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: Thank you. Your responses have always been prompt and encouraging, and well-appreciated. May you find this ending to your standards.

@Acadian: Welcome! Glad you could join early to the party, or at least, fashionably on time. Upon reflection, I realized "You know what? I can write better dialogue. Some of the game's stuff is good, but not necessarily all of it." May future chapters (not this one) show your advice taken to heart.

@Grits: High praise indeed. As with Acadian, Welcome (To. The. FANFIC!) Sorry, couldn't resist throwing the Wes Johnson shout-out in there. I must admit to admiring Jerric, and would wonder: What happens when a Kvatch native, Son of Skyrim Battlemage Born under the Atronach goes drinking with a Shornhelm Highlander of Reachmen Descent that was Born under the Mage and grows into a Spellsword (haphazardly)?

@TheOtherRick: Do I want to know what happened to the Original Rick? Thank you for your support, and I hope your hopes are not dashed. Additionally, I pray that you find this post of a more manageable length, hmm? You are correct (as was wise Acadian in your case) and so I hope you find a 50% reduction appropriate.

@All: Feel free to notice and point out those nits. Never can be too careful. As for the story:

We pick up where we left off, our heroes having met properly for the first time...

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For a Priest of Akatosh

Martin just stood and stared at me. I didn’t know what was going through his head. Probably worries that I was some emissary of Sheogorath. Given the fact that I had just bowed and called him emperor in the middle of a clearing with horses nearby, I didn’t think I could blame him. It was not the traditional way by which an emperor was proclaimed.

“What is going on?” asked Martin, finally breaking the long silence.

“I am sorry, Sire. But according to Jauffre, a…trusted source, you are the last surviving son of Uriel Septim.”

“Emperor Uriel Septim? You think the emperor was my father?” He looked at me with unfettered incredulity. “No, you must have the wrong man. I am a priest of Akatosh. My father was a farmer. And get up,” he added, beckoning me to rise. I did so, but did not don my helmet again.

“If that were true,” I began, searching for the words, “then I would not be here. I would not…,” Jauffre’s words came back to haunt me. “If the enemy is aware of his existence, as seems likely, he is in terrible danger.” I realized now what Jauffre meant. It was apparent enough that this was Dagon’s doing. It seemed he had means of finding the potential threats to his plan. “The daedra came here for you. The emperor knew you were in danger. Jauffre knew as well. It is his place to explain these things, not mine. What I can say, though, is this: the enemy knows that as long as you live, their victory is not assured.”

I could tell that Martin wasn’t convinced. The disbelief in his face had not yet vanished entirely. But he was at least considering the idea, no matter how distasteful it seemed. “You spoke to the Emperor before he died? And he told you to find me?” He stared off, looking over my shoulder at the dark grey clouds that still hung over Kvatch. “An entire city destroyed to get at me? Why?...Because I’m the emperor’s son?”

“Because as the emperor’s son, you are the only one that may potentially stop this.” Was it the idea that bothered him, or just me? Maybe if I can convince him of my own sincerity, he’ll be more willing to accept me as a reliable source. “Consider the following. You and I stand alone, here where nobody else can get to us in any hurry. My horse is just over there. I am armed and armored, and yet I have not made any move to harm you, even when I have my best opportunity. I did not need to clear the castle to do my duty. I did not need to risk myself repeatedly when I could have accomplished my goal. And I didn’t just speak to the emperor before he died. I was the one that killed his assassin. And had it not been for his own action, I might have died there with him, had he not given me the chance to survive. So tell me: Why would I lie to you?”

“I don’t know. It’s strange…I think you might actually be telling the truth,” he said, holding my gaze. “What does this mean? What do you want from me?”

“Come with me to Weynon Priory. Speak to Jauffre. He can answer your questions.”

“You destroyed the Oblivion Gate, they say.” My emperor half turned, taking one slow step, then another. “You gave them hope.” He started pacing. “You helped them drive the daedra back.” He stopped, and looked straight at me. “Yes, I’ll come with you to Weynon Priory and hear what Jauffre has to say. Lead on.”

