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]

Well, I'm back. I've left appropriate updates in a bunch of threads, and some messages to others. Can't say much more, it is what it is.

@ Malx: My thanks, and my hopes that you find this installment free of such demonic-liquid influence. Your encouragements are a cheer to the heart.

@ Jockey in Fancy Pants: Glad to hear you still plan on keeping up with your Oblivion stuff (even better than I have), and hoping you find the fortitude to wait. Being in the process of re-gifting my 360 edition of Skyrim to my brother for Christmas so I can wait for a reduced-glitch PC version, I am now doing the same. The next game of giant-ball can wait another 18 months, for all I care.

@ Thomas the Kook: Not mentioning any more Skyrim, so that brings us to...Awtwyr's horsemanship. Aye, he knows little of the fine equestrian arts, and will find other means of transport in Cyrodiil more to his liking. Shame he can't get himself a dragon at his beck and call, though...

@ Grits: As we can see, November has come and gone, and it is only now that I go back to the computer. Maybe I'll finish by the time Elder Scrolls VI comes out, yeah? Well, I hope that this teaches you some more of our Shornhelm native, though he's not a technical Spellsword. More like a soldier that's picked up enough skills to perform as a Spellsword in fact, if not in name. But hey, all things must adapt and change, or must die. Who know?

@ Adadian: And how, I wonder, would Buffy deal with Martin? Guess it's a good think Savlian's fallen for her, and she for him, lest I find myself without an emperor to talk to simply because Martin's been enchanted by a Boderi-trained Bravilian Bowgirl. Mostly, though, I think that having Sean Bean as Martin is a lot like being able to talk to Ned Stark and come away with some great lordly advice. But man does Mr. Bean never get the luck. Which brings us to...

@ Destri "Still faster than GRRM" Melarg: Serve returned, and you've had time to take the center for superior court position.

@ All: Awtwyr and Martin have told each other that they are responsible for the deaths of others. Now we have a chance to explore the question of morality, forgiveness, guilt, responsibility, the divines, and philosophy.


*****************************************************

Martin had made the fire somewhat larger than our usual small affair. We had been lucky, finding a site near a pine tree where several large rocks blocked the light from most directions. Careful rigging of the heavy cloth used for sleeping finished our preparations, with the prior’s paint horse given a wide tether to feed, and with some luck, alert us to approaching threats.

“Do not worry,” remarked Martin. “I am well versed with the use of detect life. I should be able to sense life-signs even if the fire upsets my night-vision.”

“A useful spell. I never had the chance to learn it.”

“Are you unskilled with Mysticism?” asked Martin.

“No. I have used soul trap frequently enough to recharge enchanted weapons when issued for a particular task, and countless times I have cast Dispel. I simply did not have the gold to buy the spell, and became practiced at going without the technique.”

“When we are done,” said Martin, “We can see about correcting that oversight. Now, though, we ought to begin.”

Martin sent a small stream of energy into the fire, causing the flames to grow larger and hotter. Weakness to fire. It strengthens the effect of flame. The emperor and I sat like that for a moment, facing each other with the fire between us, the flames growing to consume our vision. Soon the twisting yellow light was all that I was focused on. I began to sweat, beads of perspiration forming on my face, my arms, and across my bared chest.

“When you are ready, we will begin,” said Martin, his voice distant.

I closed my eyes, and opened them again. I saw the parchment with my name and the signature that had started it all. Viguri. Even now, the name stirred feelings of betrayal, disgust, wrath, and shame. I nodded.

“In the Void, there is Light.” Martin intoned the words carefully, dropping his voice to pronounce each syllable. “We feed our distractions to the fire, burning the waste that Light may illuminate our minds. We seek the Void, emptying ourselves of distraction lest the Light cast a shadow, allowing the full Truth we seek to hide.

“Awtwyr, Son of the Clan of Draghoyn, you come now to the Light in the Void. To the Void, we will dispose of the useless weight upon thy soul. To the Light, we shall burn that which is not yours to have. From the Void, we shall find Serenity, pure and real. From the Light, we shall seek Enlightenment, the True Freedom of the Mind.

