless, as if he dared to say anything lest they find him there and bring him in. The scene looked extravagant from outside in the blizzard, but this elf knew better than to involve himself in the affairs of such mysterious people. "How are they where nothing is?" he whispered to himself. He heard the snap of a twig behind him and spun around with his sword at the ready, accidentally kicking the doors open with his foot. The Nords looked to him in question, then to the figure before him.
He was very tall, but not as stout and muscular as a Nord would be. He wore a tall, cylindrical hat with ear flaps and a thick scarf with a long woolen cloak all around, and worn black boots on his large feet. There was a broach on his chest bearing the national symbol of Valenwood, a green Seftal tree and a paw, which made Gaenor wonder even more while cautiously lowering his Blade. The Nords, seeing as he seemed to be no threat to them, turned back to their drinks and conversations. The stranger spoke with a deep yet friendly tone, "I greet you warmly, son of Thelan. It appears you are to be the hero in this tale, eh?" The Bosmer did not recognize his voice but trusted him enough from his pin to sheath his weapon. "You knew my father?" he asked, turning momentarily to the Nords.
"All in due time, as always. Come inside and share with me a drink."
--------------------
EDIT: fixed a spelling mistake.
He started off again at a good pace up the slushy road, his arms tucked under themselves for warmth. With each mile he set behind him it got colder, and he saw nothing but a wide, white horizon ahead. The sounds of birds and insects were gone now, and only the howling of the wind accompanied him. 'No caravans or travelers this way,' he thought with a scarf wrapped over his head and across his face. He went on for three more hours with no signs of life until a wooden sign caught his eye. He approached it since he was now having a hard time seeing exactly where the snow-caked road was anymore, and took hold of it to stop it from moving with the harsh wind. It read, [ Now enters ye the Snowfold ].
Caring not what the Snowfold was and guessing it was some sort of safe haven, the Bosmer turned north, following the pointing signs. Each one said something new, but like the last: [ Snowfold welcomes ye ], [ Mead runs as water in Snowfold ], [ Thirsk knows not Snowfold ]. After four or five signs he stopped taking the time to read them, and continued on for a short while longer before arriving at what he had guessed was Snowfold. From the advertisements he expected an enormous mead hall with the sound of the pouring of beer and merrymaking, but it appeared the Snowfold had long been abandoned. In fact, it was the ruin of a once prominant lodge. He approached it and found its roof to have caved in, some walls sundered, and the second floor to have been burnt down. He looked to the ground to find yet another sign that read, [Snowfold - Warmth from the Cold ].
His hope of finding shelter gone, he pulled open the double doors to see what had become of the inside. He entered a small space between the front and inner doors, put his hands on the handles, but stopped just as he was about to open them. He heard something he would not have expected to hear in such a place; the roaring of a great fire, chewing of food, men laughing and the pouring of drinks. He was greatly intrigued and peeked through crack in the entranceway, and found the entire hall to still be in one piece! He quickly glanced out and to the roof, but it was caved in. He went around the building and saw that the walls had been destroyed, and nothing was left of the place but a broken stool and a dented axe. He circled the establishment once more and returned to the inner doors, looked again, and was amazed to find an intact room within.
There was a large fireplace filled with burning logs in the back which sent its heat up the chimney and across the mead hall. Thick wooden pillars lined each wall with a bench and a small table at the base of each, and under them a gray-tiled floor. Drunken, laughing Nords sat and guzzled their tankards, tore away at haunches of meat, and basked each other's happiness and joy. Gaenor was still speechless, as if he dared to say anything lest they find him there and bring him in. The scene looked extravagant from outside in the blizzard, but this elf knew better than to involve himself in the affairs of such mysterious people. "How are they where nothing is?" he whispered to himself. He heard the snap of a twig behind him and spun around with his sword at the ready, accidentally kicking the doors open with his foot. The Nords looked to him in question, then to the figure before him.
He was very tall, but not as stout and muscular as a Nord would be. He wore a tall, cylindrical hat with ear flaps and a thick scarf with a long woolen cloak all around, and worn black boots on his large feet. There was a broach on his chest bearing the national symbol of Valenwood, a green Seftal tree and a paw, which made Gaenor wonder even more while cautiously lowering his Blade. The Nords, seeing as he seemed to be no threat to them, turned back to their drinks and conversations. The stranger spoke with a deep yet friendly tone, "I greet you warmly, son of Thelan. It appears you are to be the hero in this tale, eh?" The Bosmer did not recognize his voice but trusted him enough from his pin to sheath his weapon. "You knew my father?" he asked, turning momentarily to the Nords.
"All in due time, as always. Come inside and share with me a drink."
--------------------
EDIT: fixed a spelling mistake.
Nice,
In fact you get a well deserved Jonajosa
:goodjob:
In fact you get a well deserved Jonajosa
:goodjob:
They both entered through the wooden doorway, first the tall man, then cautiously followed by Gaenor. He kept looking back outside into the freezing cold, then forward to the warm mead hall, with the quest off his mind for the moment and concentrating on how he was seeing what he saw. "I assure you," said the man, "each and every one of your questions will be answered." He took a seat in the corner and pushed a stool out for the elf. "Believe me when I say I am a friend, but I cannot tell you my name. I have not been sent here but come of my own will." The Bosmer was still looking around the room in wonder. "Perhaps I should explain Snowfold first.
"Almost ten years ago this place was as you see it now; filled with happy Nords, food and drink, warmth, and joy. The hall was led by Hroskmir Stonetooth," he motioned to the throne at the back wall, "who you can see there. He earned his leadership by performing a great feat of strength, as would be assumed. His task was to slay Jkoryl, a fearsome demon who had plagued the countryside of southeastern Skyrim for a two centuries. He sought after the menace for many a year, and finally returned with its head. The beast claimed his arm, though it was a small price to pay for insuring the safety of his land, and for the high seat of the Snowfold."
"That's a wonderful story," said Gaenor, "but you haven't told me how this place can exist!" The man waved his large hand for drinks, and one of the Nords brought a tankard for each of them. "Yes, that. You see, this place does not exist. In fact, the ale that was just brought to us is nothing but air. The explanation for this is quite simple and relates to your quest, Gaenor. Henar can do things you knew not about." Hearing his name again, the elf moved in closer and leaned his elbows to his knees in suspense. "Shortly after Hroskmir's ascension to the throne," he continued calmly, holding the mug of mead with his enveloping hands, "Olkair Henar came up from Cyrodiil in search of your Blade. Of course it wasn't yours then, for Nels Llendo had stolen it and was, at that time, robbing a food cart in Morrowind.
"He ravaged this hall, ripping apart these fine people limb from limb," he said as he motioned his arm across the hall, "They say the very flames of rage within his heart burned the place down, and the fire did not cease, even in this weather, for days." Gaenor looked down at his mead in disgust at what he had heard, and it fed his hatred for both Iranon and Henar. "However, that was not enough. As you undoubtedly know, Olkair Henar was once a Bosmer such as yourself. You must also be aware of the Forest's Essence, something which all Bosmer carry deep in their souls. The love of the trees, flowers, and the Great Forest that covers this world makes it up, and allows your people to commune with nature in ways of which other races can only dream.
"Upon Henar's gripping of the Blade of Cinders in Argonia, his essence was lost, replaced with that of darkness. This power was unleashed upon Snowfold, destroying yet imprisoning it, trapped forevermore between the realms of the living and dead. Jkoryl's head being subject to this force had born itself anew, and to this day roams Skyrim as it did before." A drunken Nord overheard the man's last sentence and replied loudly, "Jkoryl's dead! HAIL HROSKMIR!!" The hall thundered in cheer and laughter, then returned to conversation. The stranger put down his drink and stood, the top of his hat almost touching the ceiling. "My friend, your quest is dire, but with Jkoryl on the loose, your enemies matter not. When innocent lives are at the mercy of a creature revived by one such as Knight Henar there is no time for anything else save preparation for death. Take this," he said as he removed a package from under his coat. "Go now, and become that which the Goddess claimed you will be!"
With that, Gaenor grabbed the package and rushed out the door into the cold afternoon. He knew his role as hero would be fulfilled, and with the anger over what Iranon and Henar had done, he would not allow it anymore. "The time for cowardly wood elves has ended, the time for heroes has come," said the tall stranger behind him. He sat back down and drank, muttering to himself between sips. "May fire and light be on your side, my friend. We will meet again." He finished the rest and left the mead hall, vanishing into the snowy chaos of Skyrim toward Cyrodiil.
--------------------
"Almost ten years ago this place was as you see it now; filled with happy Nords, food and drink, warmth, and joy. The hall was led by Hroskmir Stonetooth," he motioned to the throne at the back wall, "who you can see there. He earned his leadership by performing a great feat of strength, as would be assumed. His task was to slay Jkoryl, a fearsome demon who had plagued the countryside of southeastern Skyrim for a two centuries. He sought after the menace for many a year, and finally returned with its head. The beast claimed his arm, though it was a small price to pay for insuring the safety of his land, and for the high seat of the Snowfold."
"That's a wonderful story," said Gaenor, "but you haven't told me how this place can exist!" The man waved his large hand for drinks, and one of the Nords brought a tankard for each of them. "Yes, that. You see, this place does not exist. In fact, the ale that was just brought to us is nothing but air. The explanation for this is quite simple and relates to your quest, Gaenor. Henar can do things you knew not about." Hearing his name again, the elf moved in closer and leaned his elbows to his knees in suspense. "Shortly after Hroskmir's ascension to the throne," he continued calmly, holding the mug of mead with his enveloping hands, "Olkair Henar came up from Cyrodiil in search of your Blade. Of course it wasn't yours then, for Nels Llendo had stolen it and was, at that time, robbing a food cart in Morrowind.
"He ravaged this hall, ripping apart these fine people limb from limb," he said as he motioned his arm across the hall, "They say the very flames of rage within his heart burned the place down, and the fire did not cease, even in this weather, for days." Gaenor looked down at his mead in disgust at what he had heard, and it fed his hatred for both Iranon and Henar. "However, that was not enough. As you undoubtedly know, Olkair Henar was once a Bosmer such as yourself. You must also be aware of the Forest's Essence, something which all Bosmer carry deep in their souls. The love of the trees, flowers, and the Great Forest that covers this world makes it up, and allows your people to commune with nature in ways of which other races can only dream.
"Upon Henar's gripping of the Blade of Cinders in Argonia, his essence was lost, replaced with that of darkness. This power was unleashed upon Snowfold, destroying yet imprisoning it, trapped forevermore between the realms of the living and dead. Jkoryl's head being subject to this force had born itself anew, and to this day roams Skyrim as it did before." A drunken Nord overheard the man's last sentence and replied loudly, "Jkoryl's dead! HAIL HROSKMIR!!" The hall thundered in cheer and laughter, then returned to conversation. The stranger put down his drink and stood, the top of his hat almost touching the ceiling. "My friend, your quest is dire, but with Jkoryl on the loose, your enemies matter not. When innocent lives are at the mercy of a creature revived by one such as Knight Henar there is no time for anything else save preparation for death. Take this," he said as he removed a package from under his coat. "Go now, and become that which the Goddess claimed you will be!"
With that, Gaenor grabbed the package and rushed out the door into the cold afternoon. He knew his role as hero would be fulfilled, and with the anger over what Iranon and Henar had done, he would not allow it anymore. "The time for cowardly wood elves has ended, the time for heroes has come," said the tall stranger behind him. He sat back down and drank, muttering to himself between sips. "May fire and light be on your side, my friend. We will meet again." He finished the rest and left the mead hall, vanishing into the snowy chaos of Skyrim toward Cyrodiil.
--------------------
He tore open the paper wrapping to find a large, heavy fur coat that closed down to his ankles with buttons and thick string. He pulled the hood over his head and face, and with his scarf, he was now as warm as he was within Snowfold. He thought aloud among the roaring and whistling winds about his encounter with the stranger and the Nords. "How did he know so much about my quest and what Azura told me? Is he a messenger from the Daedra? What if he is leading me to my doom?" He knew not any answers, but he felt it was his duty as a hero of Tamriel to find and banish any evil that may or may not dwell in the land. It is this duty that bound him and made certain to all who surveyed his actions that he was no clumsy, happy-go-lucky wood elf, but an iron-hearted warrior fighting for all that was good in the land.
It was almost impossible to see anything but white, even for a hawk-eyed Bosmer, and the road disappeared beneath him in mounds of snow. He was still running but didn't know where, so he pulled out his map to get his bearings. He crouched and examined it within the folds of his coat and discovered something he had not noticed before; a small portion of western Skyrim had been circled with red ink and marked with an X. In the center of it was a symbol of a demon's head with the Daedric rune for 'J' behind it. "Jkoryl," he said, dreading the truth which the stranger spoke. He pocketed it and looked up to the sky with one arm over his eyes, but the sun was invisible in the blizzard.
Now virtually blind, he continued in the direction he was going, assuming he left Snowfold the way the road had lead him, to the west. Hours passed, and if he had not been given the fur coat, he would surely have frozen. He couldn't believe how much of a barren tundra Skyrim was, and before actually being there, thought it impossible to be so cold anywhere in Nirn, let alone Tamriel. The snow shot down from the sky in sheets, making it futile for anyone, he thought, to see where they were going. 'How could the Nords possibly live in such a place?!' he wondered in disbelief as he trudged on through the thick frost. Fortunately for him, it was so thick that he was able to walk on top of it rather than into it, making his journey slightly easier and his feet warmer.
He saw no place to stop for rest, so he pulled off his pack and brushed off the caked snow as he walked. He searched it for edible food but found everything, even his firewood, to have turned stiff and useless. This made him nervous since he knew not the area, and even if he did, figured he would never find a town or passing traveller for miles. He tossed it to the ground, cracking the brittle ice, and moved on. Three more hours passed and it was getting dark. The blizzard was dying down but the temperature remained, and with each passing minute Gaenor was able to see clearer through the flurries. Eventually, he could finally see the silhouette of the sun behind the sea of gray clouds above, and it moved quickly down past the horizon.
At last the snowy madness had ended, and the relieved Bosmer stopped and sat in mild exhaustion. "So trying are these lands for one such as myself," he said aloud, enjoying the solitude. "My legs ache from walking, but it's only been a few miles." He rubbed his knees and stared all around him, but remembering he was facing in the direction he was to go. There were no trees, bushes, hills, or even homesteads; in fact, there was no civilization of any kind to be seen. The place was uninhabitable, and not even a demon would dwell there, thought Gaenor. 'There is nothing to kill, plague and destroy. Jkoyrl must be further westward.' Convinced now from both the stranger in Snowfold and the mark on his map, he stood a short time later and continued in search of the fiend.
He was tired and hungry once again, but it was a familiar feeling by now. Over time he had learned to focus on other things rather than his appetite and physical well-being, and in this case he admired his surroundings. Indeed, although there was nothing but flat ground and sky, it was beautiful in a way. The white of the snow expanded for miles and disappeared into the bottom of the sky ahead, gradually changing color as the sun descended from pale gray to brilliant purple. The clouds above him moved with incredible speed and it seemed as if the elf was walking deeper and deeper into another dimension. He was enthralled in its utter magnificence, and wished the viscious clawing from behind hadn't cut his appreciation of the land so short.
--------------------
It was almost impossible to see anything but white, even for a hawk-eyed Bosmer, and the road disappeared beneath him in mounds of snow. He was still running but didn't know where, so he pulled out his map to get his bearings. He crouched and examined it within the folds of his coat and discovered something he had not noticed before; a small portion of western Skyrim had been circled with red ink and marked with an X. In the center of it was a symbol of a demon's head with the Daedric rune for 'J' behind it. "Jkoryl," he said, dreading the truth which the stranger spoke. He pocketed it and looked up to the sky with one arm over his eyes, but the sun was invisible in the blizzard.
Now virtually blind, he continued in the direction he was going, assuming he left Snowfold the way the road had lead him, to the west. Hours passed, and if he had not been given the fur coat, he would surely have frozen. He couldn't believe how much of a barren tundra Skyrim was, and before actually being there, thought it impossible to be so cold anywhere in Nirn, let alone Tamriel. The snow shot down from the sky in sheets, making it futile for anyone, he thought, to see where they were going. 'How could the Nords possibly live in such a place?!' he wondered in disbelief as he trudged on through the thick frost. Fortunately for him, it was so thick that he was able to walk on top of it rather than into it, making his journey slightly easier and his feet warmer.
He saw no place to stop for rest, so he pulled off his pack and brushed off the caked snow as he walked. He searched it for edible food but found everything, even his firewood, to have turned stiff and useless. This made him nervous since he knew not the area, and even if he did, figured he would never find a town or passing traveller for miles. He tossed it to the ground, cracking the brittle ice, and moved on. Three more hours passed and it was getting dark. The blizzard was dying down but the temperature remained, and with each passing minute Gaenor was able to see clearer through the flurries. Eventually, he could finally see the silhouette of the sun behind the sea of gray clouds above, and it moved quickly down past the horizon.
At last the snowy madness had ended, and the relieved Bosmer stopped and sat in mild exhaustion. "So trying are these lands for one such as myself," he said aloud, enjoying the solitude. "My legs ache from walking, but it's only been a few miles." He rubbed his knees and stared all around him, but remembering he was facing in the direction he was to go. There were no trees, bushes, hills, or even homesteads; in fact, there was no civilization of any kind to be seen. The place was uninhabitable, and not even a demon would dwell there, thought Gaenor. 'There is nothing to kill, plague and destroy. Jkoyrl must be further westward.' Convinced now from both the stranger in Snowfold and the mark on his map, he stood a short time later and continued in search of the fiend.
He was tired and hungry once again, but it was a familiar feeling by now. Over time he had learned to focus on other things rather than his appetite and physical well-being, and in this case he admired his surroundings. Indeed, although there was nothing but flat ground and sky, it was beautiful in a way. The white of the snow expanded for miles and disappeared into the bottom of the sky ahead, gradually changing color as the sun descended from pale gray to brilliant purple. The clouds above him moved with incredible speed and it seemed as if the elf was walking deeper and deeper into another dimension. He was enthralled in its utter magnificence, and wished the viscious clawing from behind hadn't cut his appreciation of the land so short.
--------------------
Gaenor had been slashed along his back, from rib to shoulder, by what felt like a large creatures' talon. He shouted out in pain as the cold air hit the open gash through his heavy coat, and he fell limply to the ground on his open palms. His eyes shut hard as his flesh tore along the sides of the wound from falling, and he could feel nothing else. He slid onto his elbows and slowly turned, gritting his teeth, to see what had attacked him. Before he could see anything, he heard a piercing screech made by something that sounded as if it had four voices grouped into one, each at a different tone. It shrieked at the elf in ferocity, and at once ceased with a suddenly high pitched, nasal squeal.
At last he saw it; a half-bat, half-serpent matted with thick fur over tough scales. Enormous wings spread from its sides that spanned over three yards each from which spiked bone sprouted at every new segment. Its face consisted of seven large eyes on its forehead, a vampire bats' nose and a wide hole under where a chin would be for a mouth, lined with sharp, cone-like teeth. It was completely black except for a giant, white horn pointing backward atop its head. It stopped flapping and lowered itself to reveal two muscular arms and legs, with daggers for claws. With its long, fatty snake body, it was roughly four times the size of the Bosmer. He descended to the ice with a powerful boom and the powdery snow around him trembled and flew away.
He retracted his wings behind him and closed his hands, then let out a forceful battlecry like the first. Many would be petrified in terror at this.. some may even have had enough of a consciousness at that point to flee. The elf turned away from Jkoryl but kept him in his periferal vision, and stared down at the ground blankly. The beast blinked, from left to right and down each of its three rows of eyes, in partial confusion; he was used to such creatures as Gaenor being stricken with fear at his display and exhibition of strength, but he ran not. Bewilderment quickly changed itself to anger which brought with it a need for blood and death. It screeched again to the sky and shook with rage, then looked back to his prey.
But the Bosmer was different from his other victims; he had one special gift that had been given to him in Mournhold, but without his knowing. This gift allowed him to see past fear, past the common view of the world, and most importantly, past of what he thought he was capable. Without being taught, he knew he could do much, much more than what he only thought he could do, and it was this that showed his true self in such dire situations. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, concentrating with all his focus on his amulet, his Blade, and the power they held. Laying before Jkoryl there in Skyrim, his back rended and a nightmarish demon standing over him, he knew he would become what Azura had called him. He would take the title of Bearer of Fire and Light, the bearer of the Blade of Cinders and Gaenor's Amulet.
Pain was nothing to him anymore. His injury became numb not by the cold, but by his own inner power building inside him. He stood and faced his opponent, the demon Jkoryl who had plagued the countryside for centuries. The creature could not see his face from under his hood, but he sensed him smile. It let out a furious scream which he knew would deter the elf, but it was pointless. Gaenor had become new; whole. He came to the realization that with his amulet and sword, nothing was impossible, and the traits of the physical world were mere illusions. He had been blessed by Azura, Queen of the Night Sky, and his new aspect of the world would be shaped as if she was looking through his eyes. It was finally time for the little Bosmer to prove his worth.
