The Age Of Miasma, Of The Three Companions Options

[ureniashtram]

A/N: Heeey.. Wasabi! (coughs) So, I um.. Decided to 'remake' this particular story and you know.. Get my touch back with stories and stuff. After a long period of filling in plot holes and such, I have completed the... Prologue! I'm such a noobie.. Now, that that's done.. Read on.

EDIT: WAIT! I forgot to mention that I REALLY need some feedback, cuz you know, I need to know where to improve my writing skills.
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The Age Of Troubles
Of The Three Companions

1.A
Prologue, Part I

".. I shall cleanse this world of its blemish. The foundations of Nirn will shake as the Sixth House full awakens. New and old, all shall pass and all shall bow. Those who resist the Dream shall be cast aside and torn asunder; their flesh shall be fed to the dogs and their spirits be made sport by lowly demons. The forsaken Promise of the Harlot I shall keep, and Resdayn shall be the new heart of Tamri-El. The Three Traitors shall kneel and beg for forgiveness and quarter I will not give to them.

But you, dear Nerevar... I loved with you as a brother and yet you draw your blade against me at the whim of the Three and that Harlot. I would've kept you for the pleasures of pain, but our last ties of friendship forbids it. I am a generous god and forever will be.

Come and let us finally fulfill Our long, desired Dream."

" You ungrateful infidel! You dare go against my will?! Such a bold move for an insignificant one such as yourself! Lay down your arms and give in or an eternity of torture shall be your reward!"

"The time of Triune has come at last, Incarnate. And although Oblivion would be a welcome change for me, there are still matters to attend to. Ever vigilant, you should be where your origins began, my Hortator. Although it still stands strong, nothing is immortal or never-ending.

Even those who descended from the Stormson.

There are those who would want Change; those who want a New Dawn. And they will carry out what they believe is a Divine Plan. Be strong in your beliefs and be loyal to those who consider you their salvation. For another Crisis looms ahead."

"That fetcher who calls proclaims himself as the Incarnate is a liar and believe you should not a word that pours from his dirty mouth! Rather, believe in my prophecied birth! For I am the One and Two for Elvil Vidron and Saint Nerevar is as the same!"

"Choice.. What is choice for the One whose fate is already scribed in the Stars of destiny? Whose path is already paved before him by the Lady of Roses? And I ask you this; what happens when he finally releases himself from the shackles, the shackles and reason for his existence?

Nothing.

You are reduced to wandering fool, searching for a purpose that exist not. Hearken to my words, and remember it well.

By Oblivion you are made exist, by Oblivion you have been and by Oblivion you shall be brought to your knees. You call me your lover? I spit at thee for profaning my name. You caress me with sweet nothings? Away from me, demon of Azura. I listen not to your deceiving lies. You swore a vow that we would bond for eternity, and when the time comes for you to fullfil that oath.. You ran away. Away from my love, away from the desire of my heart.. Away from me.

I curse you for your cowardice, Nerevarine, and may you wander Nirn in an eternity of blind, deaf and tongueless haze. For you asked for love and denied it at the last moment, and it is only fitting that you feel naught forever."
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A gasp of dread escaped from the mouth of a dunmer as he bolted upright, his body quaking and showered by sweat. The elf took heaving breaths and looked up at the star-sprangled sky. The Lunar Twins, Masser and Secunda, gayly danced beneath Aetherius and the stars were by their side, the angelic sparks encouragingly lighting up the Twin's playground. The dunmer was still for a few minutes. Thoughts ran unbidden on his mind like an untamed wolf, and seconds passed him by as he tried to vainly calm his panicking mind. The struggle was fierce as sins and memories from the past teased his mind to the cliffs of madness. But his will was resolute and he temporarily conquered his thoughts.

He stood up and his legs wobbled from both fatigued and awakened trauma. He nearly fell, but his hand instictively reached for anything to hold on to. It was the tree he uncomfortably slept under. Nibenean Fyr it was, strong, sturdy and can endure brutal punishment, ideal for making a batch of targes and bucklers but that was irrelevant.

The dunmer closed his eyes. A shaky sigh escaped his lips.

After all these years... I am not given still the peace of which I sought. Gods knelt in humbled submission before me, and yet my nightmare clings still like an insolent leech.. My heart yearns for a quite life, but They are cruel. Infinitely cruel. Forward then, forever I must go forward.

Creaks and cracks were audibly heard by animals near when the Dunmer stood to his full height. Daunting was he in stature and it is said that he had the blood of the ancient giants in his. They were wrong yet right at the same time. He was not of hybrid origins, but it is still that he is a giant among the dunmeri kind and although he barely reached the eyebrows of an altmer, nevertheless this oddity pointed him out in a crowd.

