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]

@ Acadian: I figured I should have added an in-game justification to the ease with which one may fast-travel to Weynon Priory. And yes, Awtwyr has a very developed situational awareness and assessment ability. He once failed in that regard, something we begin to touch upon in this next part of our story. The lesson has stayed with him, forcing him to think about every factor to avoid getting caught up in a terrible situation again.

@Hawt E.coli Ryder: Thanks, Nit picked. Glad you picked up on Martin's inability to stop being a priest, as well as his more practical side and desire not to be called 'Sire.' And now I'm going to be looking for the "Eat the Fear" sequence in Julian's story. Should I assume it's an old habit making its use known again after such a long time?

For those who are wondering, the actual technique of "Fire in the Void" is an almost direct parallel to Robert Jordan's "Flame in the Void" used in the Wheel of Time series. The process itself is actually based on Zen Buddhist meditation techniques, some of which I picked up from a Buddhist Philosophy professor/adviser/confidant at my school. I actually learned the practice before ever picking up that first book, and recognized it almost immediately. Other issues with the series aside, it is one of the things that translates accurately, and I felt that priests of Akatosh (or Auri-El, the Soul of Anuiel, the Soul of Aurbis in the Void) would use the "Dragonfires in the Night" for similar reasons in seeking to understand themselves and the nature of reality.

Just as they call it the "Temple of the One," so too is it a place where a manifestation of "Oneness" may exist on Mundus.

@ all: Thanks go out to those that continue to stay with Awtwyr on his journey. I know update progress has been slow and highly irregular. Illa Vita Est (That's Life!). Your continued support has meant a lot to me as I find motivation to pick up with a soon-to-be out of date story (though if Athlain is any indication, I've got a few years' grace period after November to wrap up everything. Thanks for the example, Trey!).

As always, finding those pesky nits is appreciated. Let's not blame the Forum this time. Instead, we'll blame bad Copy-Paste execution on my browser (Shh!, it's just a joke, 'Zilla. I'd never abandon you for IE.)

In this next installment, we learn a bit about Awtwyr's upbringing, the topography and meaning of 'home,' and two men with intertwined destinies find out what the dark spot is on the other's soul.

-------------------------------------------------

For a Time on the Road

Martin and I spent the next days walking and riding, with a majority of the time spent on foot. I became suitably impressed with my new emperor’s ability to travel on his own feet, though his remarks about visiting outlying areas for his priestly duties explained a great deal. While he couldn’t force us to split time on the horse equally, if he had spent time in the Legion he would have had an easier time of it than the average recruit.

By the third evening we were properly into the region called the Colovian Highlands. A casual remark by Martin, and a half-muttered reply from me, jump-started the seemingly inevitable conversation about our personal histories.

“Well, we’re in the Highlands now, Awtwyr. Rough travels from here on. Hill and mountain country till we reach Chorrol,” said Martin as he prepared the low fire.

“Ach, these be wee bonny hills where I’m from,” I said, a bit louder than intended and not in proper Tamriellic.

“‘Bonny hills?’ I’ve heard that expression twice before, and a heavier form of that accent. You’re from Shornhelm, aren’t you?”

“Aye. I grew up in a small village in the north, west and a little south of the City of Old Gate. We’re located in one of the valleys that sit between the mountain shoulders, wide enough for passage but still in sight of permanently frozen peaks.”

“I take it you’re comfortable with high places, then,” said Martin.

I nodded. “Shornhelm’s portion of the Wrothgarian Mountains contains the highest peaks in High Rock. Orsinium and Evermore have peaks with steeper climbs and a greater difference of vertical height for individual mountains. But the valleys and dales in Shornhelm all sit higher, and we don’t have a large number of ravines or canyons. Beyond us, to the west and north, are the foothills that slope down to the coast, but most of that is still higher than what we’ll see till we get closer to Chorrol. The closest approximation I can give is that there are mountains of middling size, all sitting on a single large plateau that drops out to the forested coastal lowlands. It’s not an alpine region like some parts of Skyrim or the Reach, and the climate’s moderated by oceanic currents.”

“You surprise me,” said Martin. “And until now, I didn’t think you had an unusual accent. You drop it well.”

