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]

@ mALX: Thanks for reading, and your compliments. I use Deadly Reflex as a mod, since the realism of combat is important to my RPG experiences. Hope you enjoy.

@ Treydog: You've got a point about the scene at Kvatch, but what can I say? I'm a dialogue lover. That's one of the things I liked more about Morrowind than Oblivion, even if all the dialogue was voiced in Oblivion. Thanks for reading, and I hope you continue to enjoy the fights as well.

@ all: Thanks for staying with me, the view counter shows that this story is at least getting attention. For your reading pleasure, I bring the next installment. As always, comments and grammatical nitpicks are welcome.


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For Kvatch
Part II

The bridge in front of me was slightly tilted, a reflection of the broken nature of the landscape. To my right the drop off was straight into boiling lava, and to the left rocks loomed menacingly. On the bridge was another dremora, accompanied by another small scamp. This presented a major problem. The beasts were mindless on their own, but if the Dremora used it as a distraction he would have a significant tactical advantage over me. I stayed behind the cover of rocks while I considered my options. Peeking out, I noticed something about the piled stones to one side of the bridge: they were unstable.

It should be appropriate to note at this point that Flare has multiple uses. One that is rarely applied for good benefit is that the heat release causes air to expand rapidly, throwing a small force outwards. I once saw a Telvanni mage use the effect, on a massive scale, to level a group of mercenaries hired by an in-house rival. While the flame damage itself was pretty mild, the sudden blast managed to knock most of the archers and opposing spellcasters down, leaving him free to shock the remaining melee specialists to within an inch of their lives. It was brutal, inhumane, and unbelievably effective.

Once again deciding to apply my great level of Breton Intellect to the battle, I charged towards the enemies, a war cry drawing their attention, and their response. The Dremora allowed the scamp about five feet of lead, expecting to force me to commit to the beast while giving him a chance to engage me before I could recover. Instead, as I approached the rocks, I shot my flare into the side of the piles, aiming for one of the tall ones sandwiched in place by the weight of the stones above it. To my immense satisfaction, and unobserved by either enemy, the shift resulted in a massive destabilizing of the entire pile. I stopped myself short as massive and not so massive stones came tumbling and rolling down across the tilted bridge. The Dremora tried to dodge, but found himself caught in the middle of a minor rockslide, and was quickly tripped up, before being smashed clear off the bridge and into the lava below.

The scamp made it through with considerably more luck, forced by the changes of direction to try coming at my side. Instead, I simply stepped past the creature, turning and slashing, circling around to put it between me and the lava. Instead of giving it a chance to try its own magic, I kept the thing off balance with forward moving sword strikes, forcing it backwards towards the edge. Sensing the drop and the hazard, it steadied itself and prepared to counter-attack. Instead, I simply brought my shield up and threw my weight at it in a short burst. I knocked the thing back about three feet, directly beyond the reach of anything solid. As the beast fell and screamed as it hit the lava, I stepped back and continued my progress in this hellish-wasteland.

By the time that I had killed the third of the Dremora I encountered, I realized that I could do with some form of back-up weapon in the event my sword became unusable or knocked from my grip. Though I was armored, I was still unprepared to fight with only my gauntleted fists, a skill that soldiers considered the only appropriate combat skill for the bar. A drunk man with a sword was dangerous, to himself and those around him. Since I wasn’t out drinking with friends, or alone as I had been when I got started in this mess, I decided that it would be better to take an enemy’s mace, even though it was of comparably poor quality. Even if it broke on me, I would have ample chance to acquire a replacement from the next weapon holder I ran across.

At the point of having decided to take the weapon, as well as usable material off a dead Dremora, I had come to a fork in the path. One led back towards the tower closest to the entry point, and the other would keep me close to the three towers I was suddenly at in a rather uncomfortable way. However, both choices did seem to branch, giving me some choice of options, as well as indicating the possibility of multiple points of ambush.

Whatever the logical or tactically optimal choice of the time, I decided to go with my gut, and took the path that wound through the three main towers. However, instead of going under one of the spindly bridges connecting the largest of the three with the closer of the two secondary towers, I took a branch that led behind the entire complex, only to see yet another, albeit exceptionally tiny, tower previously hidden by the chief tower of this island in a sea of lava. I took my time going forward, hoping that a less protected back way might present itself.

