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 4: Dreams or Visions

This wouldn't do. She had to do something with herself, and Portia knew it. She sat on the edge of her bed, the bloody bandages that she had just removed lying on the floor by her feet, and a hand gingerly rubbing a burn mark on her neck. She couldn't sit here all day and think about her dream or the burn that the chaos sphere had caused, even if the night's events consumed her thoughts. Her mind kept turning inward, visualizing Mehrunes coming toward her, and she wondered what exactly had happened. Perhaps she could ask Gilthan, but then again, speaking openly with him might prove difficult. The Arcane University was off limits to most people, and if she was granted access, the other mages would know of her presence.

And what was Arelius up to? Surely he wouldn't harm her, but she didn't think that she could speak to him about her personal distress either. Besides the fact that he was an authority figure, she didn't want to overstep her bounds and make him think that she was the same, adoring girl from before. Gods, but she could imagine him now, sitting across from her at a tavern table on one of the rare occasions that he went out with his subordinates. And she had been foolish enough to speak to him about private matters, namely the death of her parents and her desire to become something other than an orphan. He had been kind and offered comforting words, and perhaps it had been the alcohol in both of them, but he had mentioned that he too felt the urge to control his life and make it worthwhile. It had made Portia think that they were two of a kind, and maybe in some sense they were, but she never wanted him to see her as that smitten, fresh recruit ever again. The man had probably shaken his head at her suppressed feelings whenever her back was turned.

No feelings now, she thought. Now she just wanted dreamless sleep and a path that didn't involve holding other peoples' lives in her hands. She stood and moved downstairs, briefly pausing beside the entrance to the sitting room when she heard a cup rattle against a saucer. Lucretia tended to take her morning meals here, while the children were busy with lessons and Arelius was away at work. Portia was more interested in finding Gilthan, but she knew that she owed her hostess some attention and gratitude.

“Morning,” she greeted, popping her head into the room. Lucretia smiled and lifted her eyes from the book that she was reading. The woman really was lovely with her raven colored hair and elegant features.

“And good morning to you, Portia. You seem to have slept better last night.” Portia inwardly winced, knowing full well that Lucretia and Arelius heard her screams whenever a nightmare was particularly rough. The first time that she had screamed, Arelius ran into the room with a drawn sword, thinking that there was an attack. He and his wife had quickly learned to bear the unexpected yells, and Portia, for her part, had tried to sleep with her face shoved in a pillow.

“I took a potion,” she explained. “It helped.”

“But you still have nightmares?” Lucretia guessed.

“I think that I'll always have nightmares.” Lucretia's book was set aside, and the woman calmly regarded Portia with the eyes of someone who understood troubled nights. Her entire demeanor spoke of a patient and conditioned strength that Portia rather envied.

“Sometimes all you can do is bear the worries,” the woman stated. “Sometimes, you can even get used to and accept them. Arelius has a dangerous job, and sleep does not always come easily.”

“For you,” Portia knew.

“Yes,” Lucretia said with a soft smile. “He, of course, sleeps soundly. I'm the one left to toss and worry, but it's easier now. I've had years of practice. It's mainly the children that I worry about. Life without a father would be difficult.” And Portia wondered if the man who'd died under her watch had left an anxious family behind. As her sword parted his skin, had he thought about his children? She didn't particularly want to know, and she distractedly shifted her eyes to Lucretia's hand, which was reaching for a tea cup. Portia tried to think of something to say, but conversations with Lucretia tended to be a bit stilted. The women simply didn't have much of a basis for interaction, at least not one that was apparent.

“He wishes to speak with you later,” the elder woman told Portia. “He'll be home late, but I suspect that you are used to odd hours. He mentioned that you once worked under him.” Portia made a low sound of acknowledgement, and Lucretia smiled in a manner very much reminiscent of rogue. “He said that you wouldn't want to talk about it.”

“That I don't,” Portia agreed.

“And he'd like you to see a healer about your injury. You're bleeding more than you should, even if the wound won't fully heal. You'd be wise to take his advice.” Portia nodded, trying to gauge how much Arelius confided in his wife.