The demon flew at him with every ounce of strength it had, bolstered by rage and the darkness that was his very soul. It swiped at the elf but it missed, and he launched himself with spread wings into the air and looked down to find that his enemy had not appeared to move away from his attack. It shot down again and clawed wildly, feeling the blows rain down on Gaenor.. but he was fooled. It stopped and threw itself back, its talons clinging to the icey ground and coming to a halt. He fixed his eyes on the Bosmer but quickly turned away, for his Amulet exploded with blue and white light in a ray aimed directly at his foe. Jkoryl pulled both arms up and crossed them in an attempt to deflect it, but the force was overpowering and it pushed him away. With strength that could lift a giant, the demon was helpless before this new power and snarled visciously as he was slid across the sleet. The Amulet grew dim as quickly as it lit, and all Jkoryl saw before his death was the flames of the Blade coming down on him and erupting his very body in a ball of fire that set the tundra aglow for miles in an orange light.
--------------------
EDIT: fixed a spelling error *bonks his head*
At last he saw it; a half-bat, half-serpent matted with thick fur over tough scales. Enormous wings spread from its sides that spanned over three yards each from which spiked bone sprouted at every new segment. Its face consisted of seven large eyes on its forehead, a vampire bats' nose and a wide hole under where a chin would be for a mouth, lined with sharp, cone-like teeth. It was completely black except for a giant, white horn pointing backward atop its head. It stopped flapping and lowered itself to reveal two muscular arms and legs, with daggers for claws. With its long, fatty snake body, it was roughly four times the size of the Bosmer. He descended to the ice with a powerful boom and the powdery snow around him trembled and flew away.
He retracted his wings behind him and closed his hands, then let out a forceful battlecry like the first. Many would be petrified in terror at this.. some may even have had enough of a consciousness at that point to flee. The elf turned away from Jkoryl but kept him in his periferal vision, and stared down at the ground blankly. The beast blinked, from left to right and down each of its three rows of eyes, in partial confusion; he was used to such creatures as Gaenor being stricken with fear at his display and exhibition of strength, but he ran not. Bewilderment quickly changed itself to anger which brought with it a need for blood and death. It screeched again to the sky and shook with rage, then looked back to his prey.
But the Bosmer was different from his other victims; he had one special gift that had been given to him in Mournhold, but without his knowing. This gift allowed him to see past fear, past the common view of the world, and most importantly, past of what he thought he was capable. Without being taught, he knew he could do much, much more than what he only thought he could do, and it was this that showed his true self in such dire situations. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, concentrating with all his focus on his amulet, his Blade, and the power they held. Laying before Jkoryl there in Skyrim, his back rended and a nightmarish demon standing over him, he knew he would become what Azura had called him. He would take the title of Bearer of Fire and Light, the bearer of the Blade of Cinders and Gaenor's Amulet.
Pain was nothing to him anymore. His injury became numb not by the cold, but by his own inner power building inside him. He stood and faced his opponent, the demon Jkoryl who had plagued the countryside for centuries. The creature could not see his face from under his hood, but he sensed him smile. It let out a furious scream which he knew would deter the elf, but it was pointless. Gaenor had become new; whole. He came to the realization that with his amulet and sword, nothing was impossible, and the traits of the physical world were mere illusions. He had been blessed by Azura, Queen of the Night Sky, and his new aspect of the world would be shaped as if she was looking through his eyes. It was finally time for the little Bosmer to prove his worth.
The demon flew at him with every ounce of strength it had, bolstered by rage and the darkness that was his very soul. It swiped at the elf but it missed, and he launched himself with spread wings into the air and looked down to find that his enemy had not appeared to move away from his attack. It shot down again and clawed wildly, feeling the blows rain down on Gaenor.. but he was fooled. It stopped and threw itself back, its talons clinging to the icey ground and coming to a halt. He fixed his eyes on the Bosmer but quickly turned away, for his Amulet exploded with blue and white light in a ray aimed directly at his foe. Jkoryl pulled both arms up and crossed them in an attempt to deflect it, but the force was overpowering and it pushed him away. With strength that could lift a giant, the demon was helpless before this new power and snarled visciously as he was slid across the sleet. The Amulet grew dim as quickly as it lit, and all Jkoryl saw before his death was the flames of the Blade coming down on him and erupting his very body in a ball of fire that set the tundra aglow for miles in an orange light.
--------------------
EDIT: fixed a spelling error *bonks his head*
The flames of the Blade ceased as Gaenor sheathed it, and his Amulet dimmed once more. He stood before Jkoryl, now a smoking mess of melted skin and cleaved bone, in victory. He removed its ruined head and took it with him in the chance that he would meet the stranger from Snowfold again, and prove he had attained the title of Bearer of Fire and Light. The gash that the demon inflicted had killed Gaenor, but from his defeat arose a new one, able to harness the powers of his Amulet and the Blade of Cinders. The old Gaenor was dead. Now, instead of a sigh of relief and a clever joke, he was solomn and focused as he continued south to Cyrodiil.
Although he could no longer feel physical pain, it still affected him as it would any other mortal. Blood made his coat heavy as it continued to drip out of the gaping wound on his back, and soon after his began again his journey, he felt light-headed and dizzy. It would not be long before he passed out in the tundra, eventually bleeding to death. Somewhere in his mind he knew this, and he thought on how to seal the opening. One mile afterwards, he came to a conclusion. He equipped his sword, ignited it, and mended himself. From then on he felt almost completely well, but still needed food.
Three more miles and the elf realized the downside to his newfound power. He could feel no pain; this was as much a gift as it was a curse. When it battle, if an enemy were to injure him in some way, he would be unhindered and go on fighting.. however, if the injury was fatal, he would pay no mind to it, and die without knowing what caused his death. This was something he would need to learn how to cope with, because there was no turning back from the path he had taken. He could feel his stomach rumbling and knew he had to eat to maintain his mortal body. Eating was no longer a luxury.
Morning broke as he climbed past the steep hills leading into Cyrodiil, the seat of Imperial power in Tamriel. He took note of his new, grassy surroundings, but did not admire it. It was almost as if he was no longer a Bosmer at all, but something different altogether. His love of nature was gone, and the only thing on his mind was his quest. The hills spanned for miles and he continued on until his legs could go no further. It was a strange feeling, toppling to the ground without knowing why, but he assumed he needed rest and energy to move on further. He took out his map and examined it to get his bearings, then fainted from exhaustion.
==========
Knight Henar rode across the Ascadian Isles to Mournhold with demonic speed. His master instructed him to "question the townspeople" as Garonar had commanded, which obviously implied to slaughter everyone and anyone who wouldn't answer him. "Whether they know or not," Iranon told his puppet, "kill them after you've asked. What good are they alive?" This pleased Henar's dark heart, as it meant he would be killing at least someone without justified purpose that day. His steeds' hooves cracked the cobblestone path, and the trees and foliage swayed away as he passed. This being was the enemy of life, and all of nature knew it.
He arrived at the gates and halted before the Ordinators who guarded it. They backed up as far as they could go, sensing within him an indescribable evil, and seeing what he was on the outside. He was short like a Bosmer, somewhat taller than the average, with no hair or clothing on any part of his body. Bones stuck out and peered through open spaces between his remnants of gray, decayed flesh, and both eyes had been removed. Battle scars were painted across his skin, the still-unhealed ones inhabited by parasitic maggots. His mount was similar, except it was armored with silver/black, spiked plate on its head and back. He jumped down from the saddle and bowed before the guards, then spoke between cackles in a ghastly, broken voice.
"Seen thee Gaenor? If no, you die. If yes, where? Then you die. Either way, your fate is with me now. Prepare, Mournhold, for Death itself is at your doorstep!"
--------------------
Although he could no longer feel physical pain, it still affected him as it would any other mortal. Blood made his coat heavy as it continued to drip out of the gaping wound on his back, and soon after his began again his journey, he felt light-headed and dizzy. It would not be long before he passed out in the tundra, eventually bleeding to death. Somewhere in his mind he knew this, and he thought on how to seal the opening. One mile afterwards, he came to a conclusion. He equipped his sword, ignited it, and mended himself. From then on he felt almost completely well, but still needed food.
Three more miles and the elf realized the downside to his newfound power. He could feel no pain; this was as much a gift as it was a curse. When it battle, if an enemy were to injure him in some way, he would be unhindered and go on fighting.. however, if the injury was fatal, he would pay no mind to it, and die without knowing what caused his death. This was something he would need to learn how to cope with, because there was no turning back from the path he had taken. He could feel his stomach rumbling and knew he had to eat to maintain his mortal body. Eating was no longer a luxury.
Morning broke as he climbed past the steep hills leading into Cyrodiil, the seat of Imperial power in Tamriel. He took note of his new, grassy surroundings, but did not admire it. It was almost as if he was no longer a Bosmer at all, but something different altogether. His love of nature was gone, and the only thing on his mind was his quest. The hills spanned for miles and he continued on until his legs could go no further. It was a strange feeling, toppling to the ground without knowing why, but he assumed he needed rest and energy to move on further. He took out his map and examined it to get his bearings, then fainted from exhaustion.
==========
Knight Henar rode across the Ascadian Isles to Mournhold with demonic speed. His master instructed him to "question the townspeople" as Garonar had commanded, which obviously implied to slaughter everyone and anyone who wouldn't answer him. "Whether they know or not," Iranon told his puppet, "kill them after you've asked. What good are they alive?" This pleased Henar's dark heart, as it meant he would be killing at least someone without justified purpose that day. His steeds' hooves cracked the cobblestone path, and the trees and foliage swayed away as he passed. This being was the enemy of life, and all of nature knew it.
He arrived at the gates and halted before the Ordinators who guarded it. They backed up as far as they could go, sensing within him an indescribable evil, and seeing what he was on the outside. He was short like a Bosmer, somewhat taller than the average, with no hair or clothing on any part of his body. Bones stuck out and peered through open spaces between his remnants of gray, decayed flesh, and both eyes had been removed. Battle scars were painted across his skin, the still-unhealed ones inhabited by parasitic maggots. His mount was similar, except it was armored with silver/black, spiked plate on its head and back. He jumped down from the saddle and bowed before the guards, then spoke between cackles in a ghastly, broken voice.
"Seen thee Gaenor? If no, you die. If yes, where? Then you die. Either way, your fate is with me now. Prepare, Mournhold, for Death itself is at your doorstep!"
--------------------
Gaenor awoke hours later at the spot he collapsed on, near the side of a grassy hill. He slowly stood and removed his heavy coat so his body, now disengaged from his senses, would have an easier time travelling. He continued over the hill and followed his worn map to where the town of Eredjan was located. He walked quickly but his legs would fail from time to time, causing him to pull himself up and walk slower, sometimes even crawl until enough strength returned to him to stand again. His body was so lacking in energy that he would brace himself on nearby boulders and trees so as not to simply fall to the ground.
Along the way he spotted a forest boar, and with the last ounce of strength he had, slayed and cooked it through with one swipe of his Blade. He had no way of knowing if it was enough to satisfy his need for food or even how it tasted, but after devouring it in entirety, he was able to walk normally and without much trouble. Four hours passed across the rolling fields of Cyrodiil, and at last he could see the town. It was small, quaint and of Imperial design, and even included a fort near the mountains by which it rested. The weather was fine and breezy, and the flames of the elf's sword flickered in the wind. A guard stationed at the watch tower near the front entrance squinted awkwardly off into the distance, and immediately called for sentries.
"Commander, it could very well be him.. he fits the description as far as I can tell."
"Private, he's a mile away and.. it smells as if you've been drinking. Be cautious, and let him come to us. We don't want men outside with no cover if this stranger is hostile."
"Yes, sir!" The watchman waited until his commander left the tower until throwing his jug of beer out the side window and wiping his mouth, then called for the infantry below to hold back. Gaenor saw them in clear view and knew he presented himself in an aggressive manner, sword unsheathed and ablaze, but he would not trust these men so quickly. He advanced toward the town at a regular pace as the men watched, hands at their swords.
He came within firing range when the commander called out to him from behind the line of soldiers. "In the name of the Emperor, halt!" he yelled in a powerful tone. Gaenor stopped where he was in cooperation, showing them he was not looking for bloodshed. "State your name." The elf shouted back in as strong a voice as the commander, "Gaenor of Valenwood."
"Valenwood, eh?" the commander said to his men. "This could be him. Swords, men!"
The soldiers promptly unsheathed their weapons in unison and took a battle stance, their shields held just below their eyes.
"I bring no threat. Only news from Solstheim." Gaenor said. He then threw the head of Jkoryl to the ground in plain sight for all to see, and after a repulsed gasp of astonishment, the commander gave his order; "This Bosmer is not to be harmed while in Eredjan, and will receive lodgings at the inn for as long as is needed. To your posts!" Gaenor unequipped his Blade and the men marvelled at how it so instantly extinguished its flame.
They led him to a small, wooden census room with a table and some chairs with a bookcase at the opposite end of the door. There was a roaring fireplace in the corner, and unbeknownst to Gaenor, made the room feel much warmer than the windy plains outside. He and the commander sat down and called for a medic to care for the elf's wound on his back. "Why did you not take me to your fort for healing?" he asked. The commander kept a stern look on his face and replied, "I don't allow strangers in my fort. Anyway, you don't seem too bothered by it. Why is that?"
"Is this interrogation?"
"It's certainly not a tea party. Your sword matches the description of the Blade of Cinders, Knight Henar's weapon. Show it to me."
"I'm afraid if you touched it you would be disintegrated."
The commander grunted in impatience. "Remove it and show me its markings." He motioned for the guards within the room to position their spears at Gaenor's neck for insurance as he presented it to the commander.
After an hour of questioning and explanation, the commander satisfied all of his assumptions of whether Gaenor was Knight Henar, and told him he could stay in town for a yet-undetermined period. "I don't want him leaving the perimeter without me knowing it," he told his men. "He isn't Henar but he has his Blade.. which is very disturbing. He poses no harm to Eredjan, however, and so he can stay.. keep an eye on him at all times. Dismissed!" The elf took his room key from the lobby, pulled himself up the stairs and fell into a deep sleep on the unappreciated softness and comfort of his bed.
--------------------
Along the way he spotted a forest boar, and with the last ounce of strength he had, slayed and cooked it through with one swipe of his Blade. He had no way of knowing if it was enough to satisfy his need for food or even how it tasted, but after devouring it in entirety, he was able to walk normally and without much trouble. Four hours passed across the rolling fields of Cyrodiil, and at last he could see the town. It was small, quaint and of Imperial design, and even included a fort near the mountains by which it rested. The weather was fine and breezy, and the flames of the elf's sword flickered in the wind. A guard stationed at the watch tower near the front entrance squinted awkwardly off into the distance, and immediately called for sentries.
"Commander, it could very well be him.. he fits the description as far as I can tell."
"Private, he's a mile away and.. it smells as if you've been drinking. Be cautious, and let him come to us. We don't want men outside with no cover if this stranger is hostile."
"Yes, sir!" The watchman waited until his commander left the tower until throwing his jug of beer out the side window and wiping his mouth, then called for the infantry below to hold back. Gaenor saw them in clear view and knew he presented himself in an aggressive manner, sword unsheathed and ablaze, but he would not trust these men so quickly. He advanced toward the town at a regular pace as the men watched, hands at their swords.
He came within firing range when the commander called out to him from behind the line of soldiers. "In the name of the Emperor, halt!" he yelled in a powerful tone. Gaenor stopped where he was in cooperation, showing them he was not looking for bloodshed. "State your name." The elf shouted back in as strong a voice as the commander, "Gaenor of Valenwood."
"Valenwood, eh?" the commander said to his men. "This could be him. Swords, men!"
The soldiers promptly unsheathed their weapons in unison and took a battle stance, their shields held just below their eyes.
"I bring no threat. Only news from Solstheim." Gaenor said. He then threw the head of Jkoryl to the ground in plain sight for all to see, and after a repulsed gasp of astonishment, the commander gave his order; "This Bosmer is not to be harmed while in Eredjan, and will receive lodgings at the inn for as long as is needed. To your posts!" Gaenor unequipped his Blade and the men marvelled at how it so instantly extinguished its flame.
They led him to a small, wooden census room with a table and some chairs with a bookcase at the opposite end of the door. There was a roaring fireplace in the corner, and unbeknownst to Gaenor, made the room feel much warmer than the windy plains outside. He and the commander sat down and called for a medic to care for the elf's wound on his back. "Why did you not take me to your fort for healing?" he asked. The commander kept a stern look on his face and replied, "I don't allow strangers in my fort. Anyway, you don't seem too bothered by it. Why is that?"
"Is this interrogation?"
"It's certainly not a tea party. Your sword matches the description of the Blade of Cinders, Knight Henar's weapon. Show it to me."
"I'm afraid if you touched it you would be disintegrated."
The commander grunted in impatience. "Remove it and show me its markings." He motioned for the guards within the room to position their spears at Gaenor's neck for insurance as he presented it to the commander.
After an hour of questioning and explanation, the commander satisfied all of his assumptions of whether Gaenor was Knight Henar, and told him he could stay in town for a yet-undetermined period. "I don't want him leaving the perimeter without me knowing it," he told his men. "He isn't Henar but he has his Blade.. which is very disturbing. He poses no harm to Eredjan, however, and so he can stay.. keep an eye on him at all times. Dismissed!" The elf took his room key from the lobby, pulled himself up the stairs and fell into a deep sleep on the unappreciated softness and comfort of his bed.
--------------------
By morning of the next day Mournhold was completely destroyed. Every guard tower, wall fortification, house and even tree were either sundered or burnt to the ground. The remains of the once great capital of Morrowind lay a smoldering ruin. None survived but the one who caused its downfall - Knight Henar. The dead lay in a heap at the center of the Bazaar with Olkair atop it, laughing uncontrollably for reasons he did not know. He was but a puppet, and existed only as the shell of an undead Bosmer from centuries past. He leapt off and called for his steed, which trotted to him on flaming hooves, grunting ash from its nostrils. He mounted and sped off west, still cackling as he went.
Iranon took refuge as instructed in an abandoned Imperial gatehouse on a trail that now led to a dead end in the forest. It had been used years ago as a trade route from east to western Morrowind, but was no longer used due to lack of troops. It was dark without windows and was bare save for a tattered cot and a bucket, but the Argonian necromancer needed luxuries not. He held still his arms before him and his kept his stare straight, muttering incoherently to the unlearned ear. He instructed Henar to ride down the path until Gaenor's presence was picked up again, then relaxed his position and blinked until his eyes were moist enough to see clearly once more.
==========
Gaenor awoke late that afternoon to the muffled sound of yelling and clattering metal. He looked out the open window and found the entire infantry at the front gate, their shields held high just below their faces and their swords drawn. The commander stood behind them shouting orders to hold back and wait for "him" to make the first move. The elf walked downstairs and toward the commotion when he was stopped by a guardsman. "Stand down, soldier," said the commander, and Gaenor continued to him. "We have a situation. If your interest in this town includes protecting the innocent people who reside in it, grab your sword. If not, you're not wanted here."
He took up his Blade and stood afront the guards, now knowing what they were up against. It appeared that a very well-dressed Dunmer weilding a considerably large battleaxe was advancing from the hills in the north. He wore no armor but looked to be a statesman or noble of great importance, his jeweled rings and overshirt glimmering brightly enough for even them to see from so far away. None of the Imperials around him had keen enough eyes to see, but Gaenor noticed the crazed look in his eyes.. one of desperation and madness. He was walking slowly toward the gate, saying something incomprehensible to them until he came closer.
"Told me it's mine.. finders keepers.. erek dian tor grodek.. I can smell you, Gaenor." The infantry looked around at each other puzzled but turned immediately back to the maniac, who had now burst into a sprint. "What in the hell is this lunatic talking about? What language is that?!" asked himself aloud in frustration. It was then that the Bosmer recognized him. Tall, well-dressed Dunmer with a short goatee, hair in a golden clasp, and wanting something from Gaenor; Nels Llendo. He had returned for the Blade he took from him on the road those years ago when first entering Mournhold. "Pay no mind," stated Gaenor, "He just wants his sword back."
"Erek dian tor grodek, fools! Know not what is about to befall you?! The shadow of Iranon's hammer covers your land so long as GAENOR within it dwells!" Nels began swinging wildly his axe, causing some of the troops to step back. "Hold your ground, soldiers!" shouted the commander, but stopped short on his last word and looked to the Bosmer. His Blade exploded with orange fire as he cleaved the air around him, creating a veil of flames before him. They quickly dissipated, and just as the wild Dunmer was ready to strike, he halted in place and looked about him. Gaenor had disappeared and was nowhere to be seen. "No more games, n'wah! End your quest here and spare my master the search!" He turned hard and blocked a powerful blow from the Blade and pushed back against it, and they stared into each other's eyes with contempt.
"I spare no one."
--------------------
EDIT: fixed some wording I didn't like
Iranon took refuge as instructed in an abandoned Imperial gatehouse on a trail that now led to a dead end in the forest. It had been used years ago as a trade route from east to western Morrowind, but was no longer used due to lack of troops. It was dark without windows and was bare save for a tattered cot and a bucket, but the Argonian necromancer needed luxuries not. He held still his arms before him and his kept his stare straight, muttering incoherently to the unlearned ear. He instructed Henar to ride down the path until Gaenor's presence was picked up again, then relaxed his position and blinked until his eyes were moist enough to see clearly once more.