“Your vision in the Fire is clouded. What do you see?” asked Martin, prompting me to begin.

“It is the letter from Viguri. It is the piece of parchment that opened the path down which I took myself, blind to my conscious and to the warning given to me by my father. The letter asks that I help stop an abolitionist cell associated with the radical side of the Twin Lamps. It’s not an official request, but it might as well be one. Viguri was my training officer and direct superior for a time. He mustered out of the regular service to go work for a group with connections to Duke Vedam Dren. When he was a legionary, he handled situations that could not be seen to have any official hand. I accepted the idea that this was a similar situation, and that Viguri was asking for my help.

“The assignment was supposed to be simplicity itself. An agent working for Viguri would be accompanied by myself and a squadron of the duke’s chosen men. We would head inland to the island to a cave that could be used for smuggling. That was the target. Inside, we were supposed to encounter Argonian radicals, and to kill or capture them. The agent was specific about that. Capture would only be used if an immediate and total surrender was offered by the enemy. We would claim to be a patrol sent with a knowledgeable guide to clear out smugglers and bandits, and that would be that. A friend of mine trusted in such matters brought us a few confiscated weapons from the surplus used for such things. No trail, no worry over deep inquiry, just another job.

“Slavery was such an issue at the time that there were brawls occurring every few weeks. Opinion about government action was extreme, but extreme to both ends and showing little chance of finding a common consensus. Memories of the slave uprising that started the Arnesian War were still recent for the Dark Elves. The Empire’s representative was Duke Vedam Dren. The man was previously Grandmaster of House Hlaalu, brother to a slavery-defending crime lord, and father to the public face of the abolitionist movement. To be seen favoring one side would provoke the other. But by walking his middle path, Dren allowed resentment to build amongst all. For that, though, there was still some semblance of peace, and the threat of Dagoth Ur and the Blight pre-occupied most. The Nerevarine’s triumph brought the slavery question back to the political fore.”

Martin made a gesture with his hands, causing me to look from the fire to him. “I can hear it in your voice, in what you say, and in what you do not say. You blame the system as well, yet you do not hold yourself guiltless. I give, or rather I used to give, counsel to congregants on a regular basis. You don’t approach this the way people usually do. Why?”

“After, I buried myself in philosophy. I felt that the faith of my youth was misplaced. Turning back to religion seemed both hypocritical and wasteful.” I spoke with a careful nonchalance. I had had this debate with priests before. But I had not done so with an emperor. “In doing what I thought was the Nine’s Will, I found myself down a path that ended with the violation of my own morals. Either the gods were not what the priests had said, or the priests of my youth had not perfectly followed the teachings they fed to us. That, or I was simply too cursed to be able to count on their intercession.”

Martin nodded, then spoke slowly. “Tell me, is morality determined by the gods? That is to say, do you believe an act is good or evil because of what a member of the Nine advocates as a moral act?”

“Or do I believe that morality is absolute, that a divine entity does not determine morality but rather is the thing most determined by morality? I’ve been asked this question before. And to answer: Both. Nirn would not be what it is without the Earthbones formed from the sacrifice that occurred in the beginning of the Dawn Era. Yet change comes as a result of the Padomaic forces, and upon us in particular through our connection to Lorkhan and the influence of the Daedra. Witness both the situation in which we find ourselves, you as the last living Septim, and the circumstances that surrounded the death of your great ancestor, for now we worship Talos as a god.”

Martin grunted, but soon started chuckling. “You have been down this road for a decently long time. Clearly, I’m not the first man you’ve told about all this.”

“One of the weapons-masters during my second tour, in Hammerfell. Parts of the local religious customs include a greater prevalence of warrior-monks, where combat training and philosophical discussions are more entwined with each other than romantic ballads and climbing into a paramour’s bedroom window.”

“And this weapons-master?” asked Martin.

“He helped me realize that as much as the Legion and Duke Dren had put me into the position that led me to the actions on that day, I was one of the supporters that blindly bought into the system and kept it working. I threw myself into it, and for that, I may have damned myself.”