“Thank you for your concern. I'll look into it when I go out today.” Not likely. She was off to investigate how best to contact Gilthan.

“There's no need for that,” Lucretia softly smiled. “A temple healer will be here within the hour.” Akatosh above, the woman was as bad as her husband, even if she looked more innocent when making such subtle maneuvers. Portia nearly smiled, feeling a sense of affinity with her hostess for the first time. Even if this was meddlesome, it was the first that they'd interacted at a level beyond strict business and politeness.

“He told you that I wouldn't go if you didn't make me, didn't he?” Portia asked.

“He might have implied it, but I arranged this myself.”

“He'll be pleased with you,” Portia sighed as she sat down beside Lucretia, and the other woman tilted her head with a bright sparkle to her eyes.

“You can't come from the social circles that I do without learning a few things about people, and while you are my guest, I will see to your health. Would you like anything? I can call a servant.” Portia had never been waited on by a servant in her life, except maybe when she'd been undercover once at a ball, and that had been years ago. The rest of the time she had usually been acting as a commoner or herself, watching from a distance and then switching into her armor for action. There had been better equipped agents—women like Lucretia—to move on more social missions. Of course, she could always ask Lucretia if she was a Blade, but she was certain that she wouldn't get a straight answer.

“I'm fine,” Portia said. “I don't usually eat breakfast.” It was nauseating to eat when she woke up in pain.

“Understandable, but surely you would like something to drink? Alcohol this early in the morning isn't the best idea.” So the woman had seen her little collection of bottles beside the bed. It really wasn't surprising, and Portia was sure that Lucretia knew much about her personal habits. The servants probably reported everything to their mistress, for it was Lucretia who ran the household. Arelius was too busy with Blade and guard business, and Lucretia was certainly capable of handling things on her own.

“I'll take some tea since you've trapped me here with your healer,” Portia allowed.

“Trapped is a rather ungrateful term to use. If I don't do this, I'm afraid that the servants might murder you for dirtying so many linens.”

“I'd like to see them try, but I am sorry about the sheets. I do bandage my wounds before bed. Sometimes it's simply not enough...” And just then a servant walked in to announce the healer's arrival. Lucretia and Portia exchanged a secretive smile when the servant glared at Portia, and a nonverbal understanding gently passed between them. Perhaps friendship was possible after all. It would make Portia's presence much easier on the household, and she sensed that Lucretia would be a worthwhile connection in times of trouble. Her instincts told her that such considerations were not only positive but necessary.


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

“And then the bubbles erupted into fireballs, and all I could do was hide beneath a table,” Gilthan stated with a wide sweep of his arms. “Ridiculous, if you ask me. If J'mira does one more reckless experiment, I'm going to request that my rooms be moved. I'm surprised that I'm still standing.” He grinned as the people around him chuckled in humored understanding.

“Come now, Gilthan,” an old, female Breton smiled. “We all know that you love the excitement, and stop acting like you're a victim.” Gilthan was about to reply when another mage entered the room, his voice muffled by the large stack of books that he carried.

“Someone is here to see you, Gilthan.” The high elf's eyebrows shot upward in delight, for he loved guests, depending on who they were. Really, he spent so much time tied to the library under Irlav Jarol's research directives, that even he got sick of books. Of course, he had been getting even less sleep than usual the last few nights, for he'd been sneaking about to read about Oblivion and Mehrunes Dagon. Progress was slow, and the counsel kept its eye on who was accessing books with darker content. It was a nuisance to be sure, and with one misstep, someone might start to question why Gilthan was suddenly interested in a daedric prince. Discovery might then lead to harsh repercussions since the subject of chaos spheres was so touchy. His forefathers help him, but he wasn't supposed to know as much as he did.

“And where is my guest waiting?” he asked.

“She's on the steps out front,” and then the overloaded herald shuffled off.

“Another admirer?” someone asked Gilthan.

