For My Brother, For Glory, For Tamriel (Vol. 1), The Daedric Invasion through the Champion's eyes. Options

[Captain Hammer]

Author’s Note: What follows is the story based on my TES IV: Oblivion character. I decided to write this when, after reading Infernal City, I realized that my first fanfic had just been torpedoed. Additionally, I felt that yet another Morrowind fanfic would pale in the presence of some of the other, very well-written pieces on this site (Black Hand, Treydog, I’m looking at you). Any and all differences not found accessible in the vanilla game are based on too great a number of mods for me to effectively list here. Enjoy.

Prologue:
For Myself.

I was dreaming again. But this was different. A man stood alone in the dark, the sole source of light coming from the massive ruby on his chest. I had been through the legions, I knew both by sight, if not by heart. The Emperor and the Amulet. He turned, as if to face me, and words I barely heard and registered filled my head. Something about dreams and rule, reigning and sleeping and dying. The vision shifted, to what I knew to be a view of the planes of Oblivion. Daedra, angry and armed, marched towards a glowing portal, a massive machine moving behind them on insect like legs. As they approached the gate, I felt the malicious presence that guided them. Even as they began to enter the portal, the view collapsed into a storm and fog. It faded to white, and when the misty haze cleared I was looking down at the Imperial City as though I were some spirit, the massive tower of the Imperial Palace before me. I seemed to float—no, fly—in and circled around the different districts of the city. As I flew, the emperor’s voice came in again, this time clearer. He said the date, and then something I will never forget. He told me that the Third Era was ending, and that it would be the last day of his life. Almost immediately, I could hear the Imperial Fanfare swell up, the noise odd, but strangely comforting. As I flew around the city, I left on a tangent, arcing out to head in a straight line towards the window of a small cell on the island that held the Imperial Prison. My cell…

I sat up, breathing hard. For a while I had forgotten where I was, but looking around I recalled vividly the events that had brought me here, the odd images of the dream temporarily set aside. I was Awtwyr Draghoyn, Breton, Champion (ret.) of the Eighth Imperial Legion, Hammerfell and Morrowind Tours. My life story prior to this was as dull as one could imagine. I had been born in my people’s home of High Rock, to a farming family, first of four children. After me came a sister, then a brother, and then another sister. Gwen, the elder, had married off at eighteen, my younger brother Roland had chosen to continue with the family’s farm, and my youngest sister Bethany was probably just now being courted by the eligible young men from the local villages. My father had always remarked that being the eldest made me grow up the fastest, and like his elder brother, who was my favorite uncle, I decided to make something of myself in the Legions.

I spent two tours of duty in service, found out that I made a decent navigator when sailing, and managed to acquire the basic skills in both heavy and light armor, swordsmanship, blocking, blacksmithing, marksmanship, and athletic conditioning to make me generally fit for service. Those eight years had been spent hunting bandits, hunting deer for the officers’ table, and “expanding the protection of the Empire” whenever a minor noble started making enough trouble for his liege-lord to call us in. The first re-up for duty meant a nice pay increase and better choice of tasks. A second one was out of the question. I wasn’t what they called “partial to the necessities of knighthood,” which meant that even though I had fighting skills, I had little skills in the politics of the service, and they knew that too much of my leave time had been spent studying magic, a field that was always in my focus. Bretons and High Elves will always argue about who makes a better mage. But I was determined to prove, at least to myself, that a properly trained Breton would be able to not only make the best Altmer go the distance, but that in the end the Breton would win.

Once I got out, I visited home, and realizing that there was little for me by way of employment or marriage prospects (I was just shy of my twenty-fourth name-day, and all eligible women in that small town were either young or ugly), I headed off to that great bastion of all that I had fought for: the capital. When I got there, I rented a room at the King and Queen Inn, and spent a week touring the city, eyeing the baubles in the market, wagering away almost a fifth of my accumulated pay at the arena, and seeing if I could reignite some form of piety when visiting the temple district.