“Habit, actually, though now it’s even more natural to speak without it than with it. Eight years in the Legion will do that to you. Otherwise lives would be lost,” I replied. Martin raised an eyebrow, and made a small gesture to continue. “Accents, idioms, and figures of speech that vary too greatly can disrupt communication. It’s why the Legions will recruit from the province they’re stationed in before they rotate to their next province. Enlistment training isn’t just about teaching new fish how to fight. It’s about breaking down the barriers that will keep soldiers from working together properly, turning them into members of a community that share a mission and a way of life. If there’s something that’ll interfere with that, the pilii priorum will catch it before it becomes a problem. They can be pretty inventive about it.”

“You speak as one from experience,” said Martin, inviting but not accusing. If he could deal with the Elder Council in the same way, he’d make a truly remarkable emperor. If we could get him crowned. If he believed Jauffre after getting to Weynon Priory. Plenty of “If’s”.

“Pretty inevitable when you’re talking about recruits from the Wrothgarians. Bretons and Orcs thrown together in a mix, and this was a mere nine years ago. It’s only been 16 years since the Warp occurred, and there’s still a lot of deep seated bias in the area.”

“Yes, I can see that there would still be problems of that sort. Is it still like that? Have you been to High Rock recently?”

“I visited home after my discharge came through, but didn’t stay. Met my new nephews, and realized that my brother Roland was better suited to the family land than I. So I came to the Imperial City for the first time right after. Spent a week there. Got drunk, got thrown in prison for upsetting the wrong watch captain, got put in the wrong cell on the wrong night. Or, alternatively, I was guided to being placed in the right cell at the right time. Depending on your interpretation of events.”

“What happened?” asked Martin.

“That was the day the emperor died. And it was he who sent me off on this mission to see his heir crowned,” I said.

“You were there? Were you with him when he died? What happened?” Martin was suddenly sitting upright, more alert and more focused than before. Mentally, I imagined the feeling of a hammer dropping towards me, straight for my stomach and myself without armor. Tell him. He needs to know the type of man his father was, not just the sort of emperor he was.

So, I told him. I explained, from the point where I woke up just before the Blades came to my cell, all the way through my escape from the sewer tunnels. I told him about the assassins that had infiltrated the escape route; I told Martin what little I knew of the Blades, advising that he ask Grandmaster Jauffre for their biographies. I talked about the side tunnels I used to escape, meeting up again with Emperor Uriel Septim VII, and I told him, in detail, the final minutes of his father’s life. I tried to hold back some, but his few pointed questions and inquisitive expression made the story flow like a river from my lips. I told Martin about the deaths of the Blades that had sworn to guard his father’s life. I told him about the rage and misery written across Baurus’s face when he found me. I recounted the most vivid moment of my entire life, when my emperor threw away the precious last minutes of his life to ensure the survival of mine.

By the time I was done, I was exhausted. Not physically, but emotionally. Martin demanded the first watch again, though I had taken it without trouble the night before. “Please. There are prayers I must offer. Whether I am truly Uriel’s son or not, the man was still my emperor, and he was still the anointed of the Nine. Your tale must be intoned, the actions of the emperor sung to the spirits.”

“Then shouldn’t I be the one to pray?” I asked.

“In your own time, yes. But for now, I am still a priest of Akatosh. In some ways, the emperor is the chief priest of our order. Either way, I have a duty that I must fulfill to him.”

I noticed the brief look of…was it regret?…that flashed across Martin’s face. Whether it was for the father he never met, or the emperor he had lost, I didn’t know. I left him to his thoughts and prayers, and turned in for the night.



We continued the next day, after having properly split the night’s watch schedule, and as we traveled on towards Chorrol I found myself telling Martin more about my childhood. I talked about the games I played with my friends, many of whom had gone off on their own, about half returning with wives, betrothals, or even families.

“Too many sons,” I explained. “And that’s mostly unique to my village. Half the lads in a generation will go out, marry some merchant’s heiress or farmer’s daughter and only come back once every few years to see family. Those that return will have helped deal with the surplus of daughters from elsewhere, only for the cycle to repeat again with their children.”

“Hence your height and build?” asked Martin, sitting on the horse.

“Hence my height and build,” I replied. “I can thank healthy infusions from Skyrim and the Western Reach. I’m tall for my village, but not by much. Most of us don’t have much trouble swinging around the larger one-handed and two-handed swords.”