“I cannot help it that I am both attractive and witty,” the elf huffed with faked disdain. “I shall see you all at some later date. Goodbye.” He was off, walking the familiar corridors and wondering who was calling on him. When he exited the university's front gate to be met by Portia, he was truly surprised and a bit concerned about the attention that her presence would bring to him. Another mage was standing nearby, easily within earshot of their meeting, and Gilthan knew that this would not look good. They stood on the arching bridge that connected the Arcane University to the Imperial City, and with a light breeze tickling his delicate ears, Gilthan warily glanced over his shoulder at the white tower that stretched into the sky behind him. Traven was a pain in the posterior at times, and by that, Gilthan meant all the time.

“Hello, Gilthan,” Portia greeted with a huge smile. “I was hoping that we could have that lunch that you promised.” His nerves relaxing, Gilthan thanked the gods for his reputation as a charmer. This would be perfectly believable if he simply acted like himself.

“And hello to you, fair Portia,” he said, walking forward and winking at her. “I thought that you hadn't taken me seriously.”

“I take you very seriously,” Portia stated. “And I know the perfect spot for a meal, if you're interested.”

“Of course I'm interested!” Gilthan beamed, honestly delighted at the prospect of going out for the afternoon. His eyes swept toward the basket in Portia's hands, and he glanced at her in question.

“Picnic,” she explained.

“Ah, that would be perfect. Lead the way.” They strolled side-by-side, Portia directing the way down a slope beside the bridge and then a short way toward the riverbank. She kept her eyes out for mudcrabs, and Gilthan kept scanning the air for any residual signs of magic in return. The Imperial City stood like a beacon of white atop a hill behind them, and the forested hills of the countryside stretched before them. Portia might have been oblivious, poor with magic as she was, but Gilthan could sense attention on them. From the university certain mages might be tracking Portia, and even if they weren't eavesdropping, the picnic would not go unnoticed.

“I hope that this won't be a problem,” Portia commented as she sat on a grassy patch of land beside the water. She faced the shimmering depths of blue while keeping a small hill to her back, the slope of which afforded convenient cover for their meeting. “I know that the mages are keeping tabs on me, but I needed to speak with you, and I didn't know how else to contact you.”

“It's quite alright,” Gilthan assured as he flopped down beside her, his blue robes spreading out around him. “I should have told you how to contact me. I'm afraid that your request to see me might be...”

“Conspicuous?” Portia guessed.

“To certain people, yes, but I believe that we are safe to talk here. So, what would you like?” Portia frowned as she stared out over the water. Mountains rose in the distance, clouds and snow crowning their peaks, and the river's surface danced with insects and lilies. It would have been beautiful if not for her concerns.

“I'd like to ask you a few questions about a dream I had,” she said.

“My dear lady,” Gilthan gasped. “There's no need to jump straight to business. Please. I was actually asking what you'd prefer to drink.” Portia blinked.

“I only brought water.”

“Ah, but I can remedy that. Red or white?”

“Red,” and she found herself smiling. This high elf really did know how to catch her off guard. He was the polar opposite of the people with whom she was accustomed to working, namely Arelius and a few other Blades whom she'd grown close to. It was business first and leisure later with those types of professionals, but Gilthan...Well, as she watched him grin and summon a bottle of red wine from thin air, she wasn't sure how to characterize the man. Certainly he was jovial and a bit impulsive, but she was willing to bet that he was rather crafty and intelligent as well.

“Here you are,” Gilthan said as he passed her a filled mug. “Now, what were you saying? And please don't forget to unload that basket. I can smell the fresh bread from here.” Portia began unpacking the food as she thought about what she should tell the elf. Honesty seemed the best approach, for despite his lackadaisical nature, she found herself trusting this man.

“I had a very strange dream last night,” she began, and from there the story unraveled with every possible detail. Gilthan munched on a sandwich as he listened, and Portia noticed the sharp, thoughtful gleam to his eyes as he digested her words. His face even twisted into a frown at one point, and by the time she was finished, his hands held forgotten food.

“So you are unsure whether the dream was only a figment of your imagination or something more,” Gilthan contemplated. “I'm inclined to agree with the latter. Dreams are funny things, but from what you've said, and the burn mark on your neck...You're sure that the burning coincided with Dagon's touch?”

