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]

@Cardboard Box: Thanks for noticing, the nit has been picked. Well, more like carefully pierced with a white-hot needle, but still.

I always felt the game tried to do a decent job with Martin. One day, he's a priest doing his work in the temple, the next, Daedra have attacked, the city had been captured and then re-taken, and then the guy/gal that saved the city comes up and says "Hey, buddy, guess what? You're emperor!" The voice acting by Sean Bean is good about getting it across, but the player's own dialogue options are rather...limited. Glad that you think I could change that.

@Mistress of the Horse: High praise coming from Julian's own personal scribe. Though to be fair, I think my young wipper-snapper Breton's just a little bit less altruistic than our favorite Anvil-bred veteran. The more people that claim the title 'Hero of Kvatch,' the less time the assassins have to hunt him down.

Batul was always one of my favorite characters. For as much practical aid she can be before heading into battle, the game does a great job of making her a person you can connect with. She remains one of my top five favorite smiths in the game. She's also my favorite she-orsimer of Oblivion.

@Grits: As above, so again, though it's tough to compare wanting to ditch assassins with losing one's entire family. As for the equipment arrangement, I have Roman re-enactors to thank for that. Spare weapons could be carried on the inside of a Roman scutum, so if you lost one weapon in the heat of battle, you had a serviceable replacement or three to continue on with the killing until Mars was satisfied for another day.

And yes, Weebum-Ja is indomitable. I often wonder if the scales in her hide contain unusually high concentrations of metal.

@ the Old Paladin: Thank you. It's high praise indeed to have one such as yourself state that Awtwyr has "quiet nobility."

Now, about that bet on dragons eating the undesirable count and countess...?

@ Malx: Thank you again for your dedication, both here, and on the rest of the forum. And hey, it's easy to make the last line a gem. You just find a point in the story, take an axe, and then sand and polish the edge to a brilliant luster.

@ The-Rick-Who-Is-Not-This-Rick: Thanks again for your advice. I must admit, I find it much easier to keep the flow going if I break the posts down. Your advice on length has helped me stop writing research papers as narratives, and hopefully cut down on mistakes wriggling in.

@ Omnes (That's Latin for 'All'): As always, nit-finding appreciated. I can barely be trusted to my own mind, so the help is definitely appreciated.

We last found that Martin was willing to at least believe that Awtwyr wasn't an emissary of Sheogorath. We now spend some time...thinking.

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For Philosophy

I tried to convince Martin to take the horse first, but he wouldn’t have it. “I’ve healed a fair number of people coming to the Chapel with injuries,” he had said with only minor annoyance. “You’re tired, exhausted were it not for the stamina restoratives you’ve consumed, but that can only mitigate the need for sleep for so long. At some point, the body requires rest. If we must cover ground until after dark, we’ll get farther with you on the horse.”

What bothered me most was the fact that I knew he was right before he tried to convince me. I had been on marches, fought some skirmishes, and taken the night watches that were every soldier’s due. I knew how far my body could go, how far it would go, and I would reach that limit before Martin did. No. Emperor. Emperor Martin Septim. Must remember that. Must remember to think of him as emperor. I was slouched forward in the saddle, as Martin walked beside the horse on the road. The Gold Road was one of the main arteries of commerce, well maintained and heavily traveled. As such, it was kept paved and generally free of the holes or breaks that could cripple a horse or ruin a wagon-wheel. For now, it meant I could trust more to Emperor Martin to guide the horse while I tried to rest in the saddle. I couldn’t sleep or nap riding, but I felt some of the fatigue ease out of me as I rode. Martin did a fine job of keeping pace, his stride surprisingly long and confidant for a priest recently told he was emperor.

We reached the point to turn off shortly before sunset, and I dismounted to walk beside Martin while leading the horse. Thankfully, we had not run into any bandits, probably due as much to luck as to the fact that the burning of Kvatch had made the area less favorable to outlaw bands. They would have retreated to their camps and hidden refuges to wait out the inevitable increase in Legion activity or avoid whatever evil force had visited the land. Either way, once the conflict was less likely to catch them in the crossfire and the fear of destroyed city glazed over by passing days, the outlaws would re-emerge. Until then, it was prudent to press the advantage of solitude and avoid contact. Any person we met on the road could as easily be an outlaw, a refugee, or a waiting assassin.

Some two hours after leaving the road, we stopped to camp for the night. The spot afforded us good views of the area without leaving us terribly exposed. We built a very low fire, and then Martin cooked a travel soup while I tended the Prior’s loaned horse. It had occurred to me that I never bothered to learn the name of the paint horse, but worrying over a detail struck me as absurd in that moment. After seeing to the animal’s needs, I joined Martin by the fire for our meal.

“Does it strike you as strange to be here?” Martin asked, staring at the stars.

“Honestly, Sire, it does not. This past week, I met Emperor Uriel Septim the Seventh, a man that had been my emperor since before I was born, I man I had served for years during my time in the Legion. Only, I met him in a prison cell, by chance, due to being arrested for a bar brawl I shouldn’t have started. From there, it only got more interesting. This pales by comparison.”

“And since? Are you certain that this week hasn’t all been one long dream, maybe for the both of us?”