==========
Gaenor awoke late that afternoon to the muffled sound of yelling and clattering metal. He looked out the open window and found the entire infantry at the front gate, their shields held high just below their faces and their swords drawn. The commander stood behind them shouting orders to hold back and wait for "him" to make the first move. The elf walked downstairs and toward the commotion when he was stopped by a guardsman. "Stand down, soldier," said the commander, and Gaenor continued to him. "We have a situation. If your interest in this town includes protecting the innocent people who reside in it, grab your sword. If not, you're not wanted here."
He took up his Blade and stood afront the guards, now knowing what they were up against. It appeared that a very well-dressed Dunmer weilding a considerably large battleaxe was advancing from the hills in the north. He wore no armor but looked to be a statesman or noble of great importance, his jeweled rings and overshirt glimmering brightly enough for even them to see from so far away. None of the Imperials around him had keen enough eyes to see, but Gaenor noticed the crazed look in his eyes.. one of desperation and madness. He was walking slowly toward the gate, saying something incomprehensible to them until he came closer.
"Told me it's mine.. finders keepers.. erek dian tor grodek.. I can smell you, Gaenor." The infantry looked around at each other puzzled but turned immediately back to the maniac, who had now burst into a sprint. "What in the hell is this lunatic talking about? What language is that?!" asked himself aloud in frustration. It was then that the Bosmer recognized him. Tall, well-dressed Dunmer with a short goatee, hair in a golden clasp, and wanting something from Gaenor; Nels Llendo. He had returned for the Blade he took from him on the road those years ago when first entering Mournhold. "Pay no mind," stated Gaenor, "He just wants his sword back."
"Erek dian tor grodek, fools! Know not what is about to befall you?! The shadow of Iranon's hammer covers your land so long as GAENOR within it dwells!" Nels began swinging wildly his axe, causing some of the troops to step back. "Hold your ground, soldiers!" shouted the commander, but stopped short on his last word and looked to the Bosmer. His Blade exploded with orange fire as he cleaved the air around him, creating a veil of flames before him. They quickly dissipated, and just as the wild Dunmer was ready to strike, he halted in place and looked about him. Gaenor had disappeared and was nowhere to be seen. "No more games, n'wah! End your quest here and spare my master the search!" He turned hard and blocked a powerful blow from the Blade and pushed back against it, and they stared into each other's eyes with contempt.
"I spare no one."
--------------------
EDIT: fixed some wording I didn't like
Gaenor gazed into his eyes with a blank glare, as if looking into Nels' mind, anticipating his every move. His stare never left the Dunmer's face as they clashed weapons, ash sparking between them which rained onto the grass which caught them and were set aflame. With each cleave of the axe came a parry and lunge of the Blade. They were both experienced in battle, and the infantrymen marvelled at their skill. The commander watched in impatient anticipation, sweat dripping from under his helmet. The Bosmer felt no reason to continue their fight for longer than needed, and remembered his fight in the Ascadian Isles with this same thief. He was so weak then compared to what he'd become, and he leaped back.
"Erek dian tor grodek, Gaenor. You can't escape it. You are familiar with prophecies! They are not for the good of heart alone! Dark Prophecies exist in this world, ones you will not know for thousands of years!" Nels was still in an attack stance, his axe held strongly before him, while the wood elf stood some yards away with his sword lowered. He closed his eyes slowly and slipped into unconsciousness as Jkoryl had forced him to do in Skyrim. "What in Oblivion is he doing now?!" said aloud to his troops. The insane Dunmer turned to them with a wicked smile. "He heeds my words. The Elder Scrolls record not the future of my Lord. Ignorance veils you." He quickly faced forward to his opponent who, to his surprise, was now completely engulfed in flames. "What is the meaning of this? You use my Blade as if it was your own!" The commander gasped at this and immediately ordered his troops back into the fort. "This is not our fight, men. Retreat!"
The fire surrounding Gaenor roared upwards and enveloped him completely, leaving only a black outline of his form. He opened his eyes, which were pitch black in his silhouette, and raised his sword pointing at Nels. "Silence." he said softly, and the flames exploded in a larger pillar around him. The Dunmer began laughing uncontrollably and threw down his weapon. "Simply amazing.. quite a fight you must have been in to learn the power of that Blade. I commend you, for even its creator could not..." He was cut off by the Bosmer, in no mood for more speeches. "Perhaps we don't speak the same tongue." The fire from the grass blew with the wind and encircled his sword in a cyclone. "The word was silence. Learn it now." His anger over people like Nels, taking it upon themselves to bring fear and destruction to the innocents of Tamriel, launched the flames from his Blade directly through his foe, fading into the air past his spine, and bursting apart his chest with a loud, crackling splatter.
He collapsed limp to his knees, still with a smile on his face, until it was hidden as it fell on the burnt grass. The torrent of flames around Gaenor ceased at once upon sheathing the Blade, and he walked back toward the town unsinged. The guardsmen were now watching from the fortification windows in the Keep, in awe of what the elf had just exhibited to them. The citizens had been ordered inside their homes, but they heard everything through the thin plastered walls. The commander was the only one on the street, at the end of the cobblestone-paved road leading to the entrance of the Imperial establishment. He stood with his arms crossed, still sweating with nervousness mixed with overcome relief at the effortless neutralization of the threat faced by his military charge, the town of Eredjan. Gaenor walked with his head held low and checking for wounds or blood on his clothes. He stopped at the commander who saluted him and turned about-face, then marched with his men behind him inside, not saying a word.
A young man stepped out of his shop and looked from behind his door toward the corpse of Nels Llendo, then to the Bosmer heading to the inn. "CHEERS TO THE HERO!!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, and the rest of the townsfolk poured out from their homes in celebration. They surrounded the elf and laughed, cheered and patted him on his head and back. "No thanks are necessary." he said, but no one heard him over the noise. He closed his eyes and spoke again. "Leave me be." A small aura of fire materialized around him in an instant and pushed the crowd back, causing some to topple to the ground. "No thanks are necessary." he said again in the silence, and closed the door to the inn behind him.
==========
"Aye, a lad by that name came in here not a week ago. Rather short fellow, with a real tall friend. Left in a bit of a hurry, though.. said somethin' 'bout fire 'n lice, or somethin'. Hope that was some help to ye!" A smile appeared on Knight Henar's charred, rotten face. "Excellent news!" he laughed, "I seem to be right on schedule. I thank you, good Nord." He bowed and turned to the exit. Outside was invisible with the fierce snowstorm, but the undead distinguish not between climates. He climbed atop his skeletal steed and it galloped off into the harsh Skyrim wilderness, picking up the scent of the Bosmer as they went. "We shall meet sooner than you know, Gaenor. I do hope you hath kept my Blade in satisfactory condition."
--------------------
"Erek dian tor grodek, Gaenor. You can't escape it. You are familiar with prophecies! They are not for the good of heart alone! Dark Prophecies exist in this world, ones you will not know for thousands of years!" Nels was still in an attack stance, his axe held strongly before him, while the wood elf stood some yards away with his sword lowered. He closed his eyes slowly and slipped into unconsciousness as Jkoryl had forced him to do in Skyrim. "What in Oblivion is he doing now?!" said aloud to his troops. The insane Dunmer turned to them with a wicked smile. "He heeds my words. The Elder Scrolls record not the future of my Lord. Ignorance veils you." He quickly faced forward to his opponent who, to his surprise, was now completely engulfed in flames. "What is the meaning of this? You use my Blade as if it was your own!" The commander gasped at this and immediately ordered his troops back into the fort. "This is not our fight, men. Retreat!"
The fire surrounding Gaenor roared upwards and enveloped him completely, leaving only a black outline of his form. He opened his eyes, which were pitch black in his silhouette, and raised his sword pointing at Nels. "Silence." he said softly, and the flames exploded in a larger pillar around him. The Dunmer began laughing uncontrollably and threw down his weapon. "Simply amazing.. quite a fight you must have been in to learn the power of that Blade. I commend you, for even its creator could not..." He was cut off by the Bosmer, in no mood for more speeches. "Perhaps we don't speak the same tongue." The fire from the grass blew with the wind and encircled his sword in a cyclone. "The word was silence. Learn it now." His anger over people like Nels, taking it upon themselves to bring fear and destruction to the innocents of Tamriel, launched the flames from his Blade directly through his foe, fading into the air past his spine, and bursting apart his chest with a loud, crackling splatter.
He collapsed limp to his knees, still with a smile on his face, until it was hidden as it fell on the burnt grass. The torrent of flames around Gaenor ceased at once upon sheathing the Blade, and he walked back toward the town unsinged. The guardsmen were now watching from the fortification windows in the Keep, in awe of what the elf had just exhibited to them. The citizens had been ordered inside their homes, but they heard everything through the thin plastered walls. The commander was the only one on the street, at the end of the cobblestone-paved road leading to the entrance of the Imperial establishment. He stood with his arms crossed, still sweating with nervousness mixed with overcome relief at the effortless neutralization of the threat faced by his military charge, the town of Eredjan. Gaenor walked with his head held low and checking for wounds or blood on his clothes. He stopped at the commander who saluted him and turned about-face, then marched with his men behind him inside, not saying a word.
A young man stepped out of his shop and looked from behind his door toward the corpse of Nels Llendo, then to the Bosmer heading to the inn. "CHEERS TO THE HERO!!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, and the rest of the townsfolk poured out from their homes in celebration. They surrounded the elf and laughed, cheered and patted him on his head and back. "No thanks are necessary." he said, but no one heard him over the noise. He closed his eyes and spoke again. "Leave me be." A small aura of fire materialized around him in an instant and pushed the crowd back, causing some to topple to the ground. "No thanks are necessary." he said again in the silence, and closed the door to the inn behind him.
==========
"Aye, a lad by that name came in here not a week ago. Rather short fellow, with a real tall friend. Left in a bit of a hurry, though.. said somethin' 'bout fire 'n lice, or somethin'. Hope that was some help to ye!" A smile appeared on Knight Henar's charred, rotten face. "Excellent news!" he laughed, "I seem to be right on schedule. I thank you, good Nord." He bowed and turned to the exit. Outside was invisible with the fierce snowstorm, but the undead distinguish not between climates. He climbed atop his skeletal steed and it galloped off into the harsh Skyrim wilderness, picking up the scent of the Bosmer as they went. "We shall meet sooner than you know, Gaenor. I do hope you hath kept my Blade in satisfactory condition."
--------------------
The citizens of Eredjan were in mixed feelings about their hero. He saved them from certain death at the marauding hands of Nels Llendo, in his crazed and blind bloodthirst, but shunned them when they offered their thanks. Opinions could be heard throughout the tavern for the following week. Some said he did it for himself, not for them. Others defended him and argued that he just did not know how to accept congratulations, and that he had been in Skyrim for years alone, away from civilization. A few even claimed that he and Nels were partners, but the Bosmer got too greedy and decided to kill him so he could sack their town by himself. None of them truly knew for certain why Gaenor had acted the way he did, but no one dared confront him about it, as they valued their lives and feared his power.
Two days after the battle, he left early in the morning headed southwest to the Imperial City. His map did not show the smaller, more insignificant landmarks of Skyrim and Cyrodiil, so he planned on asking where Goldstone Ridge was there, as not a single person in Eredjan would answer him. After all, Azura mentioned seeking out the prince, and perhaps he could speak to the Emperor himself about his exact whereabouts. There was also the matter of why he was to speak with him in the first place.. Gaenor still knew absolutely nothing of his quests' purpose, but only that it was of dire importance and hopefully led to the destruction of Iranon and Henar.
The grassy hills stretched for miles beyond even his far sight. He felt renewed after his rest in the small town, and found himself leaping from hilltop to hilltop at a rather quick pace. Although they were small, only a Bosmer used to hopping treebranches in Valenwood could successfully and gracefully move with the speed and efficiency that the elf did. At one point he was forced to pause after realizing he'd cut the back of his leg on a thorn bush. The blood trickled down his ankle and onto the rustling grass. Once again reminded of his curse, as he thought of it, he tore off his left sleeve and fashioned a makeshift tourniquet, then promptly continued on with heightened speed. Constantly, anger brewed within him over both his enemies' inexcusable and monstrous actions, and what he had become; a creature void of all feeling.
He passed farms, villages, lone homesteads, and roads at times. The Imperials stared at him, if they were ever even fortunate enough to spot him leaping across the fields, in utter confusion. He hardly noticed anything aside from the horizon, however, and focused on it until he met with the capital city's walls. At his incredible speed, it wasn't long before he arrived.. but Cyrodiil City had more security than he had expected. He stopped suddenly and examined his obstacles: a three-mile-long moat, a ten-story-tall plateau and another three-story stone wall surrounding it on all sides. There was no conceivable way to enter, so he thought on it for a short while. 'Forcing through would not work.. I don't want innocent deaths. No peaceful entry seems available. There is not a clear path inside.'
"It has been half a month since we last spoke, Gaenor."
The elf turned to find the stranger from Snowfold standing directly behind him, looking at the city walls far in the distance. "There is no way in save for being an Imperial and asking at the main gate. I do believe your ears are far too sharp to be considered human." Gaenor was not surprised, as he heard him throughout his journey across the hills, but he was slightly impatient with him. "Tell me your name and why you're helping me." The tall man chuckled to himself and once again removed his top hat. "I am called Naztheril by most.. directly translated it means..." The Bosmer interrupted with the answer, "Beast of the Night Sky". The stranger laughed louder this time and put his large hand on Gaenor's shoulder. "Tell me, before you and I enter the city, how do you know this? What have you heard of me?"
--------------------
Two days after the battle, he left early in the morning headed southwest to the Imperial City. His map did not show the smaller, more insignificant landmarks of Skyrim and Cyrodiil, so he planned on asking where Goldstone Ridge was there, as not a single person in Eredjan would answer him. After all, Azura mentioned seeking out the prince, and perhaps he could speak to the Emperor himself about his exact whereabouts. There was also the matter of why he was to speak with him in the first place.. Gaenor still knew absolutely nothing of his quests' purpose, but only that it was of dire importance and hopefully led to the destruction of Iranon and Henar.
The grassy hills stretched for miles beyond even his far sight. He felt renewed after his rest in the small town, and found himself leaping from hilltop to hilltop at a rather quick pace. Although they were small, only a Bosmer used to hopping treebranches in Valenwood could successfully and gracefully move with the speed and efficiency that the elf did. At one point he was forced to pause after realizing he'd cut the back of his leg on a thorn bush. The blood trickled down his ankle and onto the rustling grass. Once again reminded of his curse, as he thought of it, he tore off his left sleeve and fashioned a makeshift tourniquet, then promptly continued on with heightened speed. Constantly, anger brewed within him over both his enemies' inexcusable and monstrous actions, and what he had become; a creature void of all feeling.
He passed farms, villages, lone homesteads, and roads at times. The Imperials stared at him, if they were ever even fortunate enough to spot him leaping across the fields, in utter confusion. He hardly noticed anything aside from the horizon, however, and focused on it until he met with the capital city's walls. At his incredible speed, it wasn't long before he arrived.. but Cyrodiil City had more security than he had expected. He stopped suddenly and examined his obstacles: a three-mile-long moat, a ten-story-tall plateau and another three-story stone wall surrounding it on all sides. There was no conceivable way to enter, so he thought on it for a short while. 'Forcing through would not work.. I don't want innocent deaths. No peaceful entry seems available. There is not a clear path inside.'
"It has been half a month since we last spoke, Gaenor."
The elf turned to find the stranger from Snowfold standing directly behind him, looking at the city walls far in the distance. "There is no way in save for being an Imperial and asking at the main gate. I do believe your ears are far too sharp to be considered human." Gaenor was not surprised, as he heard him throughout his journey across the hills, but he was slightly impatient with him. "Tell me your name and why you're helping me." The tall man chuckled to himself and once again removed his top hat. "I am called Naztheril by most.. directly translated it means..." The Bosmer interrupted with the answer, "Beast of the Night Sky". The stranger laughed louder this time and put his large hand on Gaenor's shoulder. "Tell me, before you and I enter the city, how do you know this? What have you heard of me?"
--------------------
Sorry I've been a bit slow with updates.. there's good reason for it, I assure you 
The Origin of Naztheril, Beast of the Night Sky
as told by Naztheril to Gaenor
I will be quick with this tale. I am certain you are eager to continue with your quest.
It was twelve ages ago that the Twilight War took place. On one side, in the sky, there was Azura and her daedra. On the other, in the Twisting Nether, there was Sheogorath and his minions. The two gods had always despised one another for their different views on the inhabitants of Tamriel and which governed their lives above anything else - serenity or anarchy. It was true, and still is today, that both are equally seen in the population of the land, but these Daedra Lords were consumed by their want to win their argument.
Azura's army was composed of ancient daedra that no longer exist, as was Sheogorath's. Her's were created in her likeness and wielded the essence of the Night while his were deformed mutations of hybrid creatures, mixtures of the god-made daedra and the wild beasts of Tamriel. They faught one another for centuries, and there was no rest. The war was one battle, spanning across worlds and planes of existence of which no mortal could ever dream.
Their armies were all but depleted by the 819th year. The gods met and agreed to take a decade to spawn one being that would serve as their last stand, and have them face each other in combat, and whichever lived would win the war for their creator. Ten years after this agreement was made, the gods returned from their sanctuaries. Sheogorath brought with him a menacing creature, reptilian with the fangs and claws of a demon from Oblivion with a shaggy mane running down his back and spiked tail, and standing forty of your miles tall on six legs. Azura sent me to battle this beast, and to win the war in her favor.
Be fooled not by my appearance this day, for much has happened in twelve ages. It should be clear to you that I claimed victory as Azura's champion over Sheogorath, and because of this I was awarded my title as Beast of the Night Sky. Again, I have changed much and adapted a new form from my other, more.. shall we say, nightmarishly fearsome aspect. My seven heads became one, my gargantuan, mammalian body shrunk and took new shape, and my limbs combined into arms and legs. No longer am I Her Beast, but rather her Voice, as she likes to call me.
<Naztheril puts on his top hat again and pinches his Valenwood badge.>
You are likely most curious about how I acquired this. After winning Her war, I was sent to Valenwood to learn the art of shapeshifting as a gift from my Lady Azura. She thought it a great honor to be inducted into the world of Tamriel as a regular citizen, and I took it as such. The days passed slowly and I learned much from the Bosmer. They know the ways of beasts and how they think, and I was no exception. They spoke to me in words I could understand, and taught me the magic of shifting forms as an equal.. and for that I am forever indebted to them. After one hundred and fifty-seven years, I was able to change my shape and maintain it for long periods of time. As a reward for my progress, I was given this badge as proof that I was friend and ally of the Bosmer, and I am proud of it.
My name, Naztheril, was given to me by King Antok Broadleaf, ruler of Valnewood in the first era of Tamriel. We had never met, but the story of my descending upon the mortal world was passed down from generation to generation.. and apparently was lost if you've never heard about it until now! It means Beast of the Night in wood elvish tongue, but most have adopted it as meaning Beast of the Night Sky, in respect to Azura. The rest is history, and vastly unimportant to you here and now. Getting back to the present, and knowing what I have told you, I may need to morph into my less-attractive form if we are ever to pass these obstacles before us. Stand aside, and let Naztheril rebirth as his true self.
--------------------
The Origin of Naztheril, Beast of the Night Sky
as told by Naztheril to Gaenor
I will be quick with this tale. I am certain you are eager to continue with your quest.
It was twelve ages ago that the Twilight War took place. On one side, in the sky, there was Azura and her daedra. On the other, in the Twisting Nether, there was Sheogorath and his minions. The two gods had always despised one another for their different views on the inhabitants of Tamriel and which governed their lives above anything else - serenity or anarchy. It was true, and still is today, that both are equally seen in the population of the land, but these Daedra Lords were consumed by their want to win their argument.
Azura's army was composed of ancient daedra that no longer exist, as was Sheogorath's. Her's were created in her likeness and wielded the essence of the Night while his were deformed mutations of hybrid creatures, mixtures of the god-made daedra and the wild beasts of Tamriel. They faught one another for centuries, and there was no rest. The war was one battle, spanning across worlds and planes of existence of which no mortal could ever dream.
Their armies were all but depleted by the 819th year. The gods met and agreed to take a decade to spawn one being that would serve as their last stand, and have them face each other in combat, and whichever lived would win the war for their creator. Ten years after this agreement was made, the gods returned from their sanctuaries. Sheogorath brought with him a menacing creature, reptilian with the fangs and claws of a demon from Oblivion with a shaggy mane running down his back and spiked tail, and standing forty of your miles tall on six legs. Azura sent me to battle this beast, and to win the war in her favor.
Be fooled not by my appearance this day, for much has happened in twelve ages. It should be clear to you that I claimed victory as Azura's champion over Sheogorath, and because of this I was awarded my title as Beast of the Night Sky. Again, I have changed much and adapted a new form from my other, more.. shall we say, nightmarishly fearsome aspect. My seven heads became one, my gargantuan, mammalian body shrunk and took new shape, and my limbs combined into arms and legs. No longer am I Her Beast, but rather her Voice, as she likes to call me.