But all good things, it seemed, must come to an end. After a week, I had grown less satisfied with the city, and in a great way, with myself. I had been drinking progressively more and more each night, and on that fateful night, I heard somebody make a remark about my kind that I didn’t take too kindly. I wasn’t much of a brawler, but I went at him anyways, aiming my right hand straight across his jaw. He staggered back, was caught by one of his friends, and before I knew it I was facing a couple of pissed off Dunmer, with a big Nord standing next to me angry about something that one of the aforementioned Dark Elves had thrown. Based on the flecks of clay in his hair, I assumed that a mug aimed at me had gone stray from the alcohol-induced aim. I nodded to my sudden ally, and went low, he high. My target saw it coming, and rushed to meet me. But I was a trained Legion soldier, and had made friends easy enough in the unofficial boxing matches that the officers didn’t look for too carefully. As he dove at me, I smashed my knee into the ashborn’s face, hooked my right arm around him, and leveraged my body and left arm to flip him up, over, and straight into the stone floor.

I turned to try and help my ally, only to feel five strong arms pull me back and shove me to the ground. I recognized the technique, I could do it myself, and the steel behind the wrestling movement confirmed what I was dealing with. The Imperial City Guard. Despite the alcohol, I knew trouble when it hit me. I looked up to see about six men break up the remaining combatants and sit everybody down. Then a man in the silver and white finery of a captain came in, looking at us all with the strong jawline of a poster boy for the law. “I am Captain Hieronymous Lex,” he said with that voice of enforced authority. “I want to know what happened here.”

After several people came forward to identify that I had started the brawl, Lex turned to question me. I identified myself, and claimed that I was merely defending my honor. “In the Legion, somebody insulted your blood, the captain would let the men settle it themselves. I’m not a man for letting things slide.”

“Well, citizen, you’re not a soldier now, this isn’t the legion depot, and these others aren’t trained fighters. You can’t hold your drink, you should maybe look for another place to stay. Meanwhile, you’ve cost me and my men valuable time. I had information that the Grey Fox was in the city tonight, and now I’m spending my time dealing with you. Do You Have Any Idea WHAT YOU’VE COST ME?!?!?” Lex was getting himself red in the face.

I couldn’t but help the reply. “You know most people accept the fact that the Grey Fox is just a myth, right? That’s what common sense says, anyway.” That was a mistake on my part.

“I will not tolerate this type of insurrection! You show disgrace to your comrades and your colors! I’m placing you under arrest for disturbing the peace, drunk and disorderly conduct, and inciting violent mayhem. You want to come easy, or do we drag you out by your heels?" Lex looked ready, as though I had personally killed his mother. But then I realized that killing his mother might not have been as harmful to him as taking away his chance at fame.

“I’ll go quiet,” I said.

They half-escorted me, half-carried me through the city towards the prison. It wasn’t my fault, I had taken a few nasty blows, and that combined with the alcohol promised to make my steps falter. When they got me to the cells, they had trouble with the locks on a few, finally deciding to throw me into the one that seemed least used, and never once cleaned. They handed me a foul concoction, one that restored my health but left me drained of strength, shackled my arms, and left, talking about moving me out first thing in the morning to go before the Imperial Justice. Across from me was a Dark Elf, who looked to have made this his long term residence. I ignored him, climbed into my bunk, and went to sleep.

When my dream had woken me, I stood, feeling slightly better. The sun had risen and was already at midday, which meant that the guards had not taken me before the magistrate that morning. I stretched, and the Dark Elf gestured to me, asking me to move closer. I shuffled up to the bars, and he promptly launched into a stream of invectives at getting a better look at me. Something about being his sworn enemy and me staying while he would get out to enjoy the world again. I suppose now would be as good a time to describe myself as any. I was taller than many a Breton, and between that and the brownish-red hair that graced my head I knew myself to have some amount of Nord blood in me. My eyes were the bright grey-green of my father, my hair and expression that of his father, and my mother had often said that when I scowled, my entire jaw could have matched her father. Thus, I was pretty much guaranteed that my father was indeed my father, with the same holding true for my grandfathers, a true-born peasant of true-born peasants.

As the Dark Elf continued his rant, the doors at the end of the hall opened, and an Imperial male and Breton female in ornate, steel battle armor with an Akivir Katana came to my cell. Apparently, neither I, nor anybody else, was supposed to be in that cell, but there I was. I was ordered back underneath the window, and knowing a superior swordsman when I saw the Imperial's grip on his own blade, I backed off. He could have killed me if he wished it. Once I was safely back, he opened the cell door, and steeped forward to prevent me from moving. Behind him came the other armored figure, escorting an aged man in purple robes…Emperor Uriel Septim the Seventh, Ruler of all Tamriel.


