A Conclave of Princes Options

[Colonel Mustard]

A Conclave of Princes

Part 1-The Call

Azura

Tick

Of all of the many secret places of Moonshadow, the meeting chamber that Azura stood in was the best hidden and least-known, so obscure and unknown it was not even myth.

Tock

Hidden from all prying eyes by spell and ward and ancient ritual, the room was built like an amphitheatre, a great tiered circle of white stone surrounding a single raised dais. Behind the dais was the clock, a ring of brass, silver and pearl, gleaming in the silvery light that illuminated the room. An engraved pendulum swung left and right with the passing of every second, delicate hands clicking as they moved, the cunning of its long-dead artificer and the spells he had laid upon it ensuring that it would keep time with perfect precision until Akatosh himself finally passed.

Tick

The chamber was empty but for one person, a woman clad in shining silver-white hooded robes, the garment woven from moonlight by blind seamstresses. Her face was three faces in one; that of a youthful maiden, of a kindly, smiling mother and of a wrinkled, wizened crone, all three of those at once and yet at the same time none. Her name was Azura, the Lady of Dawn and Dusk, and right now she was waiting and listening to the clock.

Tock

The timepiece itself had been a gift to her, made for her long ago by a Dwemer admirer, a clockmaker and timekeeper with skill beyond repair. She had honoured the generous donation by hanging it within this hall and, when he died, by taking his soul to her realm of Moonshadow that he might continue his craft forever more.

Ti-

The pendulum froze mid-swing, caught in the precise halfway point between one second and another. Azura took a moment to glance at it, and nodded. Her sacred time had come, the precise moment when day turned to a night of a crescent moon, a span of time so short that it could stretch to eternity. With a nod, the doors lined around the hall groaned open, and now that they had been invited to Moonshadow and into Azura’s secret eternity, the cats entered.

Untold numbers of them came, an uncountable army of the animals prowling through the doors. Fat, pampered lazy housecats trotted alongside scarred and battered strays who had lived every day of their lives on the vicious gauntlet of the streets, old cats wheezed their way in whilst kittens rolled and played around their paws. Short-haired breeds from Hammerfell came alongside the thick-haired cats of Skyrim and shared space with the elegant stock bred by the Altmer of the Summerset Isles, while the large desert wildcats of Elsweyr loomed over the animals around them. All of them had come by the secret routes known only to cats and the mistress they served, arriving in the time that was there only for them

Somehow, despite the millions of animals that entered the room, there was no struggle for space. The amphitheatre seemed to grow with its audience, expanding with its crowd as the cats went to their seats and waited. One or two greeted each other by tentative sniffing, and a few old friends that could meet only on this day; on one of the rings, a Hammerfell tom met the Valenwood tabby that he had bumped into in the last meeting, and was introduced to the litter of kitten he had fathered for the first time. There was no yowling, hissing or snarling between them, and even little in the way of normal, conversational mewling, the gathered assembly silent out of respect for their lady and mistress.

One by one, the cats began to form a line, and Azura took a knee as the first one approached. He was an Summerset breed, tall, lithe and proud, his white fur groomed with meticulous care, the tufts of hair on his ears twitching as he sauntered forward, as if speaking to a goddess were something he did every day. Azura bowed her head as he stopped next to her, and as she bowed it, the feline told of her of all the secret things he had seen. Once she had listened to his account, she nodded, and the cat trotted away, back home, and the next one took his place. She had the nervous enthusiasm of a newcomer, and her report was stammered out. As with the first, the Mother of the Rose listened to all she had to say, and when she was done, she dismissed it, briefly stroking her spy behind her ears before she went.

So it went on. Each cat gave their report, and each one was given equal time by Azura, and the lowliest of street cats was listened to with the same care and attention given to the sacred cats of the island nation of Laalket, bedecked as they were in their finery and jewels. Everything the Daedric Prince heard, she remembered and digested, and was added to her great libraries of knowledge, the books and shelves filling up as she listened.

Yet one cat, a feline who said she lived in a temple of the Nine as a mouser, told her something that gave her pause. After a moment, Azura instructed her to stay until her council with the other cats was finished, but all of the other information she heard was received with an uneasy frown. Even though the place she inhabited was timeless, the Lady of Dusk began to feel it drag, and she was glad when the final stragglers gave their news.

As the final cat made her way out, herding her kittens with her, Azura returned her attention to the feline that had given the news to her earlier. She asked the mouser to expand on what it was she had said, to give as much detail as she could remember. Azura quizzed her on where she had heard it, how the overheard conversation had gone, asked her to repeat it word for word to the best of her memory.

Finally, once she was satisfied that she had heard everything from it that she possibly could. She permitted it to leave. She watched it scurry out of one of the doors, back to the warmth of its basket by the hearth. For a few moments, Azura lingered in the chamber, debating her options. There only really one to take, she knew, but though it was necessary it did not make it one she wished to do so.

A gesture of a hand and a doorway appeared before her, gnarled oak in a white frame. She turned the knob, stepped through it, and disappeared. There was work to do on this night.

-ck

Behind her, the pendulum of the clock swung into motion once more.




So what's this? A 3-part story, each part divided into 18 chapters, each chapter following a Daedric Prince and one other mystery entity. Each part is a short one, between 900 and 1500 words (so I can hopefully update at a reasonable pace) and if you think of it as something like a shorter version of the Canterbury tales set in the planes of Oblivion you've got something akin to the right idea.

Do enjoy, do leave any comments or critique that you think are useful and do have a lovely day, my dear readers.