<Naztheril puts on his top hat again and pinches his Valenwood badge.>
You are likely most curious about how I acquired this. After winning Her war, I was sent to Valenwood to learn the art of shapeshifting as a gift from my Lady Azura. She thought it a great honor to be inducted into the world of Tamriel as a regular citizen, and I took it as such. The days passed slowly and I learned much from the Bosmer. They know the ways of beasts and how they think, and I was no exception. They spoke to me in words I could understand, and taught me the magic of shifting forms as an equal.. and for that I am forever indebted to them. After one hundred and fifty-seven years, I was able to change my shape and maintain it for long periods of time. As a reward for my progress, I was given this badge as proof that I was friend and ally of the Bosmer, and I am proud of it.
My name, Naztheril, was given to me by King Antok Broadleaf, ruler of Valnewood in the first era of Tamriel. We had never met, but the story of my descending upon the mortal world was passed down from generation to generation.. and apparently was lost if you've never heard about it until now! It means Beast of the Night in wood elvish tongue, but most have adopted it as meaning Beast of the Night Sky, in respect to Azura. The rest is history, and vastly unimportant to you here and now. Getting back to the present, and knowing what I have told you, I may need to morph into my less-attractive form if we are ever to pass these obstacles before us. Stand aside, and let Naztheril rebirth as his true self.
--------------------
"I don't know what makes you believe I need assistance in breaching these city walls, but whatever it is is likely laying eggs in your brain as we speak." Gaenor was stern and direct to Naztheril, who had now stepped back and left himself ample space for shifting to his original shape. He looked up at the elf from below the dark rim of his hat with a smile. "Let me tell you something, Gaenor my friend." He lifted his arms up with widely-spread fingers. "You have ascended to a new form of life: the Bearer of Fire and Light. This figure's destiny is scrawled upon the eternally-binding surface of the Elder Scrolls. I have seen this, and I know it dictates that I will aid him in gaining access to the Emperor's City at this point in time. Therefore, turn your arrogance to those to whom deserve to be spoken down. I am here to help, so accept it or fail in your quest." Gaenor grunted in annoyance and stood back as Naztheril looked to the ground once again.
It was difficult to tell from behind his shaded spectacles, but his eyes were now completely white. There was sweat dripping from beneath his hat and down the tip where it slanted on his head. His hands shook violently and he braced himself with stiffened, muscular legs that showed through his pants. The Bosmer wondered silently what he was doing to himself, and thought it best not to ask. "Are you watching?" Naztheril managed asking through his gritting teeth. "Behold that which in nightmares are banished!" At once his skin exploded with blood and muscle tissue revealing a hulking, pulsing mass in the form of a human, but without any discernable features. His shape transformed irradically until it established itself on ten enormous, jointed legs. A tail erupted from his back, elongating from his spine and constantly generating new bone structures and segments. He sprouted scales along his torso, sleak feathers on his head and beaked face, and a thick carapace on his limbs. At last the transformation ended, and there he stood high above the elf who hadn't moved an inch from his place; he had the head of a gryphon, the body of a reptile, and the legs of a spider. All of his eyes looked to Gaenor to see what he thought. "Your opponent was forty miles tall, yet you are less than half his size." he said. Naztheril, Beast of the Night Sky, threw his tail into the air, crouched on all legs and let out an earth-shattering roar directly at his elven friend, implying that size matters not when inner power is concerned, since he had no speech in his present form. The Bosmer was unharmed.
He leaped onto one of his legs and climbed up onto the back of his neck, clinging to his feathers for support. "Let us continue, then." said Gaenor, and Naztheril gave a short screech in acknowledgement. The Beast stormed down the grassy bank of the moat and into the water, and walked slowly through without much trouble. It spanned three miles in length and was so deep it was nearly black in color, but Naztheril stood in even its darkest depths with room enough for his body to remain dry. The massive creature trudged on toward the Imperial City unhindered, and kept sharp eyes on his surroundings.
==========
"What in Mara's name is that?!" cried a guard in the main eastern watch tower of Cyrodiil. He could barely see it in the distance, but he told his superior officers what he thought it could be; Henar. Reports of the undead menace had been coming in constantly throughout the past weeks from Morrowind and Skyrim claiming that a skeletal fiend had ravaged Mournhold and various Nordic settlements. "If what you say is in fact true," replied General Marcus Ginius of the Imperial Army, "then this 'Knight Henar' has under his command this.. giant monster who is currently swimming through our moat? Am I understanding this correctly Private?" The guard who had reported what he saw nodded nervously. "I must see this myself."
He and five other infantrymen, including the witness, proceeded quickly to the main east watch tower and all watched intently from between the large stone blocks which lined the top. "I see nothing but a noonday's sun and the shining water," declared the General in his commanding voice. "Keep this up and I'll see this tower dry as a Crendian weed field. I won't have my men drunk on duty!" However, he continued looking out across the moat, just in case of anything suspicious at the last moment.
"Greetings, fellows! I would shake thine hands but, alas, I am all wet from swimming.. did you catch a glimpse of the monster? You Imperials certainly guard your cities well..."
--------------------
It was difficult to tell from behind his shaded spectacles, but his eyes were now completely white. There was sweat dripping from beneath his hat and down the tip where it slanted on his head. His hands shook violently and he braced himself with stiffened, muscular legs that showed through his pants. The Bosmer wondered silently what he was doing to himself, and thought it best not to ask. "Are you watching?" Naztheril managed asking through his gritting teeth. "Behold that which in nightmares are banished!" At once his skin exploded with blood and muscle tissue revealing a hulking, pulsing mass in the form of a human, but without any discernable features. His shape transformed irradically until it established itself on ten enormous, jointed legs. A tail erupted from his back, elongating from his spine and constantly generating new bone structures and segments. He sprouted scales along his torso, sleak feathers on his head and beaked face, and a thick carapace on his limbs. At last the transformation ended, and there he stood high above the elf who hadn't moved an inch from his place; he had the head of a gryphon, the body of a reptile, and the legs of a spider. All of his eyes looked to Gaenor to see what he thought. "Your opponent was forty miles tall, yet you are less than half his size." he said. Naztheril, Beast of the Night Sky, threw his tail into the air, crouched on all legs and let out an earth-shattering roar directly at his elven friend, implying that size matters not when inner power is concerned, since he had no speech in his present form. The Bosmer was unharmed.
He leaped onto one of his legs and climbed up onto the back of his neck, clinging to his feathers for support. "Let us continue, then." said Gaenor, and Naztheril gave a short screech in acknowledgement. The Beast stormed down the grassy bank of the moat and into the water, and walked slowly through without much trouble. It spanned three miles in length and was so deep it was nearly black in color, but Naztheril stood in even its darkest depths with room enough for his body to remain dry. The massive creature trudged on toward the Imperial City unhindered, and kept sharp eyes on his surroundings.
==========
"What in Mara's name is that?!" cried a guard in the main eastern watch tower of Cyrodiil. He could barely see it in the distance, but he told his superior officers what he thought it could be; Henar. Reports of the undead menace had been coming in constantly throughout the past weeks from Morrowind and Skyrim claiming that a skeletal fiend had ravaged Mournhold and various Nordic settlements. "If what you say is in fact true," replied General Marcus Ginius of the Imperial Army, "then this 'Knight Henar' has under his command this.. giant monster who is currently swimming through our moat? Am I understanding this correctly Private?" The guard who had reported what he saw nodded nervously. "I must see this myself."
He and five other infantrymen, including the witness, proceeded quickly to the main east watch tower and all watched intently from between the large stone blocks which lined the top. "I see nothing but a noonday's sun and the shining water," declared the General in his commanding voice. "Keep this up and I'll see this tower dry as a Crendian weed field. I won't have my men drunk on duty!" However, he continued looking out across the moat, just in case of anything suspicious at the last moment.
"Greetings, fellows! I would shake thine hands but, alas, I am all wet from swimming.. did you catch a glimpse of the monster? You Imperials certainly guard your cities well..."
--------------------
One guard who came with the General was standing at a corner of the tower while the others were practically frozen in place with fear. He saw what they did, but knew there was something awkward about the situation. He looked away from the ghastly figure and out to the moat once more, and realized the giant Beast was still only halfway across. Through a portable telescope he saw a Bosmer riding on the back of its neck. The General backed into the tower wall and frantically searched his belt for the war horn attached to it. "Ah ah aa-ah, my good man," said the visitor, shaking his finger and smiling. "There will be none of that. After all, it would help your predicament not.. for you see, there is little left that would come to your aid." With that, he outstretched his holey, oozing arm onto the General's face, and removed it, leaving a bare skull. "Who's next?!"
Naztheril quickened his pace after watching from a mile and a away the trouble on the main east watch tower ahead. "What is it?" Gaenor asked, then looked up to see faintly figures struggling atop the tower. "Your sight is keener than mine. Who is causing the trouble?" The Beast could not answer with a voice, but instead turned to the elf and looked directly into his eyes. The Bosmer stared into them and, although speech was unavailable, somehow knew what he was thinking. He didn't know what to make of it, but Naztheril's thoughts became his own for a split second, and the image of an undead creature filled Gaenor's vision. "Henar," he said, and his eyes burned orange with fire. His Blade cascaded with flames and exploded at his side, and he stood slowly, never looking away from the blurred shape of Knight Henar on the tower above. His Amulet became overcome with the light of the gem in its center and covered itself in a white brightness. Naztheril stopped suddenly with a muffled crash from deep beneath the water, and braced himself for what he knew would happen, whether he wanted to prevent it or not. He ducked his head as it shook and lashed it upwards, sending out a quaking roar that sent the calm moat into an uproar of violent waves, and Gaenor launched himself into the sky.
"Well now," said Knight Henar as he removed his cupped hand from the incinerated face of the last guard. "I see the new owner of my sword has learned some new tricks." He walked toward the edge of the tower and leaned out to see Naztheril amidst the ferocious tempest he had created, and a small, bright light in the sky below him coming closer. "What's this?" he asked aloud, chuckling. "There's a good lad. Come to me, and bring my weapon!" The light was growing quickly and soon Henar could see the familiar, reddish blaze of his Blade. "Ah! I remember now.. how long I've waited to hold it again! Quickly now, you're almost here!" With each passing moment he was in the air, the elf's rage built itself more and more, until the fire on his sword became larger and brighter than even the Amulet. His emotions were being manifested into physicality, and directly into his Blade. At last, he reached the top of the tower and struck at its fortifications, blasting the entire top of the tower apart.
He landed on the other side, near where Henar now was. He finally saw the undead creature, but was not afraid. This thing before him was all he hated combined into one being. His very existence defied the laws of nature and life, and his actions rivaled those of even the most foul of Daedra in Oblivion. His might had been unleashed upon the innocents of Tamriel for generations, and ruined the lives of millions across the centuries. "Salutations!" said Henar, emptying his jaw of maggots. "It is truly a pleasure to meet you. I am Knight Olkair Henar of.. well, of wherever the hell I feel like. I believe you have something for me, and I appreciate your kindness in delivering it to me here. I've been following you from Mournhold for two weeks, and decided it would have been a most efficient handling of time if I was to meet with you in Cyrodiil. Unfortunately, I was forced to.. clean out the Morrowind capital, as well as a good portion of this city.. not one person knew where you had gone! Can you believe it?! Incredible how a good-natured citizen of Tamriel such as I can not even obtain decent directions these days. But, I turn from the main point. My Blade, if you will?"
Unbeknownst to Henar, the elf was unable to hear him. There was something happening deep within him, something that he felt all throughout his body. It was as if someone had set his insides on fire, and it was overtaking his mind. His eyes had become consumed by flames and the Amulet's light was growing dark. It shifted colors from brilliant white to purple, then to blue, green, yellow, then light red to match his Blade. For the first time, the undead puppet shell of a Bosmer, Knight Henar, felt fear. He attempted with all his will to keep it from showing, but it was simply too much - from within Gaenor pulsed an enormous source of power, the likeness of which had not been felt in all of history.
"Listen carefully, Gaenor. I don't know what you intend to do, but whatever it is will likely be a regret for you. You and I.." The Bosmer immediately interrupted him with a trembling voice, trying desperately to keep his anger within. He spoke in an incredibly low tone with flames spouting from his mouth, as if his skull was filled with cinders. "Dare not tell me we share something in common, Knight Olkair Henar. Know we are in every aspect different and opposite in all ways, and it is for this reason I will destroy you here and now. Prepare yourself, and share in the torment you have inflicted upon the people of Tamriel." He lifted his searing blade, engulfed with raging flames, and pointed at the cowering Knight Henar. "Curse you, fool! My master will not take this defeat! You will.." Before he could finish his sentence, Gaenor leapt from his place, pulled back his Blade, and slashed it downard, disintegrating his foe in a fiery, sweeping slice, and charring each now-dismemebered segment of his form into blackened pieces. The puppet had been loosed of its strings.
--------------------
Naztheril quickened his pace after watching from a mile and a away the trouble on the main east watch tower ahead. "What is it?" Gaenor asked, then looked up to see faintly figures struggling atop the tower. "Your sight is keener than mine. Who is causing the trouble?" The Beast could not answer with a voice, but instead turned to the elf and looked directly into his eyes. The Bosmer stared into them and, although speech was unavailable, somehow knew what he was thinking. He didn't know what to make of it, but Naztheril's thoughts became his own for a split second, and the image of an undead creature filled Gaenor's vision. "Henar," he said, and his eyes burned orange with fire. His Blade cascaded with flames and exploded at his side, and he stood slowly, never looking away from the blurred shape of Knight Henar on the tower above. His Amulet became overcome with the light of the gem in its center and covered itself in a white brightness. Naztheril stopped suddenly with a muffled crash from deep beneath the water, and braced himself for what he knew would happen, whether he wanted to prevent it or not. He ducked his head as it shook and lashed it upwards, sending out a quaking roar that sent the calm moat into an uproar of violent waves, and Gaenor launched himself into the sky.
"Well now," said Knight Henar as he removed his cupped hand from the incinerated face of the last guard. "I see the new owner of my sword has learned some new tricks." He walked toward the edge of the tower and leaned out to see Naztheril amidst the ferocious tempest he had created, and a small, bright light in the sky below him coming closer. "What's this?" he asked aloud, chuckling. "There's a good lad. Come to me, and bring my weapon!" The light was growing quickly and soon Henar could see the familiar, reddish blaze of his Blade. "Ah! I remember now.. how long I've waited to hold it again! Quickly now, you're almost here!" With each passing moment he was in the air, the elf's rage built itself more and more, until the fire on his sword became larger and brighter than even the Amulet. His emotions were being manifested into physicality, and directly into his Blade. At last, he reached the top of the tower and struck at its fortifications, blasting the entire top of the tower apart.
He landed on the other side, near where Henar now was. He finally saw the undead creature, but was not afraid. This thing before him was all he hated combined into one being. His very existence defied the laws of nature and life, and his actions rivaled those of even the most foul of Daedra in Oblivion. His might had been unleashed upon the innocents of Tamriel for generations, and ruined the lives of millions across the centuries. "Salutations!" said Henar, emptying his jaw of maggots. "It is truly a pleasure to meet you. I am Knight Olkair Henar of.. well, of wherever the hell I feel like. I believe you have something for me, and I appreciate your kindness in delivering it to me here. I've been following you from Mournhold for two weeks, and decided it would have been a most efficient handling of time if I was to meet with you in Cyrodiil. Unfortunately, I was forced to.. clean out the Morrowind capital, as well as a good portion of this city.. not one person knew where you had gone! Can you believe it?! Incredible how a good-natured citizen of Tamriel such as I can not even obtain decent directions these days. But, I turn from the main point. My Blade, if you will?"
Unbeknownst to Henar, the elf was unable to hear him. There was something happening deep within him, something that he felt all throughout his body. It was as if someone had set his insides on fire, and it was overtaking his mind. His eyes had become consumed by flames and the Amulet's light was growing dark. It shifted colors from brilliant white to purple, then to blue, green, yellow, then light red to match his Blade. For the first time, the undead puppet shell of a Bosmer, Knight Henar, felt fear. He attempted with all his will to keep it from showing, but it was simply too much - from within Gaenor pulsed an enormous source of power, the likeness of which had not been felt in all of history.
"Listen carefully, Gaenor. I don't know what you intend to do, but whatever it is will likely be a regret for you. You and I.." The Bosmer immediately interrupted him with a trembling voice, trying desperately to keep his anger within. He spoke in an incredibly low tone with flames spouting from his mouth, as if his skull was filled with cinders. "Dare not tell me we share something in common, Knight Olkair Henar. Know we are in every aspect different and opposite in all ways, and it is for this reason I will destroy you here and now. Prepare yourself, and share in the torment you have inflicted upon the people of Tamriel." He lifted his searing blade, engulfed with raging flames, and pointed at the cowering Knight Henar. "Curse you, fool! My master will not take this defeat! You will.." Before he could finish his sentence, Gaenor leapt from his place, pulled back his Blade, and slashed it downard, disintegrating his foe in a fiery, sweeping slice, and charring each now-dismemebered segment of his form into blackened pieces. The puppet had been loosed of its strings.
--------------------
Naztheril was scaling the plateau on which the city stood with his chitinous legs grasping the sleek rock with great strength and care. Gaenor had sheathed his Blade and his eyes returned to their normal color. He breathed heavily, as he exerted nearly all of his remaining energy on Knight Henar. He fell to a sitting position with his legs out in front of him and wiped the sweat from his face. It was unlike anything he had experienced; he was unable to stand but felt nothing. He watched as the fire from his attack continued straight ahead of him, burning brightly in the evening sky and flying out above the horizon. "Well done, Gaenor," said Naztheril, climbing over the tower fortification in his human form. "You've banished a most foul creature from Tamriel forever. I thank you."
"It was too easy," said the elf. "All it took was a swing of my sword and he was gone. I feel no satisfaction from his death." Naztheril kneeled down to him and removed his hat, which had peculiarly formed anew. "Knight Henar is destroyed. The lives of millions, maybe billions of people and other beings have been spared by your hand. Is this not satisfaction enough?" he asked. He turned around quickly to a loud explosion in the sky, and Gaenor realized it was the fire from his Blade that had finally burst. It was miles away, but very clear to see as it matched the brightness of the setting sun further in the distance. Naztheril looked back to the Bosmer with a grim face. "You've been told this many a time, but you have great power, my friend. You put this power to use in the form of aid to your land, Tamriel, and it sighs in relief at the destruction of Henar, and blesses you for as long as you live. There is no satisfaction from killing, not to someone such as you. Be not upset, but proud that you felt no happiness after smiting this foe, for if you did, you would indeed share something in common with him." He motioned solemnly to Gaenor's right arm, and rose to his feet facing the moat. "You are maimed. Come with me."
As his Blade sailed through the air after slicing through Knight Henar's torso, its flames continued past where the sword halted and through Gaenor's arm, above his elbow. He followed Naztheril's eyes to his severed limb and moved what was left of it about, examining the wound. Blood still poured from the slit veins, and his vision blurred. "Are you disturbed by the sight of it?" asked the elf's companion. "No," he replied, "My emotions have died. Where your bringing me should be sure not to allow my body to follow the same trend." Naztheril let out a short chuckle and led him to the apothecary in the eastern section of Cyrodiil City. The streets were strangely quiet and bare, not bustling with activity as they usually are expected to be. "Henar killed everyone, it's obvious by now," said the Bosmer. "He likely scaled the wall and went on a killing spree as he waited for my arrival." His partner looked through the windows and doors of each shop, and everything seemed to be in order; no broken glass, no blood, no trace of any life whatsoever. "If Henar did come this way," he said, "he left no corpses."
The apothecary was nowhere to be found, and Gaenor was losing dangerous amounts of blood. Every so often, as they crossed the empty streets and searched for people, he would glance at his halved arm and look back at the trail of blood it left. "If this continues I'll die," said the elf. Naztheril didn't respond, but only because he knew, and was desperate to find anyone to aid them. After finding no one in the commons, they proceeded to the Cyrodiil Castle in the center of the city. The drawbridge was lowered and no guards were present at the entranceway. They passed through the grand arches and inside the castle, again finding no one. Gaenor collapsed several times along the way, and Naztheril began to worry. At last they reached the throneroom, and walked hurriedly up the thick red carpet to the king's seat. It was empty, and the Bosmer fell unconscious.
Cyrodiil City was built entirely out of stone, as if carved out of the plateau on which it rested. The buildings were square with extravagant designs and patterns chiseled into them depicting the king's glory and the greatness of their race. Long, flowing banners adorned each surrounding city wall, each marked with the Seal of the Imperial Dragon, Emperor Uriel Septim's family crest. The capital of Tamriel was miles in radius, and truly a breathtakingly beautiful sight to behold. The sun set and lit the rooftops aglow with its last beams of red light. Naztheril had fashioned a makeshift tournequit from Gaenor's shirt and wrapped tightly his arm, temporarily stopping the blood from flowing out. He laid him upon the platform on which the throne stood and looked out the balcony across the entire city. He marveled at the magnificence of the view, but his eye caught something aside from the glorious scenery - the blood. Cyrodiil was enveloped in the sun's redness before it descended under the moat in the far distance, and in it the blood of a thousand innocents could be seen, as if a tidal wave from Oblivion had washed over every building, every cobblestone street. "Merciful Azura," gasped Naztheril, and he immediately took Gaenor and left the grand castle in a sprint.
