Slipping into Shadow, Portia had stolen from Mehrunes Dagon, and he wasn't about to let Options

[Ornamental Nonsense]

Chapter 1: The Job

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was he after her?

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

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

Really?

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

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

Four Weeks Previously:

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s suicide,” she sharply replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“And why not?”

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

“If I’m found guilty?” she probed.

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

“That's BS, and you know it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This post has been edited by Ornamental Nonsense: Aug 3 2010, 05:59 PM

[Ornamental Nonsense]

Chapter 3: Late Night Visitors

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

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

“What do you want?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn it, Portia. This is only a dream!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then his head turned in her direction.

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

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

Are you really thinking about this now, Portia?

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

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

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

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

This post has been edited by Ornamental Nonsense: Aug 3 2010, 07:28 PM