It’s a little-acknowledged fact that thieves make the best guards, and guards make the best thieves. You realize this fact late at night, while watching as a sentry or performing rounds if you’ve got sentinel duty. The mind needs to be kept busy to be kept alert, and so whenever you have guard duty, you start to plan against yourself. What’s the best way in? “Why, through that gate on the east side, closest by that stand of trees.” Approach through the complex? “Jerome’s blind in his left eye, wait for him to turn. Yggor’s a drunk, cut by him when he’s distracted. And the watch fire ruins the night vision of sentries closest to it, so their field of vision won’t catch till you’re on top of them.” Hells, we had even been used to discussing such things with thieves enjoying a brief stay with us, since good information often meant semi-edible bread in return. It was no wonder that things never really seemed to change.

My scouting around revealed no discernable back entrance into the primary tower, nor any entry for the small tower behind it. But I did find a cave system with minimal resistance that led me to a buried entrance to that small tower. It may have possibly been used as a retreat, or storeroom, since I found a few nice potions and scrolls, a repair hammer, and a couple flawed gems, for whatever its original purpose was. Mostly, though, I found myself a quick spot to make some repairs to my armor, and fix my sword before it broke on me. And it gave me time to think. I realized that I couldn’t storm the central tower without clearing the area around me. I didn’t know what was out there, and even if I cleared the tower I wouldn’t know what was waiting for me as I came down. And I still needed a way to close that damn gate, preferably sending me back to Kvatch in the process.

After getting my gear back into workable condition, I decided that my first prerogative would be to tackle the landscape, and then take the tower closest to the portal back to Kvatch. I needed to minimize surprises, and its proximity to the portal meant that the forward tower possibly held the control to close the gate. Instinctively, I started to recall the words that had been imparted to me by that crazy Nord Tjyrfoll the Silent. You’re not a trooper, so don’t try to be one. The ranks are the hurricane, we’re the lightning. Know where you’ll strike. Find the path of least resistance. And for Tiber’s sake, don’t get surrounded! Good words for any soldier in specialized operations.

I started with the exteriors. I soon realized that this place was like one large plain, with rock formations and stone walls breaking up the field into a type of maze, albeit one that didn’t feature repeated dead-ends where an ambush could lie in wait. In fact, it was quite the opposite, and I realized that these were more akin to defensive redoubts that allowed for troop movement without sacrificing cover. More importantly, a few key passages could be guarded, requiring a far greater use of manpower to assault this place than it would take to defend it. But I was alone, hoping to accomplish by intelligence that which had failed by strength. Or was it trickery? Either way, I had been using “ungentlemanly” tactics. Damn it Awtwyr, even as you try to reach salvation from Molag Bal, you turn to Mephala and Boetheia instead. I stopped the self-chiding. Now was no time to worry about my soul, when my death would leave me with an eternity in Dagon’s grasp. The important part was to finish the mission.

Clearing out the landscape yielded little more by way of intelligence, although I did manage to knock a few more notches into my sword and harvest more of the local flora. Now that I was on the other side of those imposing black and red metal gates, I at least had a basic idea of direct distance between me and the gate in. However, my current goal was the forward tower, the one that had the war gates on the main bridge to one side, and another set of gates close to the path that I had used for progress. I entered, finding it occupied with yet another scamp and a set of spikes in the center. The scamp’s fire was becoming less bothersome, if no less damaging, possibly damaging the nerves in my skin from repeated exposure. After another corpse was added to my tally, and healing spells applied, I took a closer look at the spikes. There seemed to be some sort of platform, with holes in it to accommodate each pointed stake, resting on the floor. I stepped on it gingerly, heard a click, and immediately jumped off and onto the ground, covering my head and back with my arms and shield.

Fortunately, it didn’t seem to be any type of explosive. Instead, I heard the ratcheted clanking of machinery, and as I turned I saw the platform rise up, attached to the larger center stake that sat on the tip of a grooved pillar. An elevation device. And deadly, too. It came to a stop at the level above me, forming a complete floor with holes about half the size of a Bosmer marking where the spikes would slide through. On the wall, a crank handle had lowered just as the platform reached the top. Moving to it, I slowly reset it, and was rewarded to hear the return of the ratcheting pattern as the platform lowered itself.