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Author's Post Script: Any and all comments or recommendations are welcome. Criticisms, especially stuff missed by a spell-checker, are appreciated.

This post has been edited by Captain Hammer: Aug 10 2010, 07:17 PM

[Captain Hammer]

And...I'm back. Sorry this took so long, but telling that story might actually take longer than finishing this. So you get the story, and must accept the mystery.

For the Grandmaster:

Having found myself outside, the sun setting and the Amulet of Kings pressing me in a most disconcerting manner, I chose the most sensible action possible for any recently released prisoner that had just looted the Imperial Sewers: I headed for the Imperial Market. Luckily, getting in through the outside gate was less of an issue than I feared, but given the quick cursory glances of the guards, I realized that I was currently only the last in a long line of adventurers in rusty armor looking to make an extra coin or two.

I managed to get to the armorers first, and after turning over a few pieces of spare armor, I managed to acquire a new iron cuirass, in much better condition than the piece of junk I had been wearing. Calling it a cuirass was a bit of a misnomer. During my tour in Morrowind which lasted till just after the Blight crisis, standard legion armor utilized separate pauldrons that were worn strapped into the cuirass itself. In the intervening years, Colovian armorers had started using a hauberk as the basis for torso protection. The concept was based off Dwemer armor found in un-touched ruins, wherein the shoulder and upper arm pieces were linked directly to the breastplate, and chain reinforcing extended into the gauntlet to protect the elbow. Now, when one wore a higher-end cuirass, the inner fit was a complete chainmail piece that extended down to the wrists, with plate extending from the upper arms to the neckline, and segmented plates over the torso extending to faulds for hip protection. So, while it was an integrated hauberk, cuirass, and set of pauldrons, the common reference was “cuirass” for most business transactions. Even the light armor and lower end materials were similarly termed, though the heavy iron was really just plates on the arms and the light stuff was either chain mesh or animal-skin. If you wanted the older model, you would have had to ask for it specifically. The newer styles had gained popularity for a reason, first and foremost being the greater protection and ease of wear.

With my iron, steel, and leather, coupled with several potions of restorative effects, I made my way out towards the old bridge that lead west over Lake Rumare. I was lost myself in the throng of people exiting the city, most headed to the various farmsteads and villages where a great deal of the crops that supported the city were grown. However, at the foot of the bridge was both an inn and a small farmhouse, and the decreasing daylight prompted me to take a room at the inn for a night. I hadn’t been a ranger, and the scouts of the Legions were a proud bunch. I spoke to the publican, Nerussa, and for 10 gold I had a bed for the night, and some modest amount of security.

I woke the next morning before the sun came up, gathered what possessions I had, and headed downstairs to acquire some food for my journey and settle my bill. Once this was finished, I headed out, noticing the slow trickle of farmers and merchants already headed in to the city proper. Nearly all were different from the ones I had seen yesterday, but that was to be expected. Growing up, my father had only gone into town on the days after bringing in a harvest to sell our surplus, or when he needed to transact business. We lived close enough for my siblings and I to take advantage of the education offered by the Temple, but other than that we spent most days on our farm.

Out on a small dock on the lake was an elderly Breton watching the water. I waved as I passed by, but he turned and came towards me, obviously wanting to talk. “Good morning, sir. Hope the day is greeting you well.” I tried to be polite as possible, as I did have a job to do but didn’t want to offend the man.

“Good morning to you too, lad. Aelwin Merowald. I was just thinking about me and the past. You know, stranger, there comes a time in every man’s life when he has to admit that he’s lost the fight. Well, I’ve fought and I’ve lost. Who did I lose to? Who is my great enemy? Well, don’t laugh... it’s a bunch of damn fish.” He smiled grimly, the face of a man who had struggled and been defeated by the circumstances of the world around him. He needed help, but damn his pride, he was loathe to ask.

Proceeding from here meant I had to tread carefully. I wanted to help the man, but I couldn’t be too eager or he’d brush me off. My voice level, I asked, directly but with the deference an apprentice shows to a master craftsmen, “Fish? I know they can get to be violent, but is there any way I can help you?”