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Mar 10 2013, 10:28 PM

[Colonel Mustard]

Lizzy H: Thanks very much! I had a bit of trouble trying to work out how to describe two beings like the Princes actually fighting each other, but I'm glad it worked.

McBadgere: Out of the frying pan and into the fire, right?

Thanks very much, and I was especially pleased with the way Sanguine turned out, with the sort of charismatic charmer with an undercurrent of nastiness to him/her.

Grits: Aw, now I've got a warm and fuzzy feeling. Thanks.



Molag Bal

Azura pulled herself to her feet as Molag Bal approached her, the Prince of Rape grinning as he went. His musculature rippled with each movement, an obscene parody of an idealised male physique, and the claws at the tips of his fingers gleamed in the dead sunlight of Coldharbour.

Azura took a step back, concentrating on drawing back the savaged chunks of her being that had been scattered across Oblivion. The gashes and scratches across her face began to stop leaking misty silver blood and some elements of her power were beginning to return. Right now, though, the only thing she had going for her was the hope that Molag Bal might not immediately attack her.

“I’m here on business,” she managed, trying not to pant. “Something important.”

She would just tell him, and then get out of here. Slip through Oblivion, avoid Mephala and return to Moonshadow to gather her strength and lick her wounds. Convey the information and then leave.

“Business?” Molag Bal asked. “What business is that, Azura.”

“I’m calling a meet,” Azura said. “A conclave.”

“Ah, like I once did,” Molag Bal nodded. “To meet Sotha-Sil and the rest of the Tribunal. What cause is it that makes such a thing necessary; another pantheon has arisen in secret, perhaps?”

“Something similar,” Azura said. “I’ll explain everything at the meeting.”

“And where will that be?” Molag Bal asked, sliding closer. “Neutral ground, perhaps?”

“Moonshadow,” Azura said. “I hope to see you there. I’ll send out a signal, and you can all attend. I’m afraid I still must visit some others, so I can’t linger here.”

“Leaving so soon, then?” Molag Bal asked. “How very disappointing.”

“As I said, there are other Princes that need-”

A clawed, scaled hand closed over her neck, and Azura found herself drawn up close to the bestial snout of Molag Bal.

“I don’t think you get to go just yet,” he purred. This close, Azura could smell the scent of blood and the terror of others on his breath. “Oh no, you don’t.”

“Unhand me,” Azura ordered, her voice steely and steady. “At once.”

“You know you’re in no position to make demands,” Molag Bal said. “And now you’re in my realm, you’re mine to do with as I please.”

“I said, let go of me,” Azura said.

“You think I care for that?” Molag Bal asked. “What else did you expect to happen if you came here? All things in Coldharbour belong to me, whether they wish it to be or not. You are no exception. It makes me wonder why you came here, after all.”

“Calculated risk,” Azura said. “You’re an enemy of Mephala, so I knew that if I lured her here she’d have to flee.”

“And you miscalculated,” Molag Bal said. “And now you’re at my mercy.”

“Just let me go, Bal,” Azura replied.

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“I said let me go!”

The exclamation was accompanied by a blast of white darkness, the power in the arcane impact breaking Molag Bal’s grip and sending him hurtling backwards. He tumbled on impact, cursing as he hit the ground.

Azura’s legs folded from under her, the last of her power gone, and as Molag Bal pulled himself to his feet, he snarled at her.

“What was that supposed to accomplish?” he asked. “Do you think that that would stop me.”

“No,” Azura said. “But it could slow you.”

She folded into nothing, dropping out of Coldharbour and into Oblivion, already fleeing. Her form was flickering and indistinct now, barely kept together, and as she ducked and weaved through the currents of the unreality, she called out; “Mephala! Here I am, Mephala! Come get me!”

Molag Bal boiled into the void behind her, chasing as a screaming orb of fury, red light boiling and glowing from his form. Ahead of her, Mephala formed into existence, and the determination to finish Azura that was apparent in her eight eyes morphed into shock as she saw Molag Bal’s approaching form.

“She’s mine!” the Lady of Murder cried as the Prince of Rape surged towards them both.

“Take her from me, then!” Bal challenged.

Mephala threw herself forwards, and Oblivion screamed around them as the two Princes clashed. Azura fled onwards without a backwards glance, Molag Bal and his mortal enemy heedless of her flight as their hatred for one another boiled up into a nucleus of uncontrolled violence and fury.

Azura grabbed what scattered shards of herself that she could as she fled for Moonshadow, making a beeline for the relative safety of her realm before Molag Bal and Mephala ceased trying to maul each other; with luck, they would weaken each other to such an extent that they would not try to pursue her.

She found Moonshadow, the barrier of silver thorns that surrounded its borders parting for her in recognition. Her entrance to the realm was not dignified, crashing down from the starlit sky, and tumbled to the ground in the courtyard of the Palace of Roses, white marble cracking and splitting from the impact. She lay there for a moment, bleeding mercurial blood from dozens of wounds, breathing heavily.

“Milady?” a voice asked, concern evident on its tones. “Milady, are you harmed?”

Azura’s eyes fluttered open, to find one of her Winged Twilights standing over her, the daedra’s face a mask of worry for her mistress.

“I will confess, I have been better,” she managed as her servant offered a taloned hand to help her up. She stood, weakened, and looked around the palace; its masonry had been cracked and battered as if by a storm or earthquake, and columns of black smoke formed incorporeal umbilical cords between ground and sky.

“What happened out there, milady?” the Twilight asked. Azura merely shook her head.

“Later,” she said. “Help me to my chambers, please; I must rest, and gather my strength.”

“At once,” her servant nodded, offering a winged arm for Azura to take. Aided by the Twilight, Azura limped into her palace.