My second time boarding was immensely more successful. I avoided impaling myself, and rose to the second level of this tower. As I stepped off I noted that there was another set of crank-switches on this level. Leaving the platform where it was, I began making my way up the spiral ramp towards the top. Halfway up I saw a Dremora on the top level, and he saw me. He charged down the ramp, intending to slam me off. Instead, I backpedalled, meeting the charge about a quarter way down the ramp. Even as the force of the attack came, I dove and twisted, trying to minimize the difference in our speeds and shunting the mass of armor and fighter to one side. It was mostly successful, and we both ended up on flat second level, though I was now closer to the ramp.

In our next exchange of blows, a wide shot knocked the switch, sending the platform slowly down, while I gave ground as I backed up the ramp. However, at the second landing, I stopped, refusing to give another foot. As we battled for inches, the Dremora over-extended with a forward blow, giving me a chance to get him away from the wall and use my shield to push him over the edge. As he fell, he roared in fury, only to be silenced when two large stakes impaled his gut and shoulder. Even as he died my anger and frustration washed over me. I leaned over and spit upon his corpse from my perch before resuming my assent.

At the top, I found a set of gears, and a switch of massive scale compared to the ones that controlled the platform. I pulled it, and the gears began to spin, grindingly slow at first, but then more quickly. The tower itself rumbled from further unseen machinery, and in my panic I ran to the window to see if the portal was closing. Instead, I saw the massive war gates that had blocked my earlier progress across the main bridge open. Further inspection of the tower yielded no other indication of closing the portal that led to Kvatch, just some more potions and a lock-pick. I repaired my sword, checked the Dremora’s body for useful items and was rewarded with a petty soul gem. My next target was the main tower.

As I made my approach, Ilend’s words came back to me. They took Menien off to the big tower. You’ve got to save him! Menien sounded like another soldier, one that had been taken alive instead of being killed. Which probably meant interrogation and torture, if the attack had failed to kill Martin by now. I had spare weapons and potions that I could give him, provided I could mount an effective rescue. For all I knew, this Menien was already dead. Having already realized that there was no back entrance to the main tower, I checked for entrances to either side tower, only to meet failure. They were clearly support structures for the main building, and as such access seemed restricted to the bridges leading from the central spire. The only way I’d be getting in was through the main door, labeled ‘Blood Feast’ in Daedric runes.

Inside, I found a large circular room with a lava pool in the center, and an intense beam of fire shooting straight up the oddly hollow looking inside. Before I had time to see how far up the high-energy beam went, I had to deal with attacks by the ground floor occupants. For the first time, I had to deal with two mace wielding Dremora working together, and very nearly lost my life. As it was, I had to deal with two fighters while not getting myself flanked, pushed myself past my limits in trying to fend off two attacks at once. A blow to the chest knocked me onto my back, but they didn’t capitalize by trying to kick me into submission. Instead, I managed to stab up at one underneath the faulds of his armor. It was dirty, and extremely offensive, and based on his reaction I had cut through muscle and the equivalent of a femoral artery. As he hobbled back and my sword dropped from my hand, I swung my feet out to bring the other Dremora onto the ground, using the momentum to swing myself on top of him.

I pressed my weight onto his right side with my shield, pinning the weapon arm. I had managed to draw a steel dagger that I raised and plunged straight into his eye, feeling the pop as I punctured bone and hit brain. I twisted as the last resistance gave way and the rattle of his dying breath escaped his body. Well, maybe not dead, just banished. It still left one opponent, who was staggering up to me, trying to beat me in before I could turn. Rather than allow that, I kicked at the knee on the good leg, sending him off balance and away from me. It gave me the chance to retrieve my sword, and then use the reach to back him towards the lava. He staggered, and in that instant I moved forward with a severe attack that left a large cut in his neck, ending his current incarnation as dark blood bubbled through a severed windpipe.