Thank the Nine! I thought to myself. “Do you have a horse?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “The Chapel had two that we would use if our duties carried us to a nearby village or farmstead, but none have survived.”

I nodded, thinking to myself and eyeing the other horses nearby. Martin noticed my glance, and stopped those thoughts immediately. “I shall not take a horse from an Imperial Legion soldier. I am not yet certain if I am the rightful emperor, nor would I find it appropriate to exercise that right even in these circumstances.”

“Alright,” I said. “But I warn you, it was six days and nights of hard riding for me over the rough terrain from Chorrol to here, inter-spaced with dismounting and walking. If we walk, we can look forward to a minimum of ten days travel, more likely to be two weeks by the time we get to the Priory. See if you can get something better suited for the road. Priest’s robes will ruin, and if the need should arise we may need to escape a danger too great for the both of us. I’ll see about the appropriate supplies. Do you know anything by way of magic?”

“Yes,” said Martin. “Before I became a priest, I studied at the Mages’ Guild. I had a…an experience that changed my path. I have camped before, and I know spells useful for the wilderness.”

He was avoiding something, but then so was I. Even Emperors are able to keep their secrets. Must I really know what haunts his past? Must he know mine? Morrowind was a lifetime ago. It has nothing important about the matter before me. “Very well. See what you can get.”

I picked up the Kvatch cuirass from where I had placed it on the ground, and turned to head back towards the camp. Hopefully, I could exchange some the extraneous equipment for the necessities of travel. I went to the smith first. Batul smiled as she greeted me, motioning me over. Her small make-shift forge had a number of battered pieces of armor and weapons, with the identifying inscriptions that marked them as Guard property. “I heard about your actions inside the Gate, and in the city,” she said, looking up from a metal plate she was repairing. It was one of the bowled out pieces that sat on the shoulder, not a true pauldron but rather a piece of a spaulder. “And now I see you truly do have Captain Matius’s cuirass. If you have some time, I can see about fitting it for you.”

I had enough inches on Matius in the shoulder and in height for there to be a difference, but not enough time to justify waiting. “Can you measure me and keep it? I came to Kvatch for a reason, and now I need to go. I don’t know when I’ll be back for it, but I can’t wait around. Besides, it’s light armor, and I’m more used to wearing heavy plate.”

Batul looked a little remorseful as she took the finely wrought cuirass, but she accepted it and carefully stowed it away. “It will be sad that the Hero of Kvatch will not wear the Wolf. Still, I will keep it for you. And you do not need to pay for this!” she ordered, stopping me as my hand went to my fetch some coins. “You have the thanks of an entire city. If we can not look after the Hero of Kvatch, what can we do? Come, let me measure you.”

Hero of Kvatch? She means me? I unbuckled the straps holding my heavy armor on, the Orsimer smith helping. “Batul, why do you keep calling me that?”

“Hero of Kvatch? Because that is what you are. We know you closed the Gate. One of the legion soldiers said you were like his old pilus, claimed you led them into battle personally, and opened the castle for the City Guard.” She took out a strip of carefully maintained leather, marked with dyed hash-marks at regular intervals, and began the process of measuring my torso height, chest, shoulders, waist, neck, and reach, recording each tally. “You saved our city, or what was left of it. Some say that because of you, we may yet rebuild.”

All this for living where others died? All this for sending some Daedra back into Oblivion? I shook my head at the thought, trying to find the right words. “Batul, I was lucky. Lucky that I came when I did, instead of in the midst of the battle and the fall of the city. Lucky that I faced a small force in that gate, without facing an organized opposition to me. Lucky that I was not the foremost man when we cleared the city, for those men died in the streets. I was Lucky Menian Goneld figured out how to close the gate, though he did not make it back. For Mara’s sake, I’d murdered when I was still in the Legion! All because I didn’t know what I had gotten myself into, and because what I’d been told to do didn’t agree with what I actually did. And now you call me a Hero?”