He was shoulder-leaned, arms long like a talon and an armor of fine craft was on his body and it glistened with the blood of Red Mountain; Ebony.

His void-hued breastplate spoke of various and awestriking designs and the robes he wore underneath gave him the appearance of a royal warden. Golden and silver leaves and roses intertwined each other on the rims of the plate, and at the front was a artfully done illustration of a waning Masser snaked by a rose. Below that was a helm of nine spikes reigning at the top, and the empty space where the face should have been was open in a voiceless scream and inside it was a gem of gamboge color. When night ruled the sky, one could see that it glows with pale corpse light.

The faulds were completely gold in color, in contrast to the dull color of his plate. A pauldron, shaped as a large eight pointed star, was sitted on his right shoulder and by its golden aura, light that reflected off of it gave the dunmer an illusion of broken wings needed to be mended. A purple cape that equalled royalty was draped across his left shoulder and on its sides was fur-lining. The symbol of Azura, Rose and Moon inside a Star, was knitted in the middle with the rare silk fabricated only in the Acadian Isles.

And at his side was Trueflame, glorious in countenance and terrible in its wrath. It ate the light that touched it and converted it into a mandarin aura that shrouded the jagged blade. The Star-Blessed Sword was twice forged, by the godsmiths of the dwemer and an Orc of legendary smithing prowess, and thrice slain Gods of power beyond mortal comprehension. This was the holy blade wielded by the First Godkiller and now, the Second bore it with the same eloquence and pride his predeccesor did. This was the hope of the East and none save by a few can rival its sharp edge and the fire that it blooms can scorch the very fires of Ur itself.


His name was known by a scarce few and even then they feared this individual. For he was Dram Berdanas, and inside him resided the soul of the Godkiller, Nerevar Moon-and-Star.

*0*0*0*0
Where the road went, the dunmer walked and ignored the downpour that fell from the sky, so immersed within his own world. He was in Cyrodiil, that much he knew, but his memory failed when he racked his brain for an explanation of why he was lying beside a road. All he remembered was being beset by shadows that took the form of men.

He had a few thoughts about those mysterious shadows, and assassins were among the main ones. The Morag Tong, with their new Leader, was pacified. The Sixth House was in ruins and thus in no power to send killers after him. The politicians, after several failed attempts, gave up on sending hits on him. That left him to pinpoint a splinter faction that tore itself away and migrated into the Empire.

The Brotherhood were on his heels once again, trying to fulfill the contract they have failed. He couldn't blame them, he supposed with a casual shrug. With an estimated pay of eight hundred thousand septims, even the cripple would stand up just to kill him. The Morag Tong at least had the sense to negotiate with the target and have some honor. Dram wasn't sure about the latter, though. Morrowind was a cesspool of sycophants and the like. It would be destroyed from the inside in the coming years if this continued.

His mind, now tired at the subject of assassins, drifted towards his destination.

Cloudruler Temple was called 'heavenly hell' by Caius before he left Dram in charge of the Blades in Morrowind and went back home. The dreamlike quality that his eyes took and the sheer admiration that invaded his voice immediately told Dram that it was a place worth looking for. After all, it was a place where his Brothers and Sisters resided and he was sure to be welcomed. That, and when Caius approves of something, its quality does not disappoint.

He learned that particular lesson when he, oblivious at the time, brought a packet of moon sugar for Caius to inspect and explain to him its history of being avoided by merchants. They ended up 'taking experiments' to see if it was poisoned.

Melancholy fell on his voice as he sighed. Happiness was branded on him when he was in Morrowind, and although it came at a price, he was content with the time he had there. True friends he had made there and it pained him to leave them without a proper farewell, but the task he currently took required the most less of evidence of his leaving. The rumor he made of him leaving for the Land of the Dragons, of which is Akavir, paid him well. Almost all of Vvardenfell spread the rumor and believed it. His heart slightly ached at the thought of deceiving those who regaled him as their Saviour.

But even heroes need some time for themselves, a voice said to him. Even they are human.

He gave sharp series of barking laughter at the last thought. As he guffawed in sardony, he brought his gauntleted hand to him. Beneath the ebony plating, the chainmail, he could still see the calloused hands that bore the Wraithguard. The hands that ovethrew the Sharmat and the mad Mother. The fist that denied Hircine in his face. The fingers that wore the Ring of Nerevar.

He shook his head. He was not human nor an elf; he was far more.

He continued his journey in three days and in three nights in the forests of north Cyrodiil, encountering the once majestic homeplaces of the Ayleids ere they were brought to naught by the Whitestrake in his fury. The white snaking towers which was flooded with rust-coverings and overgrown vines of various flowers must have been great indeed in their glorious times, for even in skeletal ruins they still gave off the appearance of kingly villas.