==========
Iranon awoke to find himself on the floor of his hideaway in the Ascadian Isles. He felt physically ill and his head was pounding like nothing he had felt before. "What..hath happened?" he asked himself aloud. He stood holding the wall and edged himself onto the side of his cot. "Henar likely cracked his head open again.. let us see where he is now." He slowly spread his arms before him and closed his bloodshot eyes, and began muttering the same incantation to share his puppet's vision. His spell fizzled and returned to him, sending a forceful shock through his body, and he toppled to the ground with a loud cry of agony. "What...what is wrong here?! My master... gah!! He must know!" he moaned, grasping his head in confusion and pain.
--------------------
"It was too easy," said the elf. "All it took was a swing of my sword and he was gone. I feel no satisfaction from his death." Naztheril kneeled down to him and removed his hat, which had peculiarly formed anew. "Knight Henar is destroyed. The lives of millions, maybe billions of people and other beings have been spared by your hand. Is this not satisfaction enough?" he asked. He turned around quickly to a loud explosion in the sky, and Gaenor realized it was the fire from his Blade that had finally burst. It was miles away, but very clear to see as it matched the brightness of the setting sun further in the distance. Naztheril looked back to the Bosmer with a grim face. "You've been told this many a time, but you have great power, my friend. You put this power to use in the form of aid to your land, Tamriel, and it sighs in relief at the destruction of Henar, and blesses you for as long as you live. There is no satisfaction from killing, not to someone such as you. Be not upset, but proud that you felt no happiness after smiting this foe, for if you did, you would indeed share something in common with him." He motioned solemnly to Gaenor's right arm, and rose to his feet facing the moat. "You are maimed. Come with me."
As his Blade sailed through the air after slicing through Knight Henar's torso, its flames continued past where the sword halted and through Gaenor's arm, above his elbow. He followed Naztheril's eyes to his severed limb and moved what was left of it about, examining the wound. Blood still poured from the slit veins, and his vision blurred. "Are you disturbed by the sight of it?" asked the elf's companion. "No," he replied, "My emotions have died. Where your bringing me should be sure not to allow my body to follow the same trend." Naztheril let out a short chuckle and led him to the apothecary in the eastern section of Cyrodiil City. The streets were strangely quiet and bare, not bustling with activity as they usually are expected to be. "Henar killed everyone, it's obvious by now," said the Bosmer. "He likely scaled the wall and went on a killing spree as he waited for my arrival." His partner looked through the windows and doors of each shop, and everything seemed to be in order; no broken glass, no blood, no trace of any life whatsoever. "If Henar did come this way," he said, "he left no corpses."
The apothecary was nowhere to be found, and Gaenor was losing dangerous amounts of blood. Every so often, as they crossed the empty streets and searched for people, he would glance at his halved arm and look back at the trail of blood it left. "If this continues I'll die," said the elf. Naztheril didn't respond, but only because he knew, and was desperate to find anyone to aid them. After finding no one in the commons, they proceeded to the Cyrodiil Castle in the center of the city. The drawbridge was lowered and no guards were present at the entranceway. They passed through the grand arches and inside the castle, again finding no one. Gaenor collapsed several times along the way, and Naztheril began to worry. At last they reached the throneroom, and walked hurriedly up the thick red carpet to the king's seat. It was empty, and the Bosmer fell unconscious.
Cyrodiil City was built entirely out of stone, as if carved out of the plateau on which it rested. The buildings were square with extravagant designs and patterns chiseled into them depicting the king's glory and the greatness of their race. Long, flowing banners adorned each surrounding city wall, each marked with the Seal of the Imperial Dragon, Emperor Uriel Septim's family crest. The capital of Tamriel was miles in radius, and truly a breathtakingly beautiful sight to behold. The sun set and lit the rooftops aglow with its last beams of red light. Naztheril had fashioned a makeshift tournequit from Gaenor's shirt and wrapped tightly his arm, temporarily stopping the blood from flowing out. He laid him upon the platform on which the throne stood and looked out the balcony across the entire city. He marveled at the magnificence of the view, but his eye caught something aside from the glorious scenery - the blood. Cyrodiil was enveloped in the sun's redness before it descended under the moat in the far distance, and in it the blood of a thousand innocents could be seen, as if a tidal wave from Oblivion had washed over every building, every cobblestone street. "Merciful Azura," gasped Naztheril, and he immediately took Gaenor and left the grand castle in a sprint.
==========
Iranon awoke to find himself on the floor of his hideaway in the Ascadian Isles. He felt physically ill and his head was pounding like nothing he had felt before. "What..hath happened?" he asked himself aloud. He stood holding the wall and edged himself onto the side of his cot. "Henar likely cracked his head open again.. let us see where he is now." He slowly spread his arms before him and closed his bloodshot eyes, and began muttering the same incantation to share his puppet's vision. His spell fizzled and returned to him, sending a forceful shock through his body, and he toppled to the ground with a loud cry of agony. "What...what is wrong here?! My master... gah!! He must know!" he moaned, grasping his head in confusion and pain.
--------------------
Gaenor had nearly fainted from blood loss by the time they happened upon a small cottage in the rocky hills northeast of Cyrodiil. "Abandoned.. and in a hurry by the look of things," said Naztheril as he laid the elf upon a straw bed. His arm was still trickling, and the cloth beneath him stained red. "Whoever lived here left immediately.. and recently. There is still fresh food in these baskets and clothing in the chest." He bandaged the Bosmer's arm in the torn sleeve of a shirt, and the next morning, awoke to find him eating out the entirety of every last basket of food in the house. His skin turned back to a healthy yellow-orange and, although he did not say it directly, Naztheril knew from his eyes he was thankful for the help he gave him.
"Henar is dead. Where is his master?" asked Gaenor. His companion sat with him as he finished the bottom of the last basket and removed his top hat as he liked to do when giving important information. "Henar's master, or his master's master?" he asked sternly. Gaenor looked up from his plate (that could not easily be recognized as a plate any longer, for it was encrusted with leftover crumbs and pieces of food) with a baffled stare. "Iranon is not your only foe here," he continued. "There is another. You should know of whom I speak, whether you want to believe it or not." He forgot his hunger at that moment, and stood with renewed strength. After a short silence he looked back to his plate and began to shiver. He gritted his teeth and shut tightly his eyes, and his muscles tensed. He let out a desperate shout of anger and flung the plate across the room, missing Naztheril's face by an inch. It shattered and he slammed his remaining arm onto the table, cracking one leg. "How many impossibilities must occur in this godforsaken world?!" he yelled. "Garonar is DEAD. Don't tell me 'he has returned', or I will tell you that your beloved GOD Azura can defeat him herself this time!"
It was true; Garonar had returned. Upon his banishment into Oblivion, his fiery essence was rejected back into Tamriel, as it was judged by the Daedra there as being overly-sinister and cruel by nature to allow into their dimension. They refused to believe a being not born of their world could contain such darkness, such evil, and they sent it through the Oblivion Gate. It assumed the guise of a demonic statuette in one of Garonar's shrines in the Ascadian Isles, deep in a hidden catacomb, where Iranon could speak with him and plot his revenge against his undoer, Gaenor. Although he still existed and could not be banished again with purpose, his power had waned dramatically in the past two years. The fiery havoc that he would once effortlessly rain down upon the helpless inhabitants of the land were now quieted, and would not be seen for a long, long time. However, Iranon now did his bidding, and as long as this was so, Tamriel was in great danger.
It was now the afternoon and Gaenor had calmed down somewhat since his outburst. He and Naztheril spoke about Azura and her instructions, and who 'the prince' was. "She bid you seek out the prince in Goldstone Ridge? This is troubling." Gaenor leaned closer at the broken table with bewilderment. "This is what she told me," he said, "and I still haven't found any clue as to the whereabouts of this place." Naztheril scratched his head and felt his straight black hair in thought. "Cyrodiil seems to have been wiped out.. but Henar could not have done it alone. He must have had help of some kind."
"If the city had warded off Garonar's attacks for all the time he plagued the land, how is it Henar broke through?" asked the elf. The tall man stood and went to the window, his hand cupped around the back of his neck. "Since the second era, the King of Cyrodiil had always employed Royal Channelers and specially-trained priests to contain the city in a fortified barrier, protecting it from magical harm. It seems they never expected one person of overpowering them with brute force unannounced, and for that they have all perished. It would be best for us to find this place my Lady Azura spoke of and contact this 'prince' for further information. If your quest leads you there, it must surely hold answers to the questions we have."
They departed promptly for the nearest town, keeping to the east so as not to run into more of Knight Henar's destructive wake. Gaenor had found new clothes in the cottage to replace his worn ones, and a sack in which to carry food. By nearly a full day of traveling, they reached a caravan stopped in a small grove off the side of a dirt path. "Goldstone Ridge," asked Naztheril, unsure of the language these people spoke. They appeared human, but one could never be sure of from which land they came. "Aye," replied a large lumberjack from his wagon, "south o'ere past Nebanay." They departed with thanks and to the south, following the setting sun.
"Hear me, Gaenor. My Beast will keep a watchful eye on you. I sense a change within you, one that burns not with passion or anger, but with a seething need for revenge. It may not be within my power to influence those of darkness in the tangible world, but heed my words: if you are to defeat your enemy, fighting for yourself would be in vain. You are small but filled with strength. If you so desire, show the world that physical form is meaningless, as Naztheril has shown you. Become a hero and smite this Garonar and his servant for all Tamriel. Lift this curse from the land and bask in the peace you will have created. You are Bearer of Fire and Light, as it is written in the Elder Scrolls. Wield these weapons and face the shadow. Go swiftly, and with my blessing."
--------------------
"Henar is dead. Where is his master?" asked Gaenor. His companion sat with him as he finished the bottom of the last basket and removed his top hat as he liked to do when giving important information. "Henar's master, or his master's master?" he asked sternly. Gaenor looked up from his plate (that could not easily be recognized as a plate any longer, for it was encrusted with leftover crumbs and pieces of food) with a baffled stare. "Iranon is not your only foe here," he continued. "There is another. You should know of whom I speak, whether you want to believe it or not." He forgot his hunger at that moment, and stood with renewed strength. After a short silence he looked back to his plate and began to shiver. He gritted his teeth and shut tightly his eyes, and his muscles tensed. He let out a desperate shout of anger and flung the plate across the room, missing Naztheril's face by an inch. It shattered and he slammed his remaining arm onto the table, cracking one leg. "How many impossibilities must occur in this godforsaken world?!" he yelled. "Garonar is DEAD. Don't tell me 'he has returned', or I will tell you that your beloved GOD Azura can defeat him herself this time!"
It was true; Garonar had returned. Upon his banishment into Oblivion, his fiery essence was rejected back into Tamriel, as it was judged by the Daedra there as being overly-sinister and cruel by nature to allow into their dimension. They refused to believe a being not born of their world could contain such darkness, such evil, and they sent it through the Oblivion Gate. It assumed the guise of a demonic statuette in one of Garonar's shrines in the Ascadian Isles, deep in a hidden catacomb, where Iranon could speak with him and plot his revenge against his undoer, Gaenor. Although he still existed and could not be banished again with purpose, his power had waned dramatically in the past two years. The fiery havoc that he would once effortlessly rain down upon the helpless inhabitants of the land were now quieted, and would not be seen for a long, long time. However, Iranon now did his bidding, and as long as this was so, Tamriel was in great danger.
It was now the afternoon and Gaenor had calmed down somewhat since his outburst. He and Naztheril spoke about Azura and her instructions, and who 'the prince' was. "She bid you seek out the prince in Goldstone Ridge? This is troubling." Gaenor leaned closer at the broken table with bewilderment. "This is what she told me," he said, "and I still haven't found any clue as to the whereabouts of this place." Naztheril scratched his head and felt his straight black hair in thought. "Cyrodiil seems to have been wiped out.. but Henar could not have done it alone. He must have had help of some kind."
"If the city had warded off Garonar's attacks for all the time he plagued the land, how is it Henar broke through?" asked the elf. The tall man stood and went to the window, his hand cupped around the back of his neck. "Since the second era, the King of Cyrodiil had always employed Royal Channelers and specially-trained priests to contain the city in a fortified barrier, protecting it from magical harm. It seems they never expected one person of overpowering them with brute force unannounced, and for that they have all perished. It would be best for us to find this place my Lady Azura spoke of and contact this 'prince' for further information. If your quest leads you there, it must surely hold answers to the questions we have."
They departed promptly for the nearest town, keeping to the east so as not to run into more of Knight Henar's destructive wake. Gaenor had found new clothes in the cottage to replace his worn ones, and a sack in which to carry food. By nearly a full day of traveling, they reached a caravan stopped in a small grove off the side of a dirt path. "Goldstone Ridge," asked Naztheril, unsure of the language these people spoke. They appeared human, but one could never be sure of from which land they came. "Aye," replied a large lumberjack from his wagon, "south o'ere past Nebanay." They departed with thanks and to the south, following the setting sun.
"Hear me, Gaenor. My Beast will keep a watchful eye on you. I sense a change within you, one that burns not with passion or anger, but with a seething need for revenge. It may not be within my power to influence those of darkness in the tangible world, but heed my words: if you are to defeat your enemy, fighting for yourself would be in vain. You are small but filled with strength. If you so desire, show the world that physical form is meaningless, as Naztheril has shown you. Become a hero and smite this Garonar and his servant for all Tamriel. Lift this curse from the land and bask in the peace you will have created. You are Bearer of Fire and Light, as it is written in the Elder Scrolls. Wield these weapons and face the shadow. Go swiftly, and with my blessing."
--------------------
H-h-holy crap.......soo many additions here.....very well written it is...you make us see Gaenor a bit different from in-game huh?
Great work..really
Great work..really
This is beyond epic fiction- your vision of the story, the way you weave history and lore into the telling, all of it is amazing. I am stunned by the breadth of imagination and creativity shown here.
QUOTE(treydog @ Aug 18 2005, 02:22 PM)
This is beyond epic fiction- your vision of the story, the way you weave history and lore into the telling, all of it is amazing. I am stunned by the breadth of imagination and creativity shown here.
--------------------
Gaenor's will grew with each passing day, and his soul darkened. He was aware of his lost personality, and knew not why he was unable to regain it and revert to his old self. It was as if he thought of an old friend, someone he could never again see or speak with. Gaenor was slain in Skyrim, and from the gash in his back spawned something.. different. He knew not who he was, what he was, or why he was. Fate had consumed him; the fate the Elder Scrolls had written for him. There was no changing the past, no changing the future. Things were moving too quickly. What were The Elder Scrolls, and why had they such a hold on his destiny? Who gave them the right?
"The signs along the road have been few, but it seems Goldstone Ridge is to the southwest of here," said Naztheril with a tired sigh. Gaenor didn't think he was tired at all, since beneath his humanoid skin was The Beast - a creature that had battled for five of his lifetimes without rest - and all they had done was walked for almost a day. That was the only time one of them spoke since asking for directions the day before. The elf's mind was forcibely clear, and Naztheril simply had nothing to say until then. He knew Gaenor was struggling, and knew he could not comprehend how much, as old as he was.
The bright afternoon sun reflected its yellow light off each clean blade of grass across the rolling green hills of Cyrodiil. It was spring, and the bright purple and yellow flowers native to the land were in full bloom at the base of every tree and around each grey rock. Their fragrance travelled for miles with the soft wind, and brought with it the buzzing and chirping of exotic insects and birds from all over Tamriel. The sky was as an ocean, the clouds drifting carelessly through and passing before the rays of warmth, allowing for short moments of shade. Far in the distance the plateau upon which the castle stood was still within sight, lording proudly over the nation in all its glory. As far as anyone knew, the city remained the center of the world, and Emperor Uriel Septim was about to sit at his banquet table for lunch.
==========
"Killed." he repeated.
"Yes, sire. I hath sensed his demise not half a day ago while at my hideaway. It seems Gaenor..." but Iranon was cut off by the booming crackle of Garonar's voice, eminating from the statuette.
"Save your words. He dispatches the Nerevarine and now Knight Henar. Does this frighten you?"
"My liege, I laugh in the face of fear."
"I detect desperation within you, Iranon. This Bosmer defeats your puppet and you look to me for guidance. You and I have been associates for centuries and have waved off such heroes as insects. Tell me. What causes your plight?"
Iranon clenched tightly the collar of his robe and began breathing through his mouth in a pant for air. His skin was dry and cracked, and his hands quivered. "I shall be honest, sire. My blood boils at the victories of our foe, but alas, he slew Knight Olkair Henar with but one fell stroke of my Blade. Forsake me not when I say this, but how could one wielding both the Fire and the Light be beaten?"
The flaming avatar of Garonar was emotionless, but the red fire engulfing the skull that represented him grew steadily. "And forsake you I never will, Iranon. Your question is just. I am no blind tyrant, but an all-seeing master of darkness. He has revealed his weakness to me on more than one occasion."
"Master," Iranon replied anxiously, "sharest with me and I shalst orchestrate his death!"
"Valenwood. Burn it down."
--------------------
Excellent update. The plot thickens as Iranon and Garonar plan to burn Valenwood. Interesting that Garonar believes that to be the source of Gaenor's strength...
By morning of the next day they'd reached the region known as Goldstone Ridge. It was a magnificient sight to behold, despite neither traveller being interested much in magnificence to begin with. The night sky enveloped each crag and cliff in a shining darkness, and the shimmering sparkle of gold reflected off every inch of the valley. It was as if the entire ridge was carved from gold, and none of it had been mined or stolen. "This is an important place for the Cyrodiil. Mind yourself," whispered Naztheril, speaking as he would in the most sacred of shrines to Azura. Gaenor kept his stoic expression but knew he must have carried himself in a respectable manner, or his quest may never have been completed.
They continued down the wide, unpaved road of bright orange dust to what appeared to be a town within the valley. The buildings were constructed so as not to disturb (or even touch) any of the rocky walls surrounding them, and were composed of stone which matched the walls of Cyrodiil City. They had no designs save for decorative carvings directly into the flat stone from which they were made, and various runes on their wooden doors. "The gold within these mountains is sacred to the Imperials. They say this is where Zenithar was born," mentioned Naztheril, looking across the small cluster of buildings for signs of life. "Who would be awake at this hour?" asked Gaenor, but his companion ignored him and walked to the nearest house. He removed his top hat and politely knocked on the door with one knuckle, then stepped backward and kneeled.
The door swung open quickly and revealed the inside; total darkness with the exception of the glow of one white candle in the hands of a hooded monk. He wore a white robe lined with red and black with a bright, golden necklace and a gray cowl. He walked out from the blackness and the door closed immediately behind him as he stopped. Gaenor stood to the side and did not lower his head, but the monk seemed oblivious to his presence. "I have requested your counsel for reasons most dire, servant to Zenithar. My friend and I are in search of the Prince of Cyrodiil," said Naztheril in a quiet tone. The monk spoke not, but instead turned down the road and began walking. The two travellers looked at each other in suspicion, but promptly followed.
As they continued south on the road, the winds blew gradually more forceful through the valley. After two hours of silent walking, the gusts of air howled in their ears, and soon, sent their coats flying upwards on their backs. The monk, however (and meeting the Bosmer's expectation), seemed unaffected. "Notice our guide is protected from the wind," yelled the elf. "Doesn't surprise me. These holy types are usually guarded by the power of their worshipped god, yet somehow they haven't grasped the concept of speaking just yet." Naztheril muttered something about his obnoxiousness under his breath, and the candle never blew out.
A short while later they halted before a great crevace, out from which rushed torrents of warm air in a chaotic cyclone. The dust and dirt below did not move at all, and the clouds overhead floated on unhindered by the massive hurricane of wind from the large crack in the earth. The monk lowered both arms and removed his hood. Gaenor squinted slightly in skepticism and Naztheril smiled as they noticed the blindfold around his eyes. The elf grunted and turned away from the winds, not bothering to inquire as to how he had led them to wherever they were without sight. The candle spun quickly in its dish, and floated in mid-air down over a small path leading into the crevace. Naztheril bowed respectfully and tapped the Bosmer on his shoulder to follow him. "Follow the candle, and we'll find our Prince. I'm sure of it!"
End Part 1
--------------------
I'll begin again a little later.. stay tuned
They continued down the wide, unpaved road of bright orange dust to what appeared to be a town within the valley. The buildings were constructed so as not to disturb (or even touch) any of the rocky walls surrounding them, and were composed of stone which matched the walls of Cyrodiil City. They had no designs save for decorative carvings directly into the flat stone from which they were made, and various runes on their wooden doors. "The gold within these mountains is sacred to the Imperials. They say this is where Zenithar was born," mentioned Naztheril, looking across the small cluster of buildings for signs of life. "Who would be awake at this hour?" asked Gaenor, but his companion ignored him and walked to the nearest house. He removed his top hat and politely knocked on the door with one knuckle, then stepped backward and kneeled.
