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]

For a Cross-Country Journey:

I didn’t know a Night Eye spell. Or rather, I didn’t know a method that would allow me to cast Night Eye on the horse. Myself? No problem. It was a standard spell for any legionnaire that drew night patrol duties, and only the stupid chose not to figure out how to cast it. And soldiers come in three types: the smart, the dead, and the soon-to-be-dead. Thus, in order to avoid crippling my horse, I had to take it slow on the descent down to the flatter territory of County Kvatch. It was still hillier than County Skingrad, but I was able to pick up some speed.

The trip southwest took almost a good week, alternating periods of riding with walking and a few breaks to sit while the horse rested and I conditioned myself with field exercise. The horse, whose name I hadn't learned but simply referred to as "old boy," was easy enough to handle, and early in the second evening we got some rest together. He had an even temper and gentle demeanor, and seemed to manage pretty well eating his fill when presented with the opportunity. The area was like a tamer version of home, and I could see why the Colovians thought to call this their own Highlands. Towards the sixth morning, I noticed an orange glow on the horizon, but it was rapidly drowned out by the approach of false dawn. Shortly after sunrise, I emerged onto the Gold Road before it swung south to avoid the plateau that Kvatch stood upon. As I followed the road, I found myself caught up looking for bandits that prey on the unwary lone travelers. I was halfway down the bend and well into mid-morning before I looked towards the city again.

Kvatch was burning.

The smoke swept up in a dark cloud before the wind could disperse it. Small fires could be seen within the city beyond the walls, glowing dark in the early morning light. The city had been attacked, and my new emperor lived inside.

I put spurs to flanks and gave the horse its lead on the reins. It shot out, taking me down the road towards the twisting path that led to Kvatch’s gate. Dark thoughts and fears raced through my mind. Was Martin alive, or dead? Had this attack been from the same faction that had killed Emperor Uriel? Was it a natural disaster?

As I slowed to make the turn to Kvatch, a high elf came running down the hill, eyes wide and pupils constricted with fear. “Come on! Run while there’s still time! The Guard still holds the road, but it’s only a matter of time before they’re overwhelmed!” My horse reared, throwing me to the ground. I wasn’t an expert rider, and the stupid scared git had startled the beast. I got up, made harder by the Altmer holding on to me in his desperation and fear, and managed to calm the horse down.

Once the horse was calm, and tethered to one of the roadside barriers, I turned to the terrified Altmer. “Run? From what?”

“Gods’ blood, you don’t know, do you? Daedra overran Kvatch last night! There were glowing portals outside the walls! Gates to Oblivion itself! There was a huge creature…something out of a nightmare…came right over the walls…blasting fire. They swarmed around it…killing…”

Great, the worst possible situation. A bloody daedric attack. “The whole city can’t be destroyed.”

The High Elf looked at me as though I was a bloody idiot. “Go and see for yourself! Kvatch is a smoking ruin! We’re all that’s left, do you understand me? Everyone else is dead!”

“Then how did you escape?” I asked.

“It was Savlian Matius…some of the other guards…helped some of us escape…they cut their way out, right through the city gates. Savlian says they can hold the road. No…no, I don’t believe him. Nothing can stop them. If you’d seen it, you’d know…I’m getting out of here before it’s too late! They’ll be here any minute, I’m telling you. Run while you can!”

And with that, the frightened Altmer took off down the road, his shirt flapping in the wind. I turned and headed towards Kvatch. However, before long I came upon a camp full of people. They were civilians by the look of it, most in dirty clothes of various style, the kind the inhabitants of an urban center would wear.

I approached a Redguard male sitting by the side of the camp. “What do you want?” he asked me, barely even glancing up.

“I’m Awtwyr Draghoyn. What happened in Kvatch?”

“Boldon. Late at night, while we were all asleep, a door to Oblivion opened. Daedra came out and set fire to the town. Many people died, but some got out alive.”

Some were alive. Martin, maybe. May Akatosh preserve us. “Is Martin still alive?” I had to know.

“If you mean the priest, I don’t think he made it out of the city. Very few of us did. But Savlian Matius might know more. He’s in charge of the city guard that are defending the camp. You’ll find him at the barricade at the top of the road. He’s still trying to hold what’s left of the Guard together.”

I thanked him, and started to move on, but saw a female Orc with the traditional smock and calluses of a black-smith. I approached her, hoping I could get some additional gear.

“Ma’am? Are you one of the local blacksmiths?”

She shrugged her shoulders, as though it didn’t matter. “I suppose. I’m Batul gra-Sharob. Though I warn you, I don’t have much. I lost everything.”