Aelwin seemed to have lost me a moment, possibly taking my earnest for insult. “Go on and lau... Wait. Help? Well, then... I’m a fisherman. Or at least, I was. Until one of those slaughterfish damn near took my leg off. I was collecting their scales, see. I had a contract with this young alchemist. You wouldn’t believe what he was paying for those scales! Then last month, one of the bastards got a hold of my leg. Took me right out of business. But this alchemist, he needs the scales right away. The alchemist was paying so much for the scales that I’m close to having enough saved so I can retire. But now, I can’t get out there to the lake - - not with this leg. I only needed twelve more scales! Can you believe it? I was so close! I’ve picked up a few things in my travels. If you head out there and bring me back the twelve scales that I need, I can make it worth your time. Help an old fisherman out, won’t you?”

Slaughterfish? Scales? I knew they could be useful, but slaughterfish scales normally weren’t in the category of ‘high value items.’ But, the request was simple enough, so I figured I might be able to help the old fisherman. “I’d be happy to help. What do I need to do?”

“I need twelve more samples of scales from the Lake Rumare variety of slaughterfish. They’re localized in the waters under the bridge, though they spread out when feeding. Look for the golden shimmer, that’s them.” He showed me a leftover sample from a previous catch, and I could see what he was talking about. Most slaughterfish had scales that let them blend in with their aquatic environment. These were a bright gold that would stand out in the sunlight. Which probably helped explain their rarity. Predators that can’t catch prey don’t last very long.

I dove in, heedless of the extra weight of the armor, and spotted my first target. I had left the sword and archery equipment on the shore, instead using a dagger to make the quicker slashes needed to kill the swift yet frail creatures. After the first few, I had to get back to shore, regaining my breath and applying the small level healing to recover from their wounds.

“Smart, lad. Take care of yourself as soon as possible, otherwise you’ll end up like me.” Aelwin beamed down as I handed over the first four sets of scales. “Looks like I only need about eight more.” I nodded, mopping the water from my hair and working the armor off me. The weight was only slowing me down, and slaughterfish went for fingers, or one’s ears and eyes. I needed speed more than torso protection from the small fetchers. Once I had got my breath, back into the drink I went. This time I had the easier time, though I was ranging so far I might as well have circled the whole city. At least I still had my Legion training. Athleticism was important for any soldier. Horses couldn’t carry an army, the maintenance is too high. So instead, we train to run and jog and swim in armor and out, to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. Eventually, after a second trip back to rest (I hadn’t been drilling in the past months since my discharge, couldn’t be helped), I managed t haul in the last three sets of scales. I handed them over, and turned to find my armor dried and set aside for me.

Aelwin smiled as he took the last set of scales. “I'm looking forward to my retirement – long days in the stable with the horses, long mornings in bed, and best of all; no more fish! Here, have this. Hope you find it useful in your travels.” It was a ring, called ‘the Jewel of the Rumare,’ and had enchantments to boost athletics and allow me to breathe underwater. Useful effects, especially for the traveler like myself.

I got my armor and assorted gear back in place, and as I was about to take my leave of Weye, a lady on a black horse came thundering up from the bridge. “Hear ye, hear ye. Emperor and sons assassinated! Exclusive coverage in the Black Horse Courier!” She stopped briefly at the door to the inn, handed over a few copies of her stock to the gathered group, and galloped off, headed for the other cities and villages in Cyrodiil.

“The emperor, his family, dead?” Aelwin asked, looking at me, his eyes that of an old man trying to make sense of a great tragedy.

“It appears to be so,” I said, grabbing a copy and glancing over it. It told me nothing I did not know, though thankfully my name was not mentioned. If news could break this fast, I needed to move, quickly. “Farewell Aelwin, may your retirement be peaceful.”

I had spent a little over two hours harvesting Aelwin’s fish, so it was just past a quarter after eight in the morning when I once again set out on the road. Chorrol was seated in the hills of the Colovian Highlands, not so high in the mountains like Bruma, but of a higher elevation than Kvatch on its plateau. The city of the Great Oak, named for the iconic tree in the city’s main plaza, sat at the juncture of the Black Road and the Orange Road, and was my next stop.