“Yes.” Portia poured herself more wine.

“Interesting. The chaos sphere is probably affecting you, but the question is in what capacity. Its influence will definitely increase with time, which is why it's important that the mages find a solution soon, but...hmmm. The dream itself probably wasn't dangerous, so I wouldn't worry about that. Visions never result in physical harm to my knowledge, but whether or not you'll be negatively affected in other ways, I can't say. Magic is a living, fluid thing, and when it comes to powerful artifacts, there's no telling what could happen.”

“Do you think that it'd be wise for me to continue exploring the dreams?” Portia asked.

“I really don't know enough about it to say, but I don't think that you're in danger since technically you were in your room the entire time. It was only your mind pulling you deeper, and for all my jabbering, it might have been absolutely nothing.”

“I wasn't actually in Oblivion? I could have sworn that I was. It all felt so real, and it wasn't illogical like a normal dream. I actually felt like time was moving at a regular pace.”

“Being in Oblivion would have been impossible,” Gilthan decided. “Do you remember when I said that people sometimes have connections with other dimensions?” Portia nodded. “If you are indeed one of those people, visions and dreams still don't physically move you. They only allow you to see into another place, and we don't even know if what happened to you was a vision. It's possible that the sphere painted the scenes in your mind, and it's even possible that, since Mehrunes Dagon wears the other sphere, a brief connection formed between them. Twin artifacts have been known to retain strong ties to one another, and with a willpower like Dagon's searching for the other earring, I'd say that what you experienced was part fantasy and partly Oblivion's doing.”

“That doesn't sound as bad as I thought it would,” Portia sighed in relief.

“Keep in mind that this is speculation, but unless you have evidence that you're experiencing something that goes beyond your own mind, I don't know what else to tell you. Everyone that I could ask would, unfortunately, be unhappy with your knowledge of the sphere, and then it'd probably be out of the guild for me.”

“I'll let you know if anything happens,” Portia promised. “And thank you for your help.”

“Oh, dear,” Gilthan said. “Don't make me out to be a knight or anything. And have you looked at the book that I recommended?”

“I'll do that soon.”

“Good. Now pass the jam if you would.”

“Sometimes I wonder about you,” Portia commented.

“Really? Me too, but you have to admit that I have character.” That he did. “And strawberry jam is my favorite,” he beamed when he realized what flavor he was holding. Portia nodded absently, for she was distracted by the sound of furious hooves beating against the path overhead. Both she and Gilthan turned to watch a rider charging in their direction.

“Black Horse rider,” Portia stated.

“Yes, and a bit winded isn't he?” Gilthan said, standing. He brushed himself off and walked up the small hill to hail the rider. Now was as good a time as any to grab the news. “How goes it, friend?” he called. The rider slowed but did not fully stop.

“No time to talk,” he bellowed. “I've got to get this news to the press.”

“And what news is that?” Portia asked, curious. The rider looked like he hadn't stopped riding for hours on end.

“It's Skingrad,” the man shuddered. Skingrad? It seemed to Portia that she had recently been thinking about the city, but she couldn't remember exactly why.

“What about the city?” she asked.

“It was attacked. An Oblivion gate opened, and part of the town has been destroyed.” With that, he spurred his horse into action, and dust again flew about the path behind his disappearing form.

“Damn,” Gilthan cursed. “Something has got to be done about the dragon fires. It's hard to sit and do nothing, isn't it?”

He received no answer.

“Portia?” The woman had gone incredibly pale, and the elf was suddenly concerned for her health. “Portia? Is something wrong?” The woman merely shook her head and muttered something about dremora. With a gentle touch, Gilthan forced her to look at him.

“I think something is definitely happening when I sleep,” she stated. It was going to be a very long night, but she decided then and there that she needed to get another sleeping draught and see if perhaps there wasn't valuable information to be found in the palace of her nightmares.

This post has been edited by Ornamental Nonsense: Aug 7 2010, 04:59 PM