Worse and worse. “What happened in Kvatch?”

She turned away, looking south, her back to me, and the city. “I don’t like to talk about it. I don’t remember much. I woke to screaming and fire. I ran. I was lucky. I survived. My friends…weren’t so lucky.”

I retrieved twelve septims from my purse, dropping them on the crate next to her.

“What are these for?” the smith asked.

“A repair hammer, if you have one. I might soon have need of one.”

She looked at the coins, grunted, then picked them up and pocketed them. Then Batul moved over to a small crate, and drew out a repair from within a battered collection of gear. It wasn’t a sight to get any hopes up.

“Here,” said the female Orsimer. “Your loss, I suppose.”

I thanked her, and left the blacksmith to her grief. There were others around that could probably tell me more. At least, I hoped that somebody could tell me more. Standing nearby were three women, an Argonian, a Redguard, and a Nord, who was closest and dressed in blue. Her hands were dark with the stains of alchemy, and she wore the appropriate pendant of a Mages Guild member. She saw me as I approached to speak.

“You picked a bad time to visit Kvatch. I’m Sigrid, formerly Evoker of the Mages Guild.”

“What happened in Kvatch?” I asked. Different people meant different viewpoints from the same question.

“Go look for yourself. The town is gone. And most of its people. The Daedra came out of the gate in the middle of the night. People who fought, died. People who ran…they at least had a chance. I’m sorry, there’s not much for me to tell.”

I let it go at that, and turned to approach the Redguard. “What…?” she asked, curtly.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying not to provoke her further. “I just wanted to know, what happened in Kvatch?”

“A gate opened and daedra poured out. Everybody ran. Or they died. I don’t know how the fire started, but it burned Kvatch to the ground.” Her tone was short and to the point, and I decided not press further. The Argonian looked more welcoming, so I went to talk to her.

“We’ve been hit hard. But we’ll come back.”

“What happened in Kvatch?” I asked, yet again. It felt like it was getting old.

“It looks bad. It is bad. But we’re tough. We’ll rebuild. The guards have to clear the ruins first. That won’t be easy. But I’ll be here. This is my town. Nothing is driving me out of here.”

“Thank you,” I said to her. “I’m Awtwyr Draghoyn.” I offered my hand. “Do you know anything about Martin?”

“Weedum-Ja,” she said, wrapping her hand in mine. “And no. But you should talk to Captain Matius. He’s up the hill.”

I thanked her and moved on. As I was climbing the path to Kvatch, I saw a man in priestly robes standing by the side of the path. He was too old to be Martin, but he might know something. “Sir, can you help me?” I asked.

“No. Hope is gone. The Imperial line is dead. The Covenant is broken. The Enemy has won.”

“What Covenant?” I asked.

“The Imperial line is dead, and the gods have forsaken us. Where is our blessing? Where is our protection? Where are our gods? The Enemy triumphs, and we die alone.”

“The Enemy?” I asked, hoping that he wouldn’t repeat what Jauffre had told me.

“Lord Dagon is the Enemy. He is the Prince of Destruction, and the Daedra are his servants. The Chapel is cast down, and the faithful…my friends…all dead. The Enemy has won, and we are destroyed.”

Damnation!! Out of desperation, I grabbed his robe and brought his face up to look into mine. “What of Martin. Do you know if he lives? Tell me!”

“What use. I’m Ilav Dralgoner, former Primate of the Great Chapel of Akatosh. Martin was a priest serving under me. For all I know, he died with the rest. As will the rest of Tamriel.”

The man was broken, and of little use. It was looking more and more like this Savlian Matius would be my best hope. I climbed the switchbacks on the road to the gates of Kvatch, a single point of access that had held against attack since the time of the Camoran Usurper. Yet the Daedra had made short work of the city in the night while I had been busy travelling. I silently cursed myself. What if I had been able to push the horse faster, cast a Night Eye spell on it? At best, I would have shaved an hour or two off my time. What if I had not slept that night at Weye? Then I would have shown up, in the middle of an attack on a city by invading Daedra, tired, worn out, and probably ill prepared.

I made it to the top of the plateau to find more stakes in a defensive ring, manned by armed guards, with a glowing red-orange portal standing between myself and the city gate. Even as I approached, a thin, scowling creature with a foul stench and clawed hands materialized just outside the strange portal, and charged the two closest guards. It didn’t accomplish much, since two other guards rushed to their friends’ aid and the four soldiers worked off each other to dispatch the daedra. I wasn’t an expert on daedric summonings, but I did know that the creature was a scamp, if a small one.

This post has been edited by Captain Hammer: May 24 2011, 08:19 AM