“As so ably demonstrated by your actions back in Kvatch. It seems your decision to enlist in the Legion was fortuitous not only for myself, but for the rest of the survivors.”

I was silent for a moment. “You know,” I said, shooting him a glance from my position beside the horse, “You still haven’t told me anything about yourself. Or am I to imagine that you’ve never had an interesting experience?”

“Changing the topic on me, are we?” asked Martin.

“No. Just pointing out the large discrepancy between how much I know about you, and how much you know about me. Of course, if we were something other than just two men on a journey together, I’d not be in a position to ask such questions…” I trailed off, mouthing the word ‘Majesty’ silently.

“No, you are correct. I was not always what I am. At one time, I was training as a Sorcerer in the Mages Guild.”

“Well, as my powers of observation and assessment have told me, that clearly changed.”

“It changed on account of my own weakness,” said Martin. “There were boundaries that I pushed and broke, prices I paid. Would it surprise you to know that I once acted the role of a conjurer?”

That did surprise me, and I looked up at Martin intently, almost tripping over a large, sunken boulder in the process. Martin continued with his narrative, as though it was not a great admission of guilt. “I and my friends grew reckless. And in our hubris, others died for me. Including my own friends. What of you? You carry some burden with you, else you would not be one who claims the need of Stendarr’s mercy.”

I mulled his words heavily inside my mind. I had once confessed that deed, a few years ago, to the same man that taught me to ignite Fire in the Void. The Redguard had listened to my words, considered my explanations, then rapped me over the head for what he called “Bloody arrogant idiocy, coming from the mouth of a petulant, greedy child.” Much of my guilt had gone, but there was still the seed of its origin hiding in the back of my mind. Keeping it in the dark hadn’t helped. And if Martin wanted to run, then at this point I would have a decent chance of tying him up for the rest of the way back to Jauffre.

“During my tour in Morrowind, on the second half of the cycle, I led a group of legionaries on a mission for the Duke. We successfully murdered escaped slaves and pacifist abolitionists that were part of a movement called the ‘Twin Lamps.’ And we didn’t know.”

Martin drew rein even before I finished talking. “You did what?” he asked, open shock on his face for the first time.

“Like I said, murder,” I replied, calmly. “Slaughter, really, based on what happened. We thought we were clearing out a violent, outlaw anti-slavery ring. At least, that was what I had figured we were supposed to do. It wasn’t until after the fact that I realized what had really happened. I’d been deceived, myself and the men under my command, for a political goal of dubious morality.”

“Then how did it happen? How come nobody ever heard of it?” Martin looked concerned, probably weighing whether to bolt with the horse now. If he did, I didn’t know if I could catch him.

“It was in Morrowind, Vvardenfell after that whole Nerevarine business wrapped up. In truth, it was just a little after the collapse of the Tribunal. The place was mostly wilderness and native culture with only a few solid footholds of the Empire, the Great Houses still engaged in their land-grab. I’ll explain tonight, the entire story. My actions were the result of a tangled mess of machinations that formed a verifiable vortex for those trying to make any progress in their respective fields.”

“Tonight, then,” said Martin. “And please, excuse my outburst. I’m a Priest of Akatosh, I’ve heard legionaries’ stories before. My anger is that things like this shouldn’t happen, especially if it involved Legion officers and magistrates. I have some knowledge of the chaos of the time in that locale.”

“Tonight, then. We trade stories of failure and death.” Martin sat for a moment, then nodded. After a few more moments of walking, I couldn’t help but add, “You know, I’m actually not dreading the prospect of telling you.”

“Tell me Awtwyr, should I laugh, or weep?” asked Martin.

“I don’t know. You’re the one that’s supposed to understand that sort of thing. Being a priest and all.”

EDIT: Multiple nits fixed. Small admission: the difficulty of actually mulling through this sequence (basically an info-drop used as a means of developing the dynamic between two characters without making it too boring) required the assistance of unearthly powers. Specifically, Sanguine. Several bottles of well-brewed liquid bravely perished to bring you this installment. Honor their brave but inevitable guzzling.

This post has been edited by Captain Hammer: May 25 2011, 10:45 AM