“As you have said before. You cut down innocents defenseless against your attacks. You and your men raided an outpost helping escaped slaves, doing so under the cover of rooting out a radical abolitionist group so as to avoid the civil strife and internal violence seen during the Simulacram. Do I have the gist of it?”

“Yes,” I said. “And no. I didn’t realize what I had done, until after I had already done so. It’s always just a little harder to understand an enemy not of your race, and with Argonians, the lines between skinny scrapper and underfed slave are closer than what you see in a Nord or Orc. They resisted, aye, but they resisted because they wanted to live, or to save their brethren, and our purpose for being there was not important to them. We were there, and if they surrendered they would have either been killed or returned to their previous owners. But to us, they were what we thought them to be: bandits and raiders dedicated to a fight that could destroy a province. It wasn’t until after, when we examined their camp that we realized we had been misled.”

“Duke Dren lied,” said Martin. “I am sorry. Does he still govern?”

“Aye, he governs,” I replied, “But I do not know if he lied. I do know Viguri lied. He had been part of a group dedicated to hunting down and exterminating Argonians in Vvardenfell, and may have disguised his motives when dealing with the duke’s office. Then again, Dren might have known all along. His own brother was plotting the duke’s death, but Vedam showed less surprise than disappointment about the plot.”

“And Viguri?”

“Dead. The man he sent to help us turned and killed Viguri, and Viguri’s organization. He deserved no better.” I stared into the fire, feeling no loss or rage about my old optio’s death. That much, at least, I was at peace about.

“Awtwyr,” said Martin, causing me to look up at him. “I’ve listened to men that have served for as long as I’ve been a priest. Some have done worse. All have professed varying degrees of guilt and shame. You have clearly been thinking this through for some time, and as you’ve already pointed out, have had significant guidance to bring you to where you are. I know what you would have done differently. But you were in battle, and from my own brief experiences of the terror that can cause, I cannot fault you for allowing your basic survival instincts to take control of you. So, instead, answer me this: what will you do to prevent it from ever happening again?”

“Treason,” I responded, slowly. “I would, by all accounts of the law, be willing to engage in an act of treason. And based on this past month, I would engage in an act of blasphemy and self-destruction that would doom us all. And I refuse to do that. So instead, I must do the best I can, hope it is enough, and trust that when I allow myself to be used as the sword standing between you and Dagon, I do not commit the same crime twice.”

“And what would be treason?” asked Martin. “You clearly intend to see me safely to Jauffre, despite my initial protestations. As you said when we first met, you could kill me, and nobody would know. Has this attack been so jarring?”

“Not quite. I don’t believe in arbitrarily killing anybody, especially for who their parents are. It comes down to a simple idea, but one profound in the ramifications. A single word I found in a book. Republic.”

“The concept of absolute non-hereditary rule? I can understand that. And I understand why contemporary evidence would argue for the contrary. But you feel guilty about wanting to try an answer to a problem that, by any reasonable approximation, must be addressed. Should we succeed, I think you and I should address this on another day. But as for the matter of your conscious, consider this piece of advice I found on my own path to redemption. You were once wrong in the past, and now have considered much to avoid repeating the same mistake. In doing so, you consider a concept so foreign that most would castigate you for even giving it some time. They may be wrong. You may be right. And unless you accept that, your conscious will always be susceptible to tearing itself apart.” Martin brought the fire down, and looked up at the stars. “It is late. I think I should sleep. The spellwork has been a little taxing on my body.”

I nodded. “Aye, that’s a good idea. Good night, Martin, and thank you. I believe I have some pondering to do.”

***************************************************

Personal Note:

For those interested in being the agent Viguri sends (and getting a chance to meet Awtwyr in Morrowind, whilst simultaneously proving the supremacy of the shoe-wearers in that game), I direct you to the long-time work of my friends, who are responsible for creating the story that allows this to occur. The mod is called "Balanced Scales," is available at the Planet ElderScrolls site.

It can be found here.

This post has been edited by Captain Hammer: Dec 19 2011, 05:34 AM