“Who can say? If it is, it’s the most vivid and convoluted dream I’ve ever had. And the worst nightmare I’ve had.” I took the skin of water, drained some, then passed it to Martin. “You seem to be taking it well.”

“It’s not a matter of taking it well or poorly. In a few days’ time, I’ve learned of the death of the emperor, seen my home mostly destroyed by daedra, witnessed the reclamation of an entire city, and been told that Emperor Uriel was my father. I guess I’m still trying to piece everything together.” Martin shook his head, than turned to look at me. “You should get some rest. You’re far more tired than I, and I could use the opportunity to think. I’ll wake you for second watch, but for now, you need sleep.”

I nodded, taking the travel blanket and turning in for rest. The last thing I heard before the darkness of sleep was a low chant to Akatosh and Kynareth, one often used by travelers for speed on a journey and safety from storms.

I awoke slightly past my allotted time, Martin still up and staring into the night. My rising caught his attention, and I spent a moment thankful that he had kept himself alert through his contemplations. I moved to sit next to him, then made a show of studying the position of Masser and Secunda.

“Looks as though it’s about my time for the watch, Sire,” I finally said. “Seems I should have woken earlier."

“Yes, but I had some thinking to do, and you had a need for the sleep. And please, I think you should stop calling me ‘Sire.’ For one, I must still speak with Jauffre.”

“My apologies, but what you are, you are. A thought or desire alone does not necessarily change that.”

“Then, consider that by using any honorific, you mark me out for my enemies. Are you not supposed to be keeping me alive?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but paused for a moment as his words sunk home. I had waited until we were alone before saluting him as Emperor of Tamriel. “I concede the point, Martin,” adding emphasis to the address. “Might I ask what you were thinking on?”

“What is the greatest trouble of your soul?” he asked, looking out to the surroundings.

“Do you mean that rhetorically, or are you truly asking me?” I replied.

Martin turned towards me, raised an eyebrow, and simply said “Yes,” accompanied by a small nod.

“I am not yet ready to say mine. If that troubles you, take the pack horse and continue, I will not try to bar your passage. The guilt I feel now is the struggle, and I have not yet fed that to the fire.”

“You would feed your guilt to a fire?” Martin asked, the barest hint of the question on his voice.

“Pardon. It’s something that I was taught by a Redguard Swordmaster who thought I was too distracted by what was around me. He called it ‘Feeding the Fire in the Vacuum.’ It’s a way to get past the shortcomings of ourselves and to better understand the true nature of reality. For a philosopher, he was incredibly easy to understand.”

“Ah,” replied Martin. “I know of what you speak. Priests of Akatosh will, before they are raised, be taken to the Temple of the One for a night of meditation before the Dragonfires. We are not told anything beforehand, but are asked questions later. Some question us about the thoughts we had during the night. Some question us about our brethren, society and its ills. Some ask us about the true nature of totality. The responses determine much about where we are sent, and how we serve.”

“So,” I said, “Is that what allows your order to separate itself from the other Eight?”

“Actually, no,” said Martin. “Priests of Zenithar will follow a similar ritual, and some few of each order will also undergo the others’ ritual in preparation for theological debates between the acolytes of our two patrons. Additionally, the Psijic Order makes use of another, closely related process for similar purposes.”

“But why? Do you each simply want to be able to test yourselves differently from each other, to evaluate the initiates of your own order?” Something about the way he said it made sense to me. And something else did not.

“Yes, and no. It is impossible to fully answer without some basic preparation. But I will say this, the answer lies in Anuiel.”

“Do you know any man, mer, or beastfolk that have grasped the answer?”

“A few. Some to a greater degree than others. There are far more individuals that are capable of doing so than they themselves realize. Frequently, the only outward indication is a degree of exceptionalism that does not seem probable.”

“Does that include yourself?” I asked. Perhaps if I could not convince, he could convince himself, thinking that he was convincing me.

“Perhaps,” said Martin, giving a tiny half-laugh and turning the corners of his mouth up in the faintest smile. “Perhaps.”

We sat for a few more moments, neither of us looking directly at each other, both surveying the landscape. Finally, Martin got up, dusted off his clothes, and turned towards the bedrolls. “I think I have found some of my answers tonight. I will acquiesce to your wishes and rest, though I ask you wake me in the morning. I fear I may not be the most eager of people to rise with the sun. Please, try not to kick me awake.”

“I’ll do my best,” I replied. Martin settled in, and I settled down for the watch. His words had given me food for thought. It brought me back to what Nelthan had taught me.

Once you spill seawater onto a tree, you cannot force the roots to give up what they have drunk. Rinse your mistake with clean water, if you can. If not, then wait. The tree may live, or it may die. Do not wallow in your grief, for your misery comes from a desire for that tree. If it lives, it lives, and nothing more need be said. If it dies, it dies. Cut it down, split its branches, feed the logs to the fire. It may yet provide you warmth, cook your food, drive away the darkness. What has passed is in the past. Leave it there.

The trouble was following through on that advice. Nelthan had warned me that I would take it too quickly. I had tried before, feeding everything to the fire, but it hadn’t been consumed. I stood, pacing in circles to watch every approach, and trying once again to kindle the Fire that burned in the Void.

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EDIT: Nit fixed.

This post has been edited by Captain Hammer: May 18 2011, 06:03 AM