But what caught his attention was the spire of the White Gold, reigning like a princely observer in the City of Sundered Kings. No words can be put into paper how frighteningly beautiful it was. Clouds gathered and danced at the upper levels and the Magnus was battling with the Tower for the control of the Western Sky. Dram noted how lucky the Imperials are to have such a wonder in their midst. Such a sight, however, harbored dark realities. No doubt thousands of slaves were put to the stone and blade for the Ayleid's black sorceries before the Rebellion usurped them in ages past.

Sending a final apprasing look at the White Gold, he turned and resumed his journey into the Temple until he saw the snow capped watch towers and the steeple of the Church of Talos. He finally arrived at last.
--

The city was sleeping when Dram entered.

None walked in the morn light save for the city watch. The thatched roofs and wooden boards of Bruma's houses gave the distinct feeling of entering a city of hunters. They weere designed with Nordic influence and Dram briefly remembered Raven Rock. He also noted of how several houses were seemingly on top of each other. He wondered at that until he noticed that they rested on a slope and thus gave the illusion of that particular marvel.

To his right was where the lowclass lived. Garbage and other undesirables were littered on the ground and he fought the urge to curl his lip. A lonely inn of moderate size was brooding directly beside him, and it reeked of ale and foodstuffs. Wagons and cartloads rested on the side of its wall and judging by their numbers, Dram supposed that this was where caravaners usually rested.

Either the price for a bed was cheap and easily affordable or something noteworthy was in this Inn for merchants to flock up in this particular establishment. He hoped for the latter and wished that it was something to do with food. The travel he endured left his bag of dried meats empty and he ate naught but berries he could find.

He entered.

The first thing that hit him was the nostalgic memory of the shady taverns in Balmora. At the corners of the inn, half-melted candles and sconces barely lit up what Dram supposed to be the lobby and dining area. The second one his body sensed was the radiance of roasted pork and stale mead. The innkeeper, a Nord in simple clothing, and a few other patrons looked at his general appearance oddly. His armor distinguished him, it seemed. Not that Dram cares. On his mind was the images of food heading towards his mouth.

He looked for a decent spot. Fortunately, there was a bench that was infront of the innkeeper's desk but it was unstable in Dram's eyes and he knew that if he sat outright it would crumle beneath the weight of ebony. So with a few difficulties and gaping stares, he took off his breastplate and let the robes underneath flow free.

He sat down and he sighed in relief as his fatigued muscles finally relaxed in a comfortable manner. For emphasis, he stretched his arms and craned his neck. Predictably, the sound of bones popping reached everyone in the room. He beckoned for the innkeeper and ordered large quantities of fried rice and some eggs. It was divine in his mouth. He paid for the meal and rented a room.

"Why would a rich folk like you," said the Nord while eyeing Dram's armor and Trueflame with wonder, "Sleep in dusty old establishment like mine's?"

It was minutes before the Dunmer replied. And when he did, a shadow passed on his face and overwhelming sadness gleamed in his eyes before it disappeared like a star exploding.

"Memories of days long gone by."

This post has been edited by ureniashtram: Mar 5 2011, 01:58 PM

[ureniashtram]

@mALX: Why thank you, mALXie! I am proud of myself to hear you say that!

@Acadian: 'It' is inspired by listening to creepy sounds on YouTube, watching scary movies and genrally morbid stuff. I hope I descibed It well enough for readers to get a chill! If not, well.. A teenager can dream!

@Zalph: Hey, man! Thanks!

This next chapter is generally short, but like I said in earlier posts. I'm trying to get my touch back with writing.
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Prologue, Part III

The laugh of death that destroys you in its chilling beauty is not the poetry of a sword, the music of killing magic nor the Dibellian whisper of the bow but rather the memory of fear, the wretched thought that freezes you cold and forbids you to breathe. The fear of death, instead of death itself, was more terrifying, no matter how peculiar that may seem to be. Those who speak the dialect of Talos, the god of war, did not quake when death approaches them. Rather, they laugh with it and celebrate their passing into the hands of their patron. A wise man once said that death smiles at all of us. All we can do is smile back.

The heat from summer Magnus made the sands of Arena hot like the flames of the Deadlands. The thousands cheering, their senseless happiness taking over their vocal cords, shook the Arena like Hell's choir singing the glory of Dagon. The four pillars surrounding the Blood Pit was like black, wrathful fingers rising from the underworld to taint the heavens itself. Through the rusted, and bloodied, portcullis the Grand Champion of the Blue Team examined his contender. Though ending the life of a young man did not bother him, the feeling of disappointment was still there. This lad could've made something out of his life, not get tangled up in the sanguinary web that is the Arena. Once trapped, one cannot get out.

