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]

Grits, Colonel, Acadian: You've all pretty much identified the same theme in this last chapter. Jauffre is a total Bad@ss, with the M.F.B.A. degree (Mother-Frakking-Bad-A$$!!!!) from Awesome University.

There's a reason. I like Jauffre. He reminds me of my grandfather.

Which brings me to my extended absences. My grandfather died before the 2011 holidays and it hit my mom pretty hard. She said all the things about knowing that it was his time but really, it hurt her because my grandfather raised my mom and aunt alone from middle school through college.

While I could get past that, the subsequent death of a much younger member of my family early this year was not something to "get past." I found myself in a position of wanting to simply destroy stuff at the injustice and in an absolute zero-percentage inclination to create something.

I don't want sympathy. I don't want condolences, public or private. Such gods as they exist are officially on my Sh!t-List, and if I die in the next year then paradise, for me, is finding the supernatural entity responsible and bashing his or her face into the hardest object I can find each morning in a Prometheus-level indictment of His, Her, or Their judgement. If you have something to say about the divine, say it elsewhere.

I can and will return to this more as I am able. With things starting to settle down again, I find the keyboard a D@mn decent form of therapy.

Awtwyr's story, such as it is, will be preserved as best I can. It's not that what happened won't affect me, it's that plodding on is part of my Giant-Middle-Finger-To-The-Universe-And-Whatever-Gods-May-Be project that I've started in the immediate aftermath of this cacat-filled tragedy.

So, no more mentions. No more words of sympathy, or empathy. Curse out the divine? Be my guest. Contemplate whether the rejection of existing morality and becoming the Ubermensch, fulfilling for yourself the concept that "God is Dead" is a worthwhile life goal? I'm behind you all the way.

But that's it. It's out now, It's done. I remain exceptionally grateful to the cadre of readers that have returned time after time for me to start moving again and it was your faith in me that made me realize I need to keep going.

So I shall.

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

Previously: Jauffre revealed that he knew about Awtwyr's past during an evening talk by the riverside. To wit: Awtwyr, while working on a 'paperless mission' under the authority of Duke Dren during his legion's posting in Morrowind, participated in a raid against abolitionists at the behest of a former legionary and mentor-figure named Viguri. Awtwyr and a few other legionaries wiped out a hideout of Argonian refugee slaves, thinking that they were taking out a "Twin Lamps but with Plenty o' Violence" cell in Vvardenfell. As a result, when talking with Martin during the trip from Kvatch to Weynon Priory, Awtwyr revealed that he supports a Democratic Republic form of government to Martin, the next hereditary monarch of the Empire. Jauffre asked Awtwyr about this and his past, before finally drenching them both in water.

For A New Purpose
Part I

The next day, night, and most of the following day were spent in the grey cloud and fog that was the high road of the Jerall Mountains. Jauffre had seemingly spent more and more time in silence as we progressed, until he finally pulled his mount to a stop and turned it to face us, midway up a valley wall with the opposite bank close against the sky. “We are here, and shall enter by nightfall. My lord, I ask that you understand my next question is for your safety, and that you not object.” When Martin nodded his assent, Jauffre turned his gaze towards me. “Awtwyr, what you see next is a secret known to few and carefully guarded. Your actions have earned you a great deal of trust, and your discretion is something that may be relied upon. But I would first test your honor. Are you willing to proceed under the oath of secrecy, that you bind yourself before we take another step, to see that Martin Septim is crowned Emperor of Tamriel?”

“Aye. Not much choice when survival is on the line.”

Surprise barely registered on Jauffre’s face, merely a slight tilt as if considering my words. “Then would you bind yourself knowing that a single misplaced word from you, and I would kill you myself in the most demonstrative manner available?”

“Jauffre, enough. He has been on my side since you sent him to rescue me.” Agitation played out across Martin’s face. “If you can’t trust him now then you might as well…”

“Yes!” I said loudly. “If it means the lives of my family and every other family of parents and children on Nirn, then yes.” I looked to Martin, and nodded. “Don’t think I’ll just sell my life cheaply, but I can understand that, yes, you may find it necessary to try to have me killed if it threatens your purpose. Though it may require that you personally come for me, since I doubt you’ll detach your strongest from protecting Martin until this is finished.”

Jauffre nodded, and then sat straighter in his saddle. “Good, that will suffice for now. Watch closely.” He raised his left arm, magical energy swirling into a Light spell that was cast at the opposite side of the valley, in a cleft of rock hard to see and seemingly hidden from the valley mouth. It wasn’t one ball of light that went out, but three, two in quick succession before a pause, and then the third. “Now, look above us, and tell me what you see.”

The trick, I knew, was to let my gaze absorb without focus. Otherwise, concentration on the wrong area would produce phantom images while my mind ignored what was really there. And then I saw it. Blazing against the rim of the valley wall, three lights came into existence, almost as stars from the position we were in, but in a distinct sequence: left, right, center. Closer to the valley floor and we probably wouldn’t see it. This high up, they barely differed from the stars. One would need to be higher to see it properly, but with the steep walls and icy build-up you’d be lucky to see it without breaking your neck.

“The lights,” said Martin.