I searched the bodies, and decided to do some experimentation. After taking what I could use from the two, I hoisted their bodies over and into the lava pit, dropping in a beat up mace, but allowing me to toss the other through the intense beam shooting up. As it made contact it jumped upwards half a foot without losing any forward momentum, but the head and the handle flew away from each other. The beam had melted the mace clean through with barely a second of contact. A wrong touch on that would be lethal.

Taking a long swig of a restore fatigue potion, I had a chance to see that this tower, like the others, featured tiered platforms and a number of ramps, but nothing that led to the first floor. There were alcoves and doorways, and given the layout inside compared to that outside, it suggested that there were other hallways with ramps connecting everything. Sure enough, on the ground floor was a doorway leading to the ‘Rending Halls.’ Swallowing my apprehension, I entered.

The progress up was met only with another scamp, quickly dispatched now that I was recognizing their tactics. Upon reaching the balcony, I found two possible choices: one led outside, the other to the ‘Corridors of Dark Salvation.’ I figured that these would probably lead to more ramping halls and upward progress, so I took the indoor option. Unfortunately, after clearing out that set of corridors I found my way blocked by doors with locks not even the best security master could pick. I would need a key, or another way up.

I back tracked and exited the tower, finding myself on a bridge connecting me to one of the two support towers. I plodded forward, careful about my step in the winds as I moved down the narrow walkway. Inside, I found myself in another tower with a spiraled ramp leading to the top, and a pit with the same elevation-mechanism on a bed of spikes. Above, I could hear voices, the guttural tones of a Dremora, and the surprisingly clear defiance of a Colovian Imperial. Menien! He’s alive! I crept upwards, and through the odd floor saw a man in a cage being questioned by a Dremora.

The timing was critical, since I wasn’t a naturally good sneak. Still, I waited until his back was turned before taking the rapid final few steps up the ramp and lunging at him. I didn’t achieve surprise, but I did have the jump on him and got a solid swing in that cut at the opening beneath the elbow. My foe turned, mace now in hand, and spoke in deep tones like that of a volcano’s screams. “You should not be here, Mortal. Your blood is forfeit, and your flesh is mine.”

“Take it if you can,” I retorted. Not the best of lines, but in the heat of battle I didn’t have the time to come up with a proper one-liner. We closed, and a few short and brutal strikes later I was standing over his body, blood running down my side from at least two cracked ribs. I staggered to lean myself against a wall, casting my healing spell in rapid succession until it no longer felt as though there was a knife in my lung.

“Quickly, quickly!” the man was shouting at me. “There's no time! You must get to the top of the large tower. The Sigil Keep, they call it. That's what keeps the Oblivion Gate open! Find the Sigil Stone. Remove it, and the Gate will close! Hurry! The Keeper has the key-- you must get the key!”

“Menien?” I asked, picking myself up to a slightly more upright position. “You are Menien Goneld?”

“Yes, I am, Now, take the key. Get to the Sigil Keep, and find the Sigil Stone. It's the only way.”

Following his instructions, I searched the body and recovered a potion of healing, a potion of sorcery, as well as a single twisted looking key and a scroll. “There’s only one key,” I said. “How do I get you out?”

“You don’t. The cage was sealed with a spell, and only the correct counter-spell will open it. Just go. Don’t worry about me; there’s no time! Get moving!”

I took another look at the cage, and I could see his point. There was no mechanism that would open the cage, no lock where a key would go or a pick would force. As it stood, there was no way for me to save him. Looking down, I realized that I could at least do one thing. I unstrapped the steel dagger, still in its sheath, and passed it through the bars to the soldier. “Take it. I have less need than you. If you get a chance, escape. If you must, take one down with you. If not…” I let it trail off.

“A soldier’s mercy?” he asked, his voice clear. “What is your name?”

“Aye, a soldier’s mercy. I am called Awtwyr Draghoyn.”

“Thank you. May Stendarr keep you, Awtwyr. Akatosh-speed, soldier.” Menien pocketed the dagger in his pants, from which I noted he could pull it with ease. I saluted him, fist to chest and then out, before turning and leaving with a final swallow of my regret. My chances of forcing a Dremora to release him were abysmal, and we both knew it.