The initial trip was uneventful. Walking, and with occasional rests, it took me five full days to arrive at Chorrol's gates. A deer along the way and some gathered herbs made for sustaining, if mediocre fare. On the late hours of the fifth day, I finally made it to the southern gates of the city. A guard was helpful enough to point out the road I’d need to get back to Weynon Priory, which I had passed, but I needed to establish myself as well. A trip to the main plaza brought me to two organizations almost synonymous with Cyrodiil’s influence on Tamriel: the Guild of Fighters and the Guild of Mages. The Arcane University in the Imperial City had restricted access recently, but the Fighters’ Guild was based here in Chorrol. It was a good as place as any to join up for both, and the best place for general outfitting. Modryn Oreyn, the Champion of the Fighters’ Guild, told me to check in at Anvil and Cheydinhal, but Teekeeus had nothing for me…yet. Oh, he signed me up, but stated that matters prevented him from dealing with me directly for the next few days.

I honestly only needed the resources, so I didn’t mind, and once that was done I headed back to Weynon Priory. Upon my arrival, I was met outside by a priest. “Welcome, good citizen,” he said, in greeting. “I am Brother Piner, and this is Weynon Priory, a monastery. Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a man named Jauffre? Is he here?” I asked, not wanting to reveal anything I wasn’t supposed to talk about.

“Oh. Yes. He’ll be in the Priory House somewhere.” He gave me funny look, but gestured to the door. “You’ll likely find him upstairs. Prior Maborel can be found in indoors as well at this hour, and may also be of assistance if you need anything while you are here.” I nodded my thanks and went to go see the good prior first. I didn’t want to spread information supposed to be kept confidential, but as the head of the priory I hazarded that Prior Mabel would know about Jauffre’s less public functions.

I entered, and found the elder priest seated in the lobby. He rose to greet me, and came over to speak. “Welcome to Weynon Priory, a monastic retreat dedicated to Talos and the Nine Divines. I’m Prior Maborel, head of our community, and responsible for all our religious and secular affairs.”

“Talos?” I asked. “As in, the Order of Talos?” It was a religious subset of the Nine Divines, dedicated to Tiber Septim, or Talos, and popular with the Legions, though it had not had too strong a presence in Morrowind during my tour.

“Our order works to spread the teachings and worship of the divine Talos. Surely you have heard of us? If not, I invite you to spend some time in our fine library. All are welcome here.”

“Thank you, but I’m afraid my concerns lie more towards a…sensitive nature. What can you tell me about the Blades?” I didn’t want to tip my hand, but needed to understand the environment.

“The Emperor’s elite knights. They dedicate themselves to Talos above and the Septims here on earth. The loss of the Emperor must be a terrible blow to them.” Maborel’s eyes met mine, and glimmered with the spark of recognition. He knew what I was trying to get at, but wanted to test me as well.

Fair enough. “And the recent assassination? How did Weynon Priory take the news?”

His voice grew heavy, revealing the burden recent events had placed on him. “The priory is a chapterhouse of the Order of Talos. And with the last Septim emperor dead, and all his heirs...Tiber Septim is the god and patron saint of our order. And now his dynasty has come to an end. It's very painful. I was just here reading the Black Horse Courier about the assassination, and looking through 'A Short Life'. Uriel was an old man... a good man, and a good emperor. Why would anyone want to kill him? And all his sons?”

“I wish I knew. May I speak with the Grandmaster?” I had to risk the guess, but by then I was sure Maborel worked with the Blades, if he wasn’t one himself. The religious members of Cyrodiil didn’t all worship Mara exclusively, and as Talos the future emperor Tiber Septim had been a great general and warrior. His apotheosis had only ensured that while the Legion could pray to the other gods for skill, valor, cunning, and protection, soldiers throughout the Empire had an example to follow.

Prior Maborel gestured to the stairs. “You’ll find Jauffre upstairs.” And just like that, I knew Jauffre’s status was an open secret to the members of the priory.

I made my way up, and found an elderly Breton sitting at a desk, reading. “Grandmaster Jauffre?” I asked. No point in being subtle now.

This post has been edited by Captain Hammer: May 16 2011, 09:39 AM