The door swung open quickly and revealed the inside; total darkness with the exception of the glow of one white candle in the hands of a hooded monk. He wore a white robe lined with red and black with a bright, golden necklace and a gray cowl. He walked out from the blackness and the door closed immediately behind him as he stopped. Gaenor stood to the side and did not lower his head, but the monk seemed oblivious to his presence. "I have requested your counsel for reasons most dire, servant to Zenithar. My friend and I are in search of the Prince of Cyrodiil," said Naztheril in a quiet tone. The monk spoke not, but instead turned down the road and began walking. The two travellers looked at each other in suspicion, but promptly followed.
As they continued south on the road, the winds blew gradually more forceful through the valley. After two hours of silent walking, the gusts of air howled in their ears, and soon, sent their coats flying upwards on their backs. The monk, however (and meeting the Bosmer's expectation), seemed unaffected. "Notice our guide is protected from the wind," yelled the elf. "Doesn't surprise me. These holy types are usually guarded by the power of their worshipped god, yet somehow they haven't grasped the concept of speaking just yet." Naztheril muttered something about his obnoxiousness under his breath, and the candle never blew out.
A short while later they halted before a great crevace, out from which rushed torrents of warm air in a chaotic cyclone. The dust and dirt below did not move at all, and the clouds overhead floated on unhindered by the massive hurricane of wind from the large crack in the earth. The monk lowered both arms and removed his hood. Gaenor squinted slightly in skepticism and Naztheril smiled as they noticed the blindfold around his eyes. The elf grunted and turned away from the winds, not bothering to inquire as to how he had led them to wherever they were without sight. The candle spun quickly in its dish, and floated in mid-air down over a small path leading into the crevace. Naztheril bowed respectfully and tapped the Bosmer on his shoulder to follow him. "Follow the candle, and we'll find our Prince. I'm sure of it!"
End Part 1
--------------------
I'll begin again a little later.. stay tuned
Woo-Hoo! Great writing here. Again, the imagination and descriptive power of the story are breath-taking.
*shamelessly continues his story after an unexplained year without updates under the assumption that people are still half-interested*
The tunnel through which they crawled was barely wide enough for the two travelers to manage in, and the only light was from the candle, still mysteriously floating ever deeper into the unknown blackness. They continued for what seemed like hours on their hands and knees, awkwardly tilting their heads forward as if there was something to see ahead of them. The relentless cyclones of wind hardly helped their situation, and at times one of them would lose their grip on the rooty, mud-covered lumps that made up their way and slide back, uncomfortably far from the candle which provided their sight. Naztheril was amazed, as his eyes were able to see to great distances and past such trivial illusions as darkness, he could not penetrate the pure black which enveloped he and Gaenor.
As for the Bosmer, he found new strength in his only arm. The energy that would have normally been distributed to his left arm was now added to his right, heightening its strength to a surprising degree. He forced himself to move slower than his two-armed companion was capable of moving, which made him think of how forceful the swing of his blade would be now. All the while, however, and although he was unable to feel his environment, it was greatly uncomfortable to be in such a cramped place for so long, and unnerving not to know where exactly this candle was leading them, if anywhere at all. The wind seemed to subside for the most part though, and this made their journey somewhat easier to tolerate over time.
They spoke not a word since entering, until Naztheril grasped Gaenor's shoulder, and they both stopped. "Your hand is bleeding," he told the elf, and they examined it to find a sharp sliver of wood protruding from his palm. The Beast pulled it out and wrapped the wound in clean cloth, then turned forward once more to the waning light. The candle, oddly enough, had stopped with them, as if it was waiting. "I trust the monk of Zenithar to have empowered this candle to lead us to the Prince, but this is absurd. We would be best not to risk more injuries, especially since you don't notice them." Gaenor nodded once in acknowledgement and sat back on his legs. "Though I feel nothing, I grow weary of this place, and of this candle. The Prince of Cyrodiil would not travel through such conditions for any reason, I think." Naztheril moved on towards the candle with his head turned back to the elf. "I agree," he responded, "but we have not much of a choice now. The only way we can go--" but he stopped upon knocking the candle over with his shoulder.
"That's odd," he exclaimed, staring at the lit candle on the ground. "Shouldn't it have continued with me as it has these hours past?" Gaenor shrugged hopelessly and looked behind him, as he could not think of what to do next. With the candle once again inanimate, they were lost and without a guide in the narrow tunnel. "This is mad," Naztheril said in a louder tone. The small flame sank slowly into the soft, wet mud, and its wick was put out. "Oh, excellent!" he yelled in despair. The Bosmer closed and opened his eyes, noticing no difference, and began to wonder as his partner yammered on about their situation. I'd light the place up in an instant with my amulet and we could move on, but it seems, from my experience, that the only way to consciously harness the Light is through an emotion-altering cause. thought Gaenor.
"Naztheril, punch me in the face."
==========
It was summer in Valenwood at the time, and its natural beauty reflected the splendid weather, as did the joyful cheers at the town square in Ebon Ro. The village elders were dressed in ceremonial brown robes, and their noses and foreheads painted different shades of green and grey. They were making a speech to the rest of the citizens who had gathered themselves into a crowd before them, laughing and talking quietly amongst each other.
"Indeed, this occasion fills us all with happiness, and reminds us that the Leaf and the Paw are ever-watchful of the Bosmeri, and bless us with such a gift. I now pronounce you wed, and may you walk together in the warming shade of Valenwood for the rest of your days!" The people shouted congratulations at the newly-married couple atop the platform, and they began to dance to the erupting flutes and drums.
"Correction, Wood Elf," replied the unmistakable voice of Iranon from behind the ceremony. "The warming shade of Valenwood shall be replaced." The crowd turned in bewilderment, and one elder stepped forward in question. "Who are you, and what means these foul words?" The Argonian coughed out a chuckle and pulled back his hood. "Are you not curious? Not curious as to with what your warming shade will be replaced?" The elder snarled and looked to the others. "It will be replaced," continued Iranon, "with the eternal fires of my master Garonar. May Leaf and Paw be consumed in the flame!" He shot his arms up quickly over his head, holding the demonic idol of his master Garonar, and cackled wickedly in anticipation.
--------------------
The tunnel through which they crawled was barely wide enough for the two travelers to manage in, and the only light was from the candle, still mysteriously floating ever deeper into the unknown blackness. They continued for what seemed like hours on their hands and knees, awkwardly tilting their heads forward as if there was something to see ahead of them. The relentless cyclones of wind hardly helped their situation, and at times one of them would lose their grip on the rooty, mud-covered lumps that made up their way and slide back, uncomfortably far from the candle which provided their sight. Naztheril was amazed, as his eyes were able to see to great distances and past such trivial illusions as darkness, he could not penetrate the pure black which enveloped he and Gaenor.
As for the Bosmer, he found new strength in his only arm. The energy that would have normally been distributed to his left arm was now added to his right, heightening its strength to a surprising degree. He forced himself to move slower than his two-armed companion was capable of moving, which made him think of how forceful the swing of his blade would be now. All the while, however, and although he was unable to feel his environment, it was greatly uncomfortable to be in such a cramped place for so long, and unnerving not to know where exactly this candle was leading them, if anywhere at all. The wind seemed to subside for the most part though, and this made their journey somewhat easier to tolerate over time.
They spoke not a word since entering, until Naztheril grasped Gaenor's shoulder, and they both stopped. "Your hand is bleeding," he told the elf, and they examined it to find a sharp sliver of wood protruding from his palm. The Beast pulled it out and wrapped the wound in clean cloth, then turned forward once more to the waning light. The candle, oddly enough, had stopped with them, as if it was waiting. "I trust the monk of Zenithar to have empowered this candle to lead us to the Prince, but this is absurd. We would be best not to risk more injuries, especially since you don't notice them." Gaenor nodded once in acknowledgement and sat back on his legs. "Though I feel nothing, I grow weary of this place, and of this candle. The Prince of Cyrodiil would not travel through such conditions for any reason, I think." Naztheril moved on towards the candle with his head turned back to the elf. "I agree," he responded, "but we have not much of a choice now. The only way we can go--" but he stopped upon knocking the candle over with his shoulder.
"That's odd," he exclaimed, staring at the lit candle on the ground. "Shouldn't it have continued with me as it has these hours past?" Gaenor shrugged hopelessly and looked behind him, as he could not think of what to do next. With the candle once again inanimate, they were lost and without a guide in the narrow tunnel. "This is mad," Naztheril said in a louder tone. The small flame sank slowly into the soft, wet mud, and its wick was put out. "Oh, excellent!" he yelled in despair. The Bosmer closed and opened his eyes, noticing no difference, and began to wonder as his partner yammered on about their situation. I'd light the place up in an instant with my amulet and we could move on, but it seems, from my experience, that the only way to consciously harness the Light is through an emotion-altering cause. thought Gaenor.
"Naztheril, punch me in the face."
==========
It was summer in Valenwood at the time, and its natural beauty reflected the splendid weather, as did the joyful cheers at the town square in Ebon Ro. The village elders were dressed in ceremonial brown robes, and their noses and foreheads painted different shades of green and grey. They were making a speech to the rest of the citizens who had gathered themselves into a crowd before them, laughing and talking quietly amongst each other.
"Indeed, this occasion fills us all with happiness, and reminds us that the Leaf and the Paw are ever-watchful of the Bosmeri, and bless us with such a gift. I now pronounce you wed, and may you walk together in the warming shade of Valenwood for the rest of your days!" The people shouted congratulations at the newly-married couple atop the platform, and they began to dance to the erupting flutes and drums.
"Correction, Wood Elf," replied the unmistakable voice of Iranon from behind the ceremony. "The warming shade of Valenwood shall be replaced." The crowd turned in bewilderment, and one elder stepped forward in question. "Who are you, and what means these foul words?" The Argonian coughed out a chuckle and pulled back his hood. "Are you not curious? Not curious as to with what your warming shade will be replaced?" The elder snarled and looked to the others. "It will be replaced," continued Iranon, "with the eternal fires of my master Garonar. May Leaf and Paw be consumed in the flame!" He shot his arms up quickly over his head, holding the demonic idol of his master Garonar, and cackled wickedly in anticipation.
--------------------
ShraX is back! And still writing in a style and with a gift for character and description that keep me reading. Welcome back. Have a !
"In your what?"
"Face. In the face."
"But.. why?!" Naztheril exclaimed in question. "Listen," answered Gaenor knowingly, "those other times.. where my amulet and sword would activate their power, I was in life-threatening battle. During these past few weeks I've fought three enormous Nix hounds, then Jkoryl, Nels, and finally Henar. Each time the Fire and Light that lays dormant within me has been brought out, my blade and amulet serving as their vessels." Naztheril listened carefully and turned quickly around, facing the elf with great intrigue. "But punching you in the face is not threatening to your life, Gaenor," he replied unsurely. The Bosmer lowered his head, thinking desperately of a way to awaken his power without a spark to light his fuse.
"Your sister.. she suffered a most horrid death, those years ago," muttered Naztheril, the wind still blowing softly now at his back. Gaenor lifted his head at once, but remained silent. "I know of her fate. She escaped the destruction of your village for some days.. but no one escapes the fiery wrath of Garonar. Not even your beloved sister," he continued in a new, lower voice. The elf leaned forward on one knee, and grit his teeth. He closed tightly his eyes as the memories of Kinaryn were forced out of his mind. "Perhaps you know not of how, in fact, she was killed. Allow me to indulge you." Gaenor was struggling to hold back his tears, but it was too much. He felt nothing physical, but no being save for Garonar himself is without compassion and inner feeling. "Be silent!" he managed out in a broken tone, but his companion refused to stop. His plan was working well.
"Upon locating the monk's cart, he destroyed it in his usual fashion; blasting it to debris with a fireball or two. Kinaryn was throwin out of the side window from the force of his magic and tumbled down a rocky hill. Most of her bones broken at that point, she was unable to move.. helpless before Garonar, smiling wide as he undressed the last vestiges of her mortal self, taking her soul for his own." Gaenor was now trembling with rage, and the black of the tunnel turned to a bright red before his eyes. Naztheril watched as his amulet and blade lit up a brilliant, fiery orange, the pendant's jewel shifting from one color to the next at random. "I believe you saw her one day, in Sadrith Mora, did you not? It must have swelled your heart to have seen her again, and to have known she was alright.. but she is a puppet now. Do you miss your sister, Gaenor? Does it trouble you to know that in the only form you will see her now is one of mindless bloodlust under the control of your sworn enemy? Tell me.. how does it feel?"
The blaze was now unstoppable, swirling about him in flaming chaos, and lighting the entire tunnel from entrance to exit in a red glow. Even Naztheril was forced to cover his eyes from the blinding, manifest fury from within Gaenor, and he felt the mud and roots twist about limply in the opposite direction of which the wind was blowing. He turned away from the elf, who was now berserking and thrashing about on the tunnel walls, and noticed that the end of their way was much closer than it appeared before. The candle was loosed of its holdings within the thick dirt below and shot away from the rampaging flame, straight down to the bright, blue light which held their freedom from the tunnel. Naztheril looked back at his friend and asked Azura to forgive what he had done, and crawled quickly out and watched in fear at what would happen to Gaenor if he did not control his feelings too late.
==========
"Do you hear something?"
"It sounds like there's a gathering of angry Alit in the sewage duct."
"Yes.. it sounds as if there's been an explosion. Go have a look, will you?"
The servant bowed respectfully and left the small throne room, out the steel-lined wood doors and down the marble and gold hallway toward the duct. He turned to it and tapped the stranger on his shoulder. "Pardon me sir, but who exactly are you?" Naztheril turned quickly in surprise and looked back to Gaenor in the tunnel. "I am called Naztheril, and my friend in there is.. having some trouble. Can you do anything to help?" The servant peered into the duct and saw the ball of fire that the Bosmer had now created around him. "Gods! Come with me!"
He led Naztheril into the hallway and around the other side of the small sewage room to a control panel. "Brace yourself. Your friend will be flushed out immediately." Naztheril grasped onto a bronze handle and looked to the servant confusedly. "..Flush him out?"
--------------------
"Face. In the face."
"But.. why?!" Naztheril exclaimed in question. "Listen," answered Gaenor knowingly, "those other times.. where my amulet and sword would activate their power, I was in life-threatening battle. During these past few weeks I've fought three enormous Nix hounds, then Jkoryl, Nels, and finally Henar. Each time the Fire and Light that lays dormant within me has been brought out, my blade and amulet serving as their vessels." Naztheril listened carefully and turned quickly around, facing the elf with great intrigue. "But punching you in the face is not threatening to your life, Gaenor," he replied unsurely. The Bosmer lowered his head, thinking desperately of a way to awaken his power without a spark to light his fuse.
"Your sister.. she suffered a most horrid death, those years ago," muttered Naztheril, the wind still blowing softly now at his back. Gaenor lifted his head at once, but remained silent. "I know of her fate. She escaped the destruction of your village for some days.. but no one escapes the fiery wrath of Garonar. Not even your beloved sister," he continued in a new, lower voice. The elf leaned forward on one knee, and grit his teeth. He closed tightly his eyes as the memories of Kinaryn were forced out of his mind. "Perhaps you know not of how, in fact, she was killed. Allow me to indulge you." Gaenor was struggling to hold back his tears, but it was too much. He felt nothing physical, but no being save for Garonar himself is without compassion and inner feeling. "Be silent!" he managed out in a broken tone, but his companion refused to stop. His plan was working well.
"Upon locating the monk's cart, he destroyed it in his usual fashion; blasting it to debris with a fireball or two. Kinaryn was throwin out of the side window from the force of his magic and tumbled down a rocky hill. Most of her bones broken at that point, she was unable to move.. helpless before Garonar, smiling wide as he undressed the last vestiges of her mortal self, taking her soul for his own." Gaenor was now trembling with rage, and the black of the tunnel turned to a bright red before his eyes. Naztheril watched as his amulet and blade lit up a brilliant, fiery orange, the pendant's jewel shifting from one color to the next at random. "I believe you saw her one day, in Sadrith Mora, did you not? It must have swelled your heart to have seen her again, and to have known she was alright.. but she is a puppet now. Do you miss your sister, Gaenor? Does it trouble you to know that in the only form you will see her now is one of mindless bloodlust under the control of your sworn enemy? Tell me.. how does it feel?"
The blaze was now unstoppable, swirling about him in flaming chaos, and lighting the entire tunnel from entrance to exit in a red glow. Even Naztheril was forced to cover his eyes from the blinding, manifest fury from within Gaenor, and he felt the mud and roots twist about limply in the opposite direction of which the wind was blowing. He turned away from the elf, who was now berserking and thrashing about on the tunnel walls, and noticed that the end of their way was much closer than it appeared before. The candle was loosed of its holdings within the thick dirt below and shot away from the rampaging flame, straight down to the bright, blue light which held their freedom from the tunnel. Naztheril looked back at his friend and asked Azura to forgive what he had done, and crawled quickly out and watched in fear at what would happen to Gaenor if he did not control his feelings too late.
==========
"Do you hear something?"
"It sounds like there's a gathering of angry Alit in the sewage duct."
"Yes.. it sounds as if there's been an explosion. Go have a look, will you?"
The servant bowed respectfully and left the small throne room, out the steel-lined wood doors and down the marble and gold hallway toward the duct. He turned to it and tapped the stranger on his shoulder. "Pardon me sir, but who exactly are you?" Naztheril turned quickly in surprise and looked back to Gaenor in the tunnel. "I am called Naztheril, and my friend in there is.. having some trouble. Can you do anything to help?" The servant peered into the duct and saw the ball of fire that the Bosmer had now created around him. "Gods! Come with me!"
He led Naztheril into the hallway and around the other side of the small sewage room to a control panel. "Brace yourself. Your friend will be flushed out immediately." Naztheril grasped onto a bronze handle and looked to the servant confusedly. "..Flush him out?"
--------------------
Woah!! Gaenor is back!!! great to see.......keep it coming man!!! ītis good ya know!!!
What? There's a Gaenor reloaded? 
I have some reading to do.
I have some reading to do.
Whoo, this is nice. Makes me wish I had Tribunal, then I could talk to him and become friends. I am now waiting for the flushing.
Two days passed since Gaenor and Naztheril made their way through what they now knew was the Prince's sewage duct, which led to his royal hideaway. Upon meeting him, the two travelers learned that during Henar's invasion of Cyrodiil City, he was taken to his safehouse in Goldstone Ridge for protection. At the same time, Iranon and Garonar burned through Valenwood's defenses and leveled most of the countryside to smoldering ash in the hopes of stirring Gaenor's emotions and bringing him into the open. Unbeknownst to them, their enemy did not hear of his nation's destruction, as he was deep underground in the Prince's secret quarters.
However, one felt Valenwood's plight - the Beast, Naztheril. His companion asked if he was feeling alright, not out of worry, but out of obligation to know. He acted strangely ever since Gaenor was literally 'flushed' out of the duct, which quenched the roaring flames that engulfed the little elf's very being. At times he would sweat profusely when his company felt no heat. He would become dizzy and be forced to hold himself against the walls of the dimly-lit hallway. He'd stumble in his step, once knocking a brazier over onto one of the many banners that hung from the walls. The only ones he ever saw were Gaenor, the Prince and his servant, the doors excluding those which led to the guest and throne rooms being shut and locked at all times, and they noticed his odd behavior.
"Bosmer," said the Prince to Gaenor from his golden seat, "it is clear to me, from what you've told me, that Azura knew I would flee here from Cyrodiil City at almost the very same time you arrived here yourself. Such an accurate prediction proves she is of great power, and I realize the quest she gave unto you is a dire one indeed." The Prince of Cyrodiil never gave his name to either of the travelers, and neither of them ever asked. He was fit and just short of a head taller than the elf, every inch of his body wrapped and laced with fine silk and gold-sprinkled cloth, with a thin crown adorned with rubies atop his wavy brown hair. On one finger he wore a large crystal ring with the seal of Septim engraved within its face, and in his other hand was always held a short golden scepter. "Unfortunately," he continued, "I know not why she sent you to me to begin with." Gaenor and Naztheril had now been there for a short while, and for most of the time, the Bosmer was passed out from his episode within the duct. These questions were only just now arising, once the Prince was certain he could be answered coherently.
"Nor do I," replied Gaenor, paying half his attention to thoughts on Naztheril and his condition. He had been given new clothes to replace his 'flushed' ones, but disliked greatly the large crest of the Imperial Dragon sewn into it. "The only orders I had were to seek you out in Goldstone Ridge, and I believe I've done that. What lies next in my quest is of which I am unsure." The Prince sighed with hopeless confusion and sat back in his throne. "This place used to house the worshippers of Zenithar, a Divine of Cyrodiil. Why a Daedra Lord of the Dark Elves would send you here is beyond me. Perhaps we'd best give this some further thought before jumping to any wild conclusions, and steering you off your course." Gaenor nodded with dutiful respect, but their conversation's quiet end was interrupted with the bursting open of the double doors behind the elf.
"We must wait no longer," shouted Naztheril, heaving and panting, "Valenwood is no more!"