My anger fueled me for much of the rest of the way. I cleared out the other small tower, finding useful gear to augment my possessions but nothing that would let me free Goneld. My progress was aided by strange things called blood fountains, which healed me entirely, and magicka essence fonts that revitalized my spell-casting abilities. Scamps and Dremora fell, many of whose bodies I would search before tossing them into the fire pillar before they fell into the lava below. Finally, I came to the top of the tower. The pillar of energy shot upwards through a red dome, while two doors led to the ‘Sigilum Sanguinis.’

Goneld had mentioned the ‘Sigil Stone,’ which meant this was my last stop. Taking the time to slow my breathing some, I entered the farther doorway, to find myself in a tunnel leading up. At the top of that tunnel, it joined with a mirror passage that led to the other door, with a large opening into the vast room whose floor was the same red dome I had seen earlier. I heard the sounds of both scamps and Dremora, three total by the sound of it.

To either side of the floor were two sets of large spikes that spiraled upwards like stairs, leading to a circular walkway that ringed the room. Above that was a balcony of some red leathery material, with ramps leading down either side and a projection that came to a metal ring. The ring itself was held up with chains, and it encircled the fire pillar with some glowing, humming stone sitting at the top of the pillar. The Sigil Stone! Now, how to deal with those in my way? Looking at my armor, it came to me. I was Breton. In addition to the innate magic resilience, my race was blessed with a useful once-a-day power called the Dragon Skin. Hopefully, it would last long enough to finish the job.

I charged up the left ramp, shouting and bringing the attention of everything else in the room. The closer scamp tried a fireball, but I sidestepped with my shield up and invoked the power of my blood. Feeling the resilience that I associated with the shielding effect, I allowed the scamp to claw at me while I moved. It paid off, as the fireball from the other scamp hit the first and gave me a chance to nearly hack his head off. One down, two to go. I circled around the far side, hearing the charging metal of the Dremora has he descended the ramp to pursue me. The scamp’s aim was off, its fireballs missing me entirely as I moved around the circular platform. With the Dremora on my heels I met the scamp head on, going for impalement and running the thing through. It died on my sword, but the weight dragged my blade out of my hands as I continued my progress up one of the red leather ramps. Two down, and now just a Dremora left.

The distance had been closed before I made it to the stone. I felt the impact drive me forward and to the wall, as I reached for the backup mace I carried. I turned to engage the Dremora, only to be forced back against the wall in the exchange of blows. Pinned to the wall by the mass of muscle and armor of my enemy, I took advantage of my helmeted nature against his bared head and drove my forehead into his face. He reeled back, but when I tried to strike he knocked the mace out of my hands, leaving me weaponless. I smashed with my shield, repeatedly bashing his arm sideways until he too was weaponless, before sending him sprawling back and towards the pillar of fire.

I dropped my shield and closed to grappling range. With my hands around his throat we struggled ever closer to the pillar, before I finally grounded him as he tried to punch his way out. The position of my arms prevented him from jabbing at my face, forcing him to attack my sides. Thankfully he didn’t have gauntlets, and my Dragon Skin had yet to give out. I used his struggles to get up against him, progressing until the heat of the fire pillar all but consumed us.

“You cannot stop us!” he roared in a voice like the other. “Our Lord’s progress is inevitable!”

“Yeah, tell him that personally.” A final shove and his head entered the fire pillar, carving out a burnt whole in his skull as he died. Panting with exhaustion, I sat back, before retrieving my gear. Once fully re-equipped, with some more potions and a new, backup shortsword strapped to the inside of my shield, I reached for the glowing sphere of stone. As I touched it, trepidation flowing through me for fear that it would burn my hand, I felt swirling spells dance across my fingertips. When it shocked me briefly I yanked it out, and suddenly had it cradled in my shield arm with my sword hand over it.

The pillar of fire, now unbound, shot up to the open sky of this place. I felt a deep, growing rumble, and I backed away to try to run out, but before I could do so fire erupted up as the metal ring and walls started collapse. In that moment, I felt heat without pain and momentary weightlessness, before hitting ground again.

This post has been edited by Captain Hammer: Dec 16 2010, 04:52 AM