Batul gra-Sharob sat on a small stool and looked at me, calmly. “I do not know what you did in your past. I know only what you did for us here? Is that not something? Can you not see the good you have done here?”

It’s true, came a voice in my head. Here nobody knows about the dead Argonians. Vedam’s reach does not extend so far. And Hammerfell lies between you and Morrowind. Make a fresh start, bask in the acclaim.

And what happens when Martin becomes Emperor? There’s still the vengeance upon those that killed his father and brothers. What will become of me? I cannot become Count Kvatch, I know nothing of rule, and have no blood claim. And if I seek their acclaim, how long until some enemy, some worshipper of Dagon, decides to seek consolation in my blood? The road is not yet finished. The enemies on any side still wait with daggers drawn. And others are more deserving.

“No,” I said to Batul. “You are right, but you are also wrong. When travellers ask, name Menian Goneld the Hero of Kvatch. Name Berich Inian that Hero of Kvatch. Name Savlian Matius the Hero of Kvatch. Name the City Guard the Heroes of Kvatch. They deserve the title more than I.” And Stendarr forgive me, for I may yet doom another to death for one seeking vengeance against me. But I cannot fail now, not when victory is close.

“Very well,” said the Orc woman. “I will do as you request. I will ask others to do the same. But Awtwyr,” she said, holding my gaze carefully, “I am also known for my business sense. And no matter how hard we try, the truth eventually comes out. Your actions here, your very presence will be known eventually. And when that time comes, these ghosts that haunt you must be faced. You have undergone trial by fire. You are stronger than you realize.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Hopefully, when I return, it will be under better conditions.”

Batul stood and wiped her hands on a seemingly conjured clean rag. “Wait here. I can get you supplies for your journey. What do you need?”

“Only what a man needs for two weeks of survival away from settlements. Spares would be nice, though I have enough field experience and rudimentary magic skills to make do. I don’t have time to hunt, though. Travel rations are most important, but not what could be to the survivors’ detriment.”

“Pssh. We can hunt, we have wells, we have crops outside the city that are safe enough to make us through winter, both stored and in the field. Sit and rest.”

I did, and when she came back Weedum-Ja accompanied her. “Batul told me that you musst leave uss,” hissed the Argonian. “I have prepared rationss and suppliess for your journey. May Akatossh one day guide your return.”

“Thank you,” I said. “What will you do?”

“Rebuild. I will not be driven from my home.” I could hear the fire in her voice.

“Come,” said Batul, somehow appearing behind me with my equipment. “Best get you ready to go.” She helped me into my armor, and when she handed me my shield I noticed that my makeshift fastenings for the shortsword I picked up in the Deadlands was now properly secured for the quick-draw if I had my shield-arm raised. It left space for the now-enchanted longsword on my left hip, and a mace on my right. “Fair travels, Awtwyr.”

“Farewell ladies. Thank you for everything.”

I returned to the bottom of the path, and the Prior’s paint horse, to find Martin dressed in more utilitarian garments, trading the robe for hunstmen’s pants and shirt, over which he wore a travel cloak. That was when I noticed that his robe had been co-opted for use as a pack, and a dagger rode at his hip. I placed our supplies on the horse, took up the reins, and Martin and I set off, taking the road east towards Skingrad. Only when we were alone did I begin speaking about travel plans.

“We’ll take the Gold Road northeast until the hook towards Skingrad. There’s terrain and brush, which makes it easy to slip on and off without keeping a tail. After that, it’s across the Imperial Reserve and the Colovian Highlands. We’ll come across a few settlements, but we can’t risk your recognition, so we definitively camp out in the nights till we get to County Chorrol. Can you travel as such, Sire?”

“Yes,” said Martin. “If what you say is true, then security is important. I only pray Akatosh and Talos guide us, and to Stendarr, that you have not deceived me.”

“I pray to Stendarr as well, Sire. Though for other reasons.”

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EDIT: Fixed a Nit.

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