==========
"Such is the payment I owed, for in recognition of his acts against me, this revenge is justified. My reputation in this land is naught but as a terrifying silhouette of a soul, once crept out of nightmares and forever remained, tortured yet torturing. Mortals, look upon me and know your undoing first-hand. He who'd been placed here, on this plane of inferior existence, could not defeat me.. and so there is no hope for any. His name is Gaenor, and though he still roams about under the Moon and the Stars, heeding their whim, he is powerless to end my reign of destruction that this world has seen wraught so frequently, so frequently, that even it itself gave up long ago. Tremble, Nirn, tremble before Garonar, Plague of Life, Master of Fire, and Doombringer to those who live!"
It was with this short speech, motivated by sundering an entire nation of Tamriel (as he's never done before), the skull-shaped essence of Garonar returned to its demonic idol, and was hurriedly recalled back to his shrine, leaving Valenwood a smoking, charred shadow of its former beauty. Each tree was set aflame, and their life collected as one in the form of bellowing smoke, which ascended to the clouds. The disaster was so great in escalation that even those on Summerset Isle could clearly see black land which heralded Garonar's wake. Valenwood was indeed no more.
--------------------
However, one felt Valenwood's plight - the Beast, Naztheril. His companion asked if he was feeling alright, not out of worry, but out of obligation to know. He acted strangely ever since Gaenor was literally 'flushed' out of the duct, which quenched the roaring flames that engulfed the little elf's very being. At times he would sweat profusely when his company felt no heat. He would become dizzy and be forced to hold himself against the walls of the dimly-lit hallway. He'd stumble in his step, once knocking a brazier over onto one of the many banners that hung from the walls. The only ones he ever saw were Gaenor, the Prince and his servant, the doors excluding those which led to the guest and throne rooms being shut and locked at all times, and they noticed his odd behavior.
"Bosmer," said the Prince to Gaenor from his golden seat, "it is clear to me, from what you've told me, that Azura knew I would flee here from Cyrodiil City at almost the very same time you arrived here yourself. Such an accurate prediction proves she is of great power, and I realize the quest she gave unto you is a dire one indeed." The Prince of Cyrodiil never gave his name to either of the travelers, and neither of them ever asked. He was fit and just short of a head taller than the elf, every inch of his body wrapped and laced with fine silk and gold-sprinkled cloth, with a thin crown adorned with rubies atop his wavy brown hair. On one finger he wore a large crystal ring with the seal of Septim engraved within its face, and in his other hand was always held a short golden scepter. "Unfortunately," he continued, "I know not why she sent you to me to begin with." Gaenor and Naztheril had now been there for a short while, and for most of the time, the Bosmer was passed out from his episode within the duct. These questions were only just now arising, once the Prince was certain he could be answered coherently.
"Nor do I," replied Gaenor, paying half his attention to thoughts on Naztheril and his condition. He had been given new clothes to replace his 'flushed' ones, but disliked greatly the large crest of the Imperial Dragon sewn into it. "The only orders I had were to seek you out in Goldstone Ridge, and I believe I've done that. What lies next in my quest is of which I am unsure." The Prince sighed with hopeless confusion and sat back in his throne. "This place used to house the worshippers of Zenithar, a Divine of Cyrodiil. Why a Daedra Lord of the Dark Elves would send you here is beyond me. Perhaps we'd best give this some further thought before jumping to any wild conclusions, and steering you off your course." Gaenor nodded with dutiful respect, but their conversation's quiet end was interrupted with the bursting open of the double doors behind the elf.
"We must wait no longer," shouted Naztheril, heaving and panting, "Valenwood is no more!"
==========
"Such is the payment I owed, for in recognition of his acts against me, this revenge is justified. My reputation in this land is naught but as a terrifying silhouette of a soul, once crept out of nightmares and forever remained, tortured yet torturing. Mortals, look upon me and know your undoing first-hand. He who'd been placed here, on this plane of inferior existence, could not defeat me.. and so there is no hope for any. His name is Gaenor, and though he still roams about under the Moon and the Stars, heeding their whim, he is powerless to end my reign of destruction that this world has seen wraught so frequently, so frequently, that even it itself gave up long ago. Tremble, Nirn, tremble before Garonar, Plague of Life, Master of Fire, and Doombringer to those who live!"
It was with this short speech, motivated by sundering an entire nation of Tamriel (as he's never done before), the skull-shaped essence of Garonar returned to its demonic idol, and was hurriedly recalled back to his shrine, leaving Valenwood a smoking, charred shadow of its former beauty. Each tree was set aflame, and their life collected as one in the form of bellowing smoke, which ascended to the clouds. The disaster was so great in escalation that even those on Summerset Isle could clearly see black land which heralded Garonar's wake. Valenwood was indeed no more.
--------------------
The star-filled sky choked on the burning smoke rising out of Valenwood. The moons were hidden by the thick layer of red and black, and Azura was nearly blinded. Masser and Secunda were her eyes, and this magnitude of destruction darkened her vision greatly. For the first time in a long, long while, she struggled; she tried with all her power to turn the smog away, toward the ocean in the northwest, but there was simply too much of it. There was nothing to do but to wait for it to dissipate. Her children suffered as well - those beings she had created in her image long ago that inhabited Morrowind stumbled about in confusion, dizzy with the waning light of the moon and stars.
==========
"What the hell are you saying?!" yelled Gaenor as he chased Naztheril down the hall of the royal safehouse. No response was given as they both headed for the sewage duct. "Hold there," commanded the Prince from his throne room doorway. "You don't mean to crawl back through the duct, do you? If your business is so urgent, use the elevator!" He walked quickly to the other side of the hall and the two travelers ran after him, Naztheril obviously exhausted. The Prince began turning a large iron wheel from behind a curtain, and the dead end at which they stood retracted and revealed a hidden platform in a shaft leading upward towards the surface. "I know not of what your friend speaks Gaenor," said the Prince hurriedly, "but take the best of care, and good luck. Perhaps we shall meet again once this business is settled. Be off!"
The elevator brought them back to a more recluse area of Goldstone Ridge than where they had previously arrived, and they set off on the main road once more. Their abrupt departure left Gaenor feeling awkward and unsure, but he kept up with his companion in the hopes that the fresh air would relieve his stress and allow him to explain himself. Upon arriving at the road, Naztheril stopped, kneeled down in the direction of the moon, and lowered his head. The Bosmer sat next to him and caught his breath, watching his friend's face hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his tophat.
"The moons," said Naztheril at last, "...they were.. watching.. Valenwood, Gaenor." He was still panting, and his voice sounded distressed to the highest degree. The elf didn't say a word, but looked to the moons. "My Lady," he continued, "was.. watching Valenwood. She saw Garonar.. and... and they burned it, Gaenor. They burned down Valenwood." Gaenor looked down and left from the moons' position and noticed the smoke, and his eyes slightly widened. "It.. it closes her eyes in darkness... the darkness of the smoke you see." He fell from his knees and supported himself with both arms on the cobblestone road, his legs out and weary from running in such a state. "I grow weak, Gaenor," he said, the Bosmer still staring at the smoke as it proceeded upwards. "My Lady Azura.. she grows weak as well. So much life..." He closed his eyes but the tears persisted and ran down his pale face. "So much life ended, and FOR WHAT?!" he shouted at such a volume as to quiet the surrounding crickets' songs, and there was silence.
"For me," Gaenor said softly. "He destroyed my nation for me. This goes beyond my reason to comprehend.. I am not certain as to how to handle such a feeling. I feel nothing now, but maybe I will later. Nonetheless, his deed can not go unpunished, and he will be dealt with. Come, we will obtain transport for Valenwood. I would like to see it."
--------------------
==========
"What the hell are you saying?!" yelled Gaenor as he chased Naztheril down the hall of the royal safehouse. No response was given as they both headed for the sewage duct. "Hold there," commanded the Prince from his throne room doorway. "You don't mean to crawl back through the duct, do you? If your business is so urgent, use the elevator!" He walked quickly to the other side of the hall and the two travelers ran after him, Naztheril obviously exhausted. The Prince began turning a large iron wheel from behind a curtain, and the dead end at which they stood retracted and revealed a hidden platform in a shaft leading upward towards the surface. "I know not of what your friend speaks Gaenor," said the Prince hurriedly, "but take the best of care, and good luck. Perhaps we shall meet again once this business is settled. Be off!"
The elevator brought them back to a more recluse area of Goldstone Ridge than where they had previously arrived, and they set off on the main road once more. Their abrupt departure left Gaenor feeling awkward and unsure, but he kept up with his companion in the hopes that the fresh air would relieve his stress and allow him to explain himself. Upon arriving at the road, Naztheril stopped, kneeled down in the direction of the moon, and lowered his head. The Bosmer sat next to him and caught his breath, watching his friend's face hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his tophat.
"The moons," said Naztheril at last, "...they were.. watching.. Valenwood, Gaenor." He was still panting, and his voice sounded distressed to the highest degree. The elf didn't say a word, but looked to the moons. "My Lady," he continued, "was.. watching Valenwood. She saw Garonar.. and... and they burned it, Gaenor. They burned down Valenwood." Gaenor looked down and left from the moons' position and noticed the smoke, and his eyes slightly widened. "It.. it closes her eyes in darkness... the darkness of the smoke you see." He fell from his knees and supported himself with both arms on the cobblestone road, his legs out and weary from running in such a state. "I grow weak, Gaenor," he said, the Bosmer still staring at the smoke as it proceeded upwards. "My Lady Azura.. she grows weak as well. So much life..." He closed his eyes but the tears persisted and ran down his pale face. "So much life ended, and FOR WHAT?!" he shouted at such a volume as to quiet the surrounding crickets' songs, and there was silence.
"For me," Gaenor said softly. "He destroyed my nation for me. This goes beyond my reason to comprehend.. I am not certain as to how to handle such a feeling. I feel nothing now, but maybe I will later. Nonetheless, his deed can not go unpunished, and he will be dealt with. Come, we will obtain transport for Valenwood. I would like to see it."
--------------------
Still going strong. I really enjoy your work here. Please keep it up.
My sorry attempt at Khajiiti
--------------------
A short while later, once Naztheril finally regained his composure, they followed Masser's light north and turned to the northeast at a sign pointing toward a farmstead. The night was especially dark, Secunda now totally immersed in the smog from Valenwood, and even they had somewhat of a difficult time keeping their steps to the dirt path until their way was shown by the farmhouse's lantern outside the door. It was late but neither of them cared to ask permission to take the horses in the clearly unlocked stable not far away. They also helped themselves to a basket of corn for the trip. They would have felt slightly guilty for robbing the farmer who lived there, but it was unlikely he was spared in Henar's invasion.
It took them two days to reach the border to Elswyr, their entire trip having been in complete silence. Gaenor decided it was best not to discuss Valenwood in any form as Naztheril seemed to feel its pain as his own. He was connected to the land somehow, and bringing up such a thing that he knew was already plaguing his mind would have been unnecessary and damaging. The elf remembered again his experience in Skyrim, and replayed his battle with Jkoryl in his mind. He tried to bring himself back before the fateful clawing that changed him forever to try and figure out why that particular strike made him how he is now, but it was futile; he was unable to feel such things anymore, and it frustrated him to be incapable of knowing the reason. It was a demon's talons which struck me, he thought, and therefore could have held some sort of demonic curse. Honestly, he was completely clueless, but thinking on it helped keep his mind off their destination, no matter how badly he truly wanted to see the place.
They left their horses on the grassy cliffs overlooking Elswyr, and Naztheril ordered them to return from whence they came, which they promptly did. They edged themselves down the steep boulders onto the crumbled sandstones below, and began their trek through the merciless desert. The dunes forced them to take unusually large, awkward steps, and at times there would be a short sandstorm or small tornado if the breeze became especially strong. Both travelers needed not warn each other of the true dangers of Elswyr, those of which were likely watching their every movement as they continued.
The Khajiit were native to this land, and most of those who were not brought to the rest of Tamriel for slavery were bitter towards outlanders. They marked them all as civilized devils of the industrialized world, Argonians being a slight exception. Their war with Valenwood was long ago, but they remembered their enemies and held grudges deeper than any. However, they were not monsters, as some would like to think they were, and under the proper circumstances could prove rather helpful and friendly. Unfortunately, neither of the travelers had any idea about what those circumstances were.
"Aren't you hot?" asked Gaenor, breaking the long silence. Naztheril smiled, "Remember our traversing of the Cyrodiil moat? And of our first meeting in Skyrim? Although my appearance is that of a human, I can assure you that my ordinary traits remain. I feel no temperature." The elf nodded and hoped he had made his companion somewhat more comfortable with a bit of conversation. "Do you hear it?" he asked in a lower voice. The Beast stopped and chuckled. "Indeed, and they hear you. Cat's ears are extremely sensitive, even moreso than yours. It would be best if we allowed for them to become a bit more acquainted with us and our intentions here, would it not? Let them come to us." Gaenor stopped and turned back to Naztheril who jerked his head lightly to his side, implying that something hid behind the flat rocks nearby.
"Eez tajet ge cotezo. Hurry, gatelee jurtecen!"
--------------------
--------------------
A short while later, once Naztheril finally regained his composure, they followed Masser's light north and turned to the northeast at a sign pointing toward a farmstead. The night was especially dark, Secunda now totally immersed in the smog from Valenwood, and even they had somewhat of a difficult time keeping their steps to the dirt path until their way was shown by the farmhouse's lantern outside the door. It was late but neither of them cared to ask permission to take the horses in the clearly unlocked stable not far away. They also helped themselves to a basket of corn for the trip. They would have felt slightly guilty for robbing the farmer who lived there, but it was unlikely he was spared in Henar's invasion.
It took them two days to reach the border to Elswyr, their entire trip having been in complete silence. Gaenor decided it was best not to discuss Valenwood in any form as Naztheril seemed to feel its pain as his own. He was connected to the land somehow, and bringing up such a thing that he knew was already plaguing his mind would have been unnecessary and damaging. The elf remembered again his experience in Skyrim, and replayed his battle with Jkoryl in his mind. He tried to bring himself back before the fateful clawing that changed him forever to try and figure out why that particular strike made him how he is now, but it was futile; he was unable to feel such things anymore, and it frustrated him to be incapable of knowing the reason. It was a demon's talons which struck me, he thought, and therefore could have held some sort of demonic curse. Honestly, he was completely clueless, but thinking on it helped keep his mind off their destination, no matter how badly he truly wanted to see the place.
They left their horses on the grassy cliffs overlooking Elswyr, and Naztheril ordered them to return from whence they came, which they promptly did. They edged themselves down the steep boulders onto the crumbled sandstones below, and began their trek through the merciless desert. The dunes forced them to take unusually large, awkward steps, and at times there would be a short sandstorm or small tornado if the breeze became especially strong. Both travelers needed not warn each other of the true dangers of Elswyr, those of which were likely watching their every movement as they continued.
The Khajiit were native to this land, and most of those who were not brought to the rest of Tamriel for slavery were bitter towards outlanders. They marked them all as civilized devils of the industrialized world, Argonians being a slight exception. Their war with Valenwood was long ago, but they remembered their enemies and held grudges deeper than any. However, they were not monsters, as some would like to think they were, and under the proper circumstances could prove rather helpful and friendly. Unfortunately, neither of the travelers had any idea about what those circumstances were.
"Aren't you hot?" asked Gaenor, breaking the long silence. Naztheril smiled, "Remember our traversing of the Cyrodiil moat? And of our first meeting in Skyrim? Although my appearance is that of a human, I can assure you that my ordinary traits remain. I feel no temperature." The elf nodded and hoped he had made his companion somewhat more comfortable with a bit of conversation. "Do you hear it?" he asked in a lower voice. The Beast stopped and chuckled. "Indeed, and they hear you. Cat's ears are extremely sensitive, even moreso than yours. It would be best if we allowed for them to become a bit more acquainted with us and our intentions here, would it not? Let them come to us." Gaenor stopped and turned back to Naztheril who jerked his head lightly to his side, implying that something hid behind the flat rocks nearby.
"Eez tajet ge cotezo. Hurry, gatelee jurtecen!"
--------------------
"What language is this?" asked the elf from his cell. "It's Khajiiti," replied Naztheril while watching their captors patrol around the jail through a barred window, "but that doesn't help us." He turned around and slumped down in the corner, gazing into the bright sun's rays which met the sand-covered stone floor. "They took my hat," he said. "What, do they think it's a dangerous weapon? Perhaps I'd bend the bars here with it and escape." Gaenor was now watching out his window and saw two guards examining the top hat in curious wonder. After a short while it appeared that they at last determined that whatever it did, it was put to better use torn to shreds and discarded in an old bucket. "They tore your hat," he answered from the other side of the brick wall by which their cells were separated. Naztheril grunted with a loss for words.
It was difficult for either of them to tell since their windows faced the back of the camp, but they were brought blindfolded to one of the many Khajiiti nomadic tribes which dotted Elswyr. It was unclear to the travelers as to exactly why they had been blindfolded; the entire land was an enormous desert with absolutely no outstanding landmarks with which to fix one's position. Their plan was to simply march across in a straight line so as not to confuse their path to their destination, for both Valenwood and Elswyr were adjacent, and now they were just as ignorant of their location as they were since first arriving. The jail in which they now were held was the only structure in the encampment, the rest of it consisting of sewn tents, and appeared to be of Imperial design.
"What are we doing here?" asked the Bosmer. Naztheril put his head back to the dusty wall and sighed, "Usually, one is brought to a jail to wait. It's a waiting room, really.. except the ones waiting are often told about for what exactly they're waiting upon starting to wait. Not so in our situation." Gaenor stood from the cracked, wooden bench on the wall and paced around the small area of his cell. "They took my blade and amulet." His companion made no response but knew the elf was on edge, his calm tone of voice masking his true state of mind. However, there was nothing for them to do yet, and so they agreed not to worry and to remain focused until they were called upon.
==========
With Garonar's idol placed back in his shrine in the Ascadian Isles, Iranon was relieved of duty until Gaenor revealed himself. He paid for teleportation via the Mage's Guild on Vvardenfell to High Rock, then traveled south back to Valenwood to await his enemy. He still felt the ruptured link in his mind between he and Knight Henar, and it pained it greatly at times. Each time it pulsed through his head it sent a shockwave down his spine and caused him to jerk his torso out uncomfortably, as well as curse the elf's name several times for what he had done to his most prized puppet. He knew he would need to replace his servant in order to have a chance at defeating Gaenor in combat, and that the new one would have to be even stronger than the last. Firstly, he would need to craft a new weapon. "It has been long," he said to himself as he crossed the border into smoldering Valenwood, "but with a fresh servant must come a fresh blade." He raised one arm slowly and his eyes went back in their sockets, and the skeletal hands of three former civilians pulled up from the charred soil. They stood hunched over and obedient, awaiting Iranon's command.
He sent them to the east and ordered them to sentry the tall cliffs which served as a natural wall to Elswyr. "Haveth patience, they are near in time," he instructed his temporary minions, "and when they arrive, you shalst warn me and attack. Go." The mindless skeletons sprinted off and left Iranon to his next order of business. His eyes returned and his raised hand clasped his head in pain. He squinted out across the seemingly endless field of black and death and managed a wicked smile. "There is much to be done."
--------------------
It was difficult for either of them to tell since their windows faced the back of the camp, but they were brought blindfolded to one of the many Khajiiti nomadic tribes which dotted Elswyr. It was unclear to the travelers as to exactly why they had been blindfolded; the entire land was an enormous desert with absolutely no outstanding landmarks with which to fix one's position. Their plan was to simply march across in a straight line so as not to confuse their path to their destination, for both Valenwood and Elswyr were adjacent, and now they were just as ignorant of their location as they were since first arriving. The jail in which they now were held was the only structure in the encampment, the rest of it consisting of sewn tents, and appeared to be of Imperial design.
"What are we doing here?" asked the Bosmer. Naztheril put his head back to the dusty wall and sighed, "Usually, one is brought to a jail to wait. It's a waiting room, really.. except the ones waiting are often told about for what exactly they're waiting upon starting to wait. Not so in our situation." Gaenor stood from the cracked, wooden bench on the wall and paced around the small area of his cell. "They took my blade and amulet." His companion made no response but knew the elf was on edge, his calm tone of voice masking his true state of mind. However, there was nothing for them to do yet, and so they agreed not to worry and to remain focused until they were called upon.
==========
With Garonar's idol placed back in his shrine in the Ascadian Isles, Iranon was relieved of duty until Gaenor revealed himself. He paid for teleportation via the Mage's Guild on Vvardenfell to High Rock, then traveled south back to Valenwood to await his enemy. He still felt the ruptured link in his mind between he and Knight Henar, and it pained it greatly at times. Each time it pulsed through his head it sent a shockwave down his spine and caused him to jerk his torso out uncomfortably, as well as curse the elf's name several times for what he had done to his most prized puppet. He knew he would need to replace his servant in order to have a chance at defeating Gaenor in combat, and that the new one would have to be even stronger than the last. Firstly, he would need to craft a new weapon. "It has been long," he said to himself as he crossed the border into smoldering Valenwood, "but with a fresh servant must come a fresh blade." He raised one arm slowly and his eyes went back in their sockets, and the skeletal hands of three former civilians pulled up from the charred soil. They stood hunched over and obedient, awaiting Iranon's command.