The Grand Champion, dubbed 'The Apex Hoplomachus', checked his opponent's gear with an eye that spoke of wary pragmatism. The 'modern' uniform used by most youths and new gladiators for armor, and a bronze shortsword for a weapon. The steel barbute could lessen the impact from the Champion's dory and would completely deny the stroke of his spatha, unless aimed for the dead center. The iron towershield also posed a problem. Towershield. Hmmm.The lad's equipment spoke of suspicious coincidence to a murmillo's, a hoplomachus' sworn enemy. The Champion smiled underneath his bronze helm. His opponent took some advice. From who, he did not know. But he had the finger of suspicion pointed at the Gray Prince. His friend and longtime rival.

"Ladies, and gentlemen! Today, the Apex Hoplomachus has been defiantly challenged by the Lion of Chorrol...." The Grand Champion ignored the announcer's further droning once he heard his opponent's ring name. It made him shake his head. He went to the Room of Demigods in his mind and consulted the dead Gaiden on how to deal with this kind of opponent. Of course he knows how to deal with a cursed murmillo, but it wouldn't hurt to be more careful. The First Arena Blademaster advised him to poke the lad's defenses and tire out the shieldarm, from a distance of course. And when the he's fatigued out of his wits, close in for the kill. The Champion's trusted dory should do the job well.

And then the portcullis descended. Both warriors did not charge head on, but rather took off in a brisk, controlled walk. The Lion had his shield in front of him, sword ready to strike. No sound from the crowds, their breath held in their throat in anticipation. No sound, just the crunching of sands and the heavy beathing of both fighters and watchers.

The first strike was from the Lion, a bullcharge with the toweshield leading the way. It was a mistake, or atleast the Champion thought so. Before he could jump to the side, the contender stopped mere inches and sent a stab upwards to his chin. The Champion leaned his neck back just in time and sent his bronze helm crashing with speed at the steel barbute. Dazed and staggered the Lion was, the Champion sending a buckler-jab to his opponent's neck. Blood spurting from the mouth, eyes rolling in w ild frenzy, and air sliced as the Lion counterattacked, vainly. Still no sound from the watchers. The Champion was now several feet away from the bloodied Lion, enough distance to poke his defences with his spear.

The clashing wail of bronze and iron as Gaiden Shinji's advice finally took effect. The impact held the Lion in place, his face beneath the helm a mask of hatred and pain. This continued for several minutes until the Lion thought of a trap. He purposedly endured the blows, noting the seconds that layed between each stroke. When the time was right, he raised his shield and sent it down with savage force, the steel edge meeting with wood. Trapped under the ground and the wood that held the spearhead broken, the Hoplomachus dropped his useless spear and drew his spatha.

Interesting move, that one. Now the crowd roared and such was its intensity, the Wawnet Inn trembled and several wines fell from shelves much to the dismay of its proprietor. Beneath the pressure of sonic praise from thousands, the Lion roared with ferocity that could only be compared to his namesake and charged, mouth frothing with rage and blood, aroused at the crowd's approval.

It was then that the real duel started. The Champion showed his skill with the spatha by deflecting blows, feinting to the sides and then launching blinding attacks that the Lion had trouble blocking. Each blow was speedy, each blow was savage in its strength. The Lion, meanwhile, was getting frustrated. He expected the Champion would put up a fight, but not like this. It was simply .. monstrous and beautiful at the same time.

Then, the Holplomachus began to rain blows, rain blows with savage precision. He got his momentum, a dangerous achievement. The Champion striking with both body and weapon, avoiding swipes and slashes from the Lion until he silenced his sight with a dirty move. The Lion cursing in pain as his eyes burned from the sand the Champion kicked, his yell of bewilderment and agony as his weapon-arm was suddenly lopped. The crying howl of cloth and chainmail as his torso was repeatedly stabbed with reckless abandon. Arteries of his neck severed with one, poetic slash of the spatha. The Lion, armless, lung destroyed and voice removed, collapsing backwards. His eyes never leaving the bronze helm.

Pain took away all other senses. Everything was bathed in crimson congregation. Then darkness, as the Lion's soul was embraced by the all emcopassing Void.

Athanasius Garaviniel, the Apex Hoplomachus, raised his bloodstained spatha to the air and did not challenge a roar, did not strike a taunting pose.. Just raised his spatha, silent. Silence. Silence. When we enter Oblivion, we will not hear the divine choir of angels nor the unholy screams of demons, rather we would all stand in line as we listen to mesmerizing voice of Sithis, singing the Chaos inside all of us without a sound.