He sent them to the east and ordered them to sentry the tall cliffs which served as a natural wall to Elswyr. "Haveth patience, they are near in time," he instructed his temporary minions, "and when they arrive, you shalst warn me and attack. Go." The mindless skeletons sprinted off and left Iranon to his next order of business. His eyes returned and his raised hand clasped his head in pain. He squinted out across the seemingly endless field of black and death and managed a wicked smile. "There is much to be done."
--------------------
The Origin of Iranon
as told by an anonymous lorekeeper
It is well known throughout Tamriel and has been since before the First Era of the Empire that the Argonians of Black Marsh (or Argonia as it is called by the natives) have always upheld the idea of death in the highest regard. The fact that things that once were nothing, then have lived only to die, infatuated them, and had taken a high place in their shamanistic religious beliefs. The wise ones of their villages claimed to speak to the spirits of their loved ones past, and these spirits gave them counsel in times of great strife.
Necromancy, however, was forbidden not through law, but through association. If it was discovered that a necromancer lived among the other citizens in a village, they would immediately banish the suspect without hesitation, for they knew the terrible consequences of such a practice. Much like the Dunmer of Morrowind, they look down on necromancy in any of its forms, and shun those who have proved themselves to raise the dead.
Before Imperial-recorded time, in an unmarked region of Argonia, there was an epic battle between seven opposing tribes who had been waging a violent war for some years. Their dispute is still unknown and is open to debate, but it seems to most historians that they fought for control of a cave which, apparently, held great importance to the Argonians.
One warrior in particular was named Iranon, and was scheduled to leave his smithy for the battlefield in which this cave laid with the rest of his organized group. They ran swiftly through the swamps, clad in tough leathers and wielding long, wooden pikes, bound for the site of the cave to help take the area and claim it for their tribe. When they arrived, the ground was almost entirely covered in blood and corpses of their fallen enemies and allies. Mysteriously though, the cave itself remained clean and dry. Iranon and his group killed many, they being their tribes' last resort, consisting of the finest fighters they had to offer. They proved to be too great of opponents for their foes, and managed to take the cave at last.
Iranon was the first to enter the cave in hundreds of years, his comrades returning to report their victory. It was dark as blackest night, and there were no torches, but the warrior was somehow able to sense where his steps would fall before they did. He navigated the ancient cave until the entrance was out of sight, and the sounds of the insects and creatures of the swamp were no longer audible. He did, however, hear a faint whisper. It was coming from deeper within the cave, and it spoke in a language unintelligible to Argonians, yet Iranon understood. It told him of wondrous power and the glory of his tribe, and that he would be heralded a hero for years beyond reckoning. He enjoyed listening to such things, and he delved further into the recesses of the cave.
The whisper turned louder and eventually shouted, praising Iranon's name and poisoning his mind with delusions of his greatness. The cave was still solid in darkness, but the voice gave his eyes clear sight. He fixed them upon a small, ebony statuette of a horned, winged demon on an altar, surrounded by unlit mounds of black wax. The voice forced his hands to the idol and instructed him to keep it safe, and that he would wield unmatched might if he followed the voice's commands. The warrior, now cursed by the statuette, hurried out of the cave and north towards Morrowind. No one is certain as to why he traveled there or what became of the idol, but Iranon's fate is well known.
He returned months later to Argonia draped in rags and shrouded in a hooded cloak, his healthy green scales now pale and discolored, and his hidden eyes fully engulfed in black. The voice drove him into insanity over his time spent in Morrowind, and taught him the new power it promised. The battlefield was still lousy with rotting corpses, as if something was causing the victorious tribe to stay away. Iranon raised each corpse individually with necromantic magic and ordered them to attack each warring tribe, one by one until they were all destroyed. Four hundred soldiers died outside the cave, and Iranon now commanded an army of undead. As his bidding was carried out, he began construction of a great forge within the largest cavern, deep beneath the surface. Combining his knowledge of weaponcrafting with necromancy, he created tools of demonic destruction, fervently and rapidly all day and night for a long while, until his cave walls were lavishly adorned with them.
There was one weapon that he favored above all the others he had made, one he admired so greatly as to enchant it with the damned souls of his raised minions. He called it the Blade of Cinders, and although wanted above all else to use it himself, was commanded by the voice to reserve it for someone else, something with which Iranon silently and furiously disagreed, and eventually caused him to hate the voice for prohibiting his use of the sword.
No knowledge of the voice has been obtained as far as whose it was, but several signs point to Dagoth Ur since the idol was brought to Morrowind. Others claim it to have been Garonar, fabled Lord of Darkness, and still others say it belonged to a powerful Daedra from Oblivion, supporting the fact that the statuette was in the shape of a demon. There are many interpretations, but none are clear.
--------------------
as told by an anonymous lorekeeper
It is well known throughout Tamriel and has been since before the First Era of the Empire that the Argonians of Black Marsh (or Argonia as it is called by the natives) have always upheld the idea of death in the highest regard. The fact that things that once were nothing, then have lived only to die, infatuated them, and had taken a high place in their shamanistic religious beliefs. The wise ones of their villages claimed to speak to the spirits of their loved ones past, and these spirits gave them counsel in times of great strife.
Necromancy, however, was forbidden not through law, but through association. If it was discovered that a necromancer lived among the other citizens in a village, they would immediately banish the suspect without hesitation, for they knew the terrible consequences of such a practice. Much like the Dunmer of Morrowind, they look down on necromancy in any of its forms, and shun those who have proved themselves to raise the dead.
Before Imperial-recorded time, in an unmarked region of Argonia, there was an epic battle between seven opposing tribes who had been waging a violent war for some years. Their dispute is still unknown and is open to debate, but it seems to most historians that they fought for control of a cave which, apparently, held great importance to the Argonians.
One warrior in particular was named Iranon, and was scheduled to leave his smithy for the battlefield in which this cave laid with the rest of his organized group. They ran swiftly through the swamps, clad in tough leathers and wielding long, wooden pikes, bound for the site of the cave to help take the area and claim it for their tribe. When they arrived, the ground was almost entirely covered in blood and corpses of their fallen enemies and allies. Mysteriously though, the cave itself remained clean and dry. Iranon and his group killed many, they being their tribes' last resort, consisting of the finest fighters they had to offer. They proved to be too great of opponents for their foes, and managed to take the cave at last.
Iranon was the first to enter the cave in hundreds of years, his comrades returning to report their victory. It was dark as blackest night, and there were no torches, but the warrior was somehow able to sense where his steps would fall before they did. He navigated the ancient cave until the entrance was out of sight, and the sounds of the insects and creatures of the swamp were no longer audible. He did, however, hear a faint whisper. It was coming from deeper within the cave, and it spoke in a language unintelligible to Argonians, yet Iranon understood. It told him of wondrous power and the glory of his tribe, and that he would be heralded a hero for years beyond reckoning. He enjoyed listening to such things, and he delved further into the recesses of the cave.
The whisper turned louder and eventually shouted, praising Iranon's name and poisoning his mind with delusions of his greatness. The cave was still solid in darkness, but the voice gave his eyes clear sight. He fixed them upon a small, ebony statuette of a horned, winged demon on an altar, surrounded by unlit mounds of black wax. The voice forced his hands to the idol and instructed him to keep it safe, and that he would wield unmatched might if he followed the voice's commands. The warrior, now cursed by the statuette, hurried out of the cave and north towards Morrowind. No one is certain as to why he traveled there or what became of the idol, but Iranon's fate is well known.
He returned months later to Argonia draped in rags and shrouded in a hooded cloak, his healthy green scales now pale and discolored, and his hidden eyes fully engulfed in black. The voice drove him into insanity over his time spent in Morrowind, and taught him the new power it promised. The battlefield was still lousy with rotting corpses, as if something was causing the victorious tribe to stay away. Iranon raised each corpse individually with necromantic magic and ordered them to attack each warring tribe, one by one until they were all destroyed. Four hundred soldiers died outside the cave, and Iranon now commanded an army of undead. As his bidding was carried out, he began construction of a great forge within the largest cavern, deep beneath the surface. Combining his knowledge of weaponcrafting with necromancy, he created tools of demonic destruction, fervently and rapidly all day and night for a long while, until his cave walls were lavishly adorned with them.
There was one weapon that he favored above all the others he had made, one he admired so greatly as to enchant it with the damned souls of his raised minions. He called it the Blade of Cinders, and although wanted above all else to use it himself, was commanded by the voice to reserve it for someone else, something with which Iranon silently and furiously disagreed, and eventually caused him to hate the voice for prohibiting his use of the sword.
No knowledge of the voice has been obtained as far as whose it was, but several signs point to Dagoth Ur since the idol was brought to Morrowind. Others claim it to have been Garonar, fabled Lord of Darkness, and still others say it belonged to a powerful Daedra from Oblivion, supporting the fact that the statuette was in the shape of a demon. There are many interpretations, but none are clear.
--------------------
Nice bit of history, you've got there. I like your story.
Ahhh enjoyable reading.....as always...
Very good shrax....indeed very good, and a good lore-lession..yummy...
Very good shrax....indeed very good, and a good lore-lession..yummy...
It was Garonar's voice which transformed Iranon from warrior to necromancer, and his voice which reserved the Blade of Cinders for Henar. He had foreseen the events which led to Olkair Henar's chancing upon the cave in Argonia, and he idenitifed him as the finest swordsman in history, and so he was the obvious choice for to whom the Blade would go. What he had not foreseen, however, was the potential of Gaenor and his amulet, and Naztheril was a complete surprise. Since being defeated in his keep those years ago, Garonar plotted without rest against his undoer, and now against his companion and Azura herself. Unfortunately for him, he was bound to his idol, and Iranon was his only physical extension into Tamriel. If only the beings of this insufferable dimension could contain my awesome power, I could manifest once more, he thought.
==========
In the center of Valenwood once rested the Sun Tree, the largest tree on the face of Nirn. Grown a millenia before recorded time, it is said to have provided the entire planet with the life force needed to sustain all vegetation. Its roots stretched across all lands and from them sprouted the other trees and plants of the world. It stood a looming three miles in height, towering over all of Valenwood and offering the Bosmer sanctuary in its hollowed base. It housed the royal court where King Antok Broadleaf ruled for many years, as well as a vast collection of rare Bosmeri artifacts that had been stored in his vault.
With the coming of Garonar and Iranon and the burning of Valenwood, the Sun Tree was destroyed, and now it lay lifeless on its side with half its branches floating carelessly in the ocean to the north. It took Garonar and Iranon's utmost focus and concentration to topple the mighty tree, and with the prior slaughter of most of the Bosmeri druids, its natural defenses failed. It was the Argonian's plan to construct a new forge upon the severed stump and craft a weapon to rival the Blade of Cinders in power.
==========
Meanwhile, Gaenor and Naztheril now stayed their third day in the Khajiiti prison, still awaiting some attempt at communication with their jailors. They discussed their situation several times and decided it would be best not to escape through force, as they would send the wrong message to the nomads, and have a difficult time crossing the rest of the desert to Valenwood if they were seen as hostile. At the same time, they were eager to continue with their journey and see firsthand the fate of the great forest to which both travelers had close ties. Late that night, one of their captors unlocked Gaenor's cell, awaking he and his companion on the other side.
"You.. you, speak Cyrodiil?" he asked, stressing each letter uncomfortably. "Yes," replied the elf, and he was brought outside to a group of four standing around a small campfire. His escort forced him onto a three-legged stool and made a clumsy gesture with his hands implying that the elf would be killed if he spoke out of turn. Those around the fire wore tattered leather and shattered pieces of old Imperial mail, and one had a fairly decent, closed helmet. This one stepped to the side and passed the others, then kneeled to the Bosmer so they could speak eye-to-eye.
"Who are you?" he asked with a much cleaner accent than the previous guard and muffled voice from behind the steel guard of his helm. "I am Gaenor, and the other with me is Naztheril. We are--" The Khajiit snorted loudly in interruption and turned halfway to his men and back again. "Ri'Zev doesn't care where you are going. You will answer questions now. What is this?" He scampered quickly behind a tent near the campfire and returned with the Blade and amulet wrapped in scuffed cloth. "These are mine," he replied. The Khajiit at the fire looked at each other and the helmed one grunted. He threw the amulet to the sand and held the Blade, standing now and twirling it about carefully and clearly without experience.
"Is Ri'Zev's now."
--------------------
==========
In the center of Valenwood once rested the Sun Tree, the largest tree on the face of Nirn. Grown a millenia before recorded time, it is said to have provided the entire planet with the life force needed to sustain all vegetation. Its roots stretched across all lands and from them sprouted the other trees and plants of the world. It stood a looming three miles in height, towering over all of Valenwood and offering the Bosmer sanctuary in its hollowed base. It housed the royal court where King Antok Broadleaf ruled for many years, as well as a vast collection of rare Bosmeri artifacts that had been stored in his vault.
With the coming of Garonar and Iranon and the burning of Valenwood, the Sun Tree was destroyed, and now it lay lifeless on its side with half its branches floating carelessly in the ocean to the north. It took Garonar and Iranon's utmost focus and concentration to topple the mighty tree, and with the prior slaughter of most of the Bosmeri druids, its natural defenses failed. It was the Argonian's plan to construct a new forge upon the severed stump and craft a weapon to rival the Blade of Cinders in power.
==========
Meanwhile, Gaenor and Naztheril now stayed their third day in the Khajiiti prison, still awaiting some attempt at communication with their jailors. They discussed their situation several times and decided it would be best not to escape through force, as they would send the wrong message to the nomads, and have a difficult time crossing the rest of the desert to Valenwood if they were seen as hostile. At the same time, they were eager to continue with their journey and see firsthand the fate of the great forest to which both travelers had close ties. Late that night, one of their captors unlocked Gaenor's cell, awaking he and his companion on the other side.
"You.. you, speak Cyrodiil?" he asked, stressing each letter uncomfortably. "Yes," replied the elf, and he was brought outside to a group of four standing around a small campfire. His escort forced him onto a three-legged stool and made a clumsy gesture with his hands implying that the elf would be killed if he spoke out of turn. Those around the fire wore tattered leather and shattered pieces of old Imperial mail, and one had a fairly decent, closed helmet. This one stepped to the side and passed the others, then kneeled to the Bosmer so they could speak eye-to-eye.
"Who are you?" he asked with a much cleaner accent than the previous guard and muffled voice from behind the steel guard of his helm. "I am Gaenor, and the other with me is Naztheril. We are--" The Khajiit snorted loudly in interruption and turned halfway to his men and back again. "Ri'Zev doesn't care where you are going. You will answer questions now. What is this?" He scampered quickly behind a tent near the campfire and returned with the Blade and amulet wrapped in scuffed cloth. "These are mine," he replied. The Khajiit at the fire looked at each other and the helmed one grunted. He threw the amulet to the sand and held the Blade, standing now and twirling it about carefully and clearly without experience.
"Is Ri'Zev's now."
--------------------
Glad to see more additions to this engaging story. I really enjoy the way you show us the different parts of the plot moving toward the ultimate confrontation. The lore also provides fascinating reading.
QUOTE(treydog @ Apr 3 2006, 02:59 PM)
Glad to see more additions to this engaging story. I really enjoy the way you show us the different parts of the plot moving toward the ultimate confrontation. The lore also provides fascinating reading.
Agree with treydog here.....itīs fascinating, and very well written as well....
Gaenor knew he would be killed if he opened his mouth without being told to speak, so for now he watched in partial amusement at the foolery of Ri'Zev, slowly twisting his arms and fingers around with the Blade as if to display actual skill with a sword. His men at the campfire chuckled to each other and watched on, but promptly silenced themselves when the helmed one turned in their direction. He slid the sword hard into an empty scabard at his side and broke its sides, as it was too thin for the weapon, and kneeled to the Bosmer once more. "Tell me," he inquired, "where did you find this thing," and motioned to the Blade. The elf remained emotionless and answered, "I won it in a duel." Ri'Zev cackled loudly at this and turned to the ones at the fire, who immediately began laughing with him. "Against who, my mother?" All four Khajiit were now in uproarious laughter, at least for as long as was Ri'Zev.
Once they calmed down, Gaenor's mock interrogator began again. "You know how to read words?" the elf nodded and he continued, "Dance in Fire.. good words, eh?" He knew where this was going. He could sense a smirk on the Khajiit's face even with his helmet closed, and he realized he was slowly being pulled into a trap. "I'm sorry, I've not read that." Ri'Zev unsheathed the Blade quickly and hopped back, pointing it in the Bosmer's face with loathing. "Don't play fool to Ri'Zev, Wood Elf! You've been told this war in that book, you know about this thing!" His arm was shaking slightly with rage, as if Gaenor was in the war between Valenwood and Elswyr himself. He quickly identified this particular Khajiit as, while affluent with words, quite lacking in intelligence, and knew to be wary of such people as they are quick to misunderstand such things, and take drastic action. "The war between our race's nations has been over for a long while, and neither of us partook in it. We have no quarrel," he responded quietly. Ri'Zev threw off his helmet to reveal a makeshift eyepatch over one eye stretching across a grizzled mane and bright red fur, and an open, foaming mouth showing his spiked teeth. "PARTOOK?! What is this thing? Hey, give this fool a weapon. I wanna duel, haha!"
==========
Under Garonar's command, it was Iranon's duty to first forge weapons of great power and to entrust them to those of weak will so they might do his bidding. Though he was once skillful in combat, he had been reduced to a full-fledged necromancer, complete with a frail, colorless body that could fight no longer. However well he knew this, he always longed to hold his Blade once more, and it pained him greatly for many years to be barred from its' use. It was now his obligation to craft a weapon to substitute the Blade of Cinders and to find a new servant.
In order to do this, he fashioned a great anvil in the center of the Sun Tree's stump and a large smelting pot with bellows, a long work table and a water trough. With all the iron from the fallen elves used, he thought of with what to created the weapon. He would require a material much more potent than that of the Blade, ebony, and it would need to contain enormous demonic energies to face Gaenor's amulet. There were no such metals in Valenwood, and he pondered for some time on where he could find such stuff in the immediate area. Only in Oblivion could I possible obtain what I need to forge such a weapon, he thought. [I]Oblivion houses the most sinister of beings. The spirits of fallen evils past hath manifested there and built an empire of darkness and fire. Those who are sent into Oblivion are labeled 'Demon' and are known to have the blackest souls among all else who live and have died...[/] ...and then he knew.
"FOOL AM I," he shouted in frustration, "To Morrowind once more, for therein lies that which shall Gaenor defeat, and the Blade shall be mine again!"
--------------------
Once they calmed down, Gaenor's mock interrogator began again. "You know how to read words?" the elf nodded and he continued, "Dance in Fire.. good words, eh?" He knew where this was going. He could sense a smirk on the Khajiit's face even with his helmet closed, and he realized he was slowly being pulled into a trap. "I'm sorry, I've not read that." Ri'Zev unsheathed the Blade quickly and hopped back, pointing it in the Bosmer's face with loathing. "Don't play fool to Ri'Zev, Wood Elf! You've been told this war in that book, you know about this thing!" His arm was shaking slightly with rage, as if Gaenor was in the war between Valenwood and Elswyr himself. He quickly identified this particular Khajiit as, while affluent with words, quite lacking in intelligence, and knew to be wary of such people as they are quick to misunderstand such things, and take drastic action. "The war between our race's nations has been over for a long while, and neither of us partook in it. We have no quarrel," he responded quietly. Ri'Zev threw off his helmet to reveal a makeshift eyepatch over one eye stretching across a grizzled mane and bright red fur, and an open, foaming mouth showing his spiked teeth. "PARTOOK?! What is this thing? Hey, give this fool a weapon. I wanna duel, haha!"
==========
Under Garonar's command, it was Iranon's duty to first forge weapons of great power and to entrust them to those of weak will so they might do his bidding. Though he was once skillful in combat, he had been reduced to a full-fledged necromancer, complete with a frail, colorless body that could fight no longer. However well he knew this, he always longed to hold his Blade once more, and it pained him greatly for many years to be barred from its' use. It was now his obligation to craft a weapon to substitute the Blade of Cinders and to find a new servant.
In order to do this, he fashioned a great anvil in the center of the Sun Tree's stump and a large smelting pot with bellows, a long work table and a water trough. With all the iron from the fallen elves used, he thought of with what to created the weapon. He would require a material much more potent than that of the Blade, ebony, and it would need to contain enormous demonic energies to face Gaenor's amulet. There were no such metals in Valenwood, and he pondered for some time on where he could find such stuff in the immediate area. Only in Oblivion could I possible obtain what I need to forge such a weapon, he thought. [I]Oblivion houses the most sinister of beings. The spirits of fallen evils past hath manifested there and built an empire of darkness and fire. Those who are sent into Oblivion are labeled 'Demon' and are known to have the blackest souls among all else who live and have died...[/] ...and then he knew.
"FOOL AM I," he shouted in frustration, "To Morrowind once more, for therein lies that which shall Gaenor defeat, and the Blade shall be mine again!"
--------------------
He he. This is wonderfull. That Khajitt is so going to suffer.
This is a "lo-fi" version of our main content. To view the full version with more information, formatting and images, please click here.