“At the valley’s top,” came my follow-up.

“They know we are here and wait for us,” said Jauffre. “Memorize this place. What we do next must be done with care.” Jauffre turned his horse up towards a stand of shrubs and pine trees that had found a foothold in one of the few flat plots not trampled by travelers. His horse picked its way up next to it, went to the side, and then slowly behind the stand as we followed. Instead of coming around the other side, we found the beginnings of a goat track, which led deeper into the valley, climbing up and then bending around at the shoe-end of the valley and proceeding along the opposite bank. Before us now was a more defined path that was concealed from below by the rock formation. I stopped with Martin and observed the switchback ahead that seemed to run back around the valley’s shoe above us, leading to the source of the lights that was now clearly visible.

There, illuminated with fires, it sat upon the western shoulder of the valley like an anvil sunk into a boulder. It was grey, seemingly of dense granite stone with a distinct prow shape that contoured to the land and an overhanging roof with eaves of strange design. It exuded at once both a sense of stolid immobility and proud arrogance as though it had chosen its position as the only place suitable for its purposes, daring any and all to find a reason why it shouldn’t be where it sat.

“Cloud Ruler Temple,” said Jauffre, sending another signal towards that rock cleft that, I realized, was all but invisible to others but easy to observe from the structure. What must have been a man or mer on the walls responded with a signal in kind, and Jauffre motioned us forward once more. “They are expecting us.”

We proceeded, silent. Jauffre sat his horse exuding confidence and relief, a faint smile on him visible now and then as the light allowed. Martin didn't say anything, nor did I. Reality has a way of doing that to you, informing you of some important truth while waiting patiently for your mind to work its way up to the basic understanding of what was said. No, sorry, this isn’t some hypothetical. It’s not a thought-experiment of philosophers. It’s real, it’s here, get used to it, because there’s more and I really need you to at least demonstrate a grasp of the basics since there’s more coming.

After crossing beneath it and taking one final switchback, a part of the design that simply screamed with redundancy but made it painfully obvious that you would be seen approaching this place long before you saw it, the horses plodding through the packed snow, two torches emerged from the gloom to frame large, ornate, and distinctly massive doors. They were slightly open, an armored figure standing in front with his sword held in his left hand, point down with the right hand cupping the hilt. He stepped forward, allowing the light to dance off the plates and scales that bore the enamel-work indicative of a member of the Blades.

We dismounted and approached, slightly out of file, Jauffre, then Martin, and finally me. The Blade looked at the three of us, his mouth dropping open for moment before his resolve returned and he found his voice. “Grandmaster Jauffre, is this, I mean to say, have you brought…?”

“Yes, Cyrus,” said the grandmaster, gesturing to Martin. “This is the Emperor's son, Martin Septim.”

“My Lord!” said Cyrus, bowing deep. “Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple! We have not had the honor of an Emperor's visit in many years!”

“Ah, well, thank you,” said Martin. He hesitated before adding, “The honor is mine.”

“Come, Sire,” said Jauffre. “Your Blades are waiting to greet you.”

Jauffre led us inside, and Cyrus even graced me with a nod of the head as I passed him. What is going on here? A pair of grooms took our horses, one for Martin, the other for Jauffre and myself, leading them to stables set near enough to the gates, which closed without any creak but with a distinct CLACK! as they were brought together. Jauffre led Martin up sets of stone stairs towards the great roofed building, constructed in a style I had never seen before. Now it was my turn to hesitate, but Cyrus put a hand to my back and gestured with his sword-handle that I should follow. When I had climbed the stairs I could see that walls of the fortress, for it was surely a strong and well-built redoubt, made a distinct open parade square in front of the entrance to the building. Filling it were at least fifty or so Blades, parted in two groups to allow Jauffre and Martin to pass. As they did, the assembled Blades beat their right fists to chest, the loud thumps of the armor progressing to one beat. Cyrus pushed me through as well, stopping at the front of the gathered members of this brotherhood but pointing for me to go on. “Next to the fire bowl,” he said, “And facing the Dragonblood.”

I went forward as indicated, Cyrus joining in the first rank of the Blades as they filled in the aisle to stand in formation, their continued chest-beating ending in one final beat. Jauffre stood before them with his left hand lowering itself, Martin next to him and myself off to the side. “Blades!,” He said, his voice carrying with clarity. “Dark times are upon us. The Emperor and his sons were slain on our watch. The Empire is in chaos. But there is yet hope.” Jauffre stepped aside and turned, allowing Martin to take a half-step forward. “Here is Martin Septim, true son of Uriel Septim!”

As one, the Blades drew their eponymous weapons, raising them in salute along with their voices. “Hail, Dragonborn! Hail, Martin Septim! Hail, hail, Emperor of Tamriel!” Then, as one, they sheathed their weapons, brought their left hands into fists to their chests, right hands overlayed, and bowed deeply for all of nine seconds before straightening.

"Sire," said Jauffre, "The Blades are at your command."

“Jauffre. All of you.” Martin seemed at a loss for words, then resumed. “I know you all expect me to be Emperor. I'll do my best. But this is all new to me. I'm not used to giving speeches. But I wanted you to know that I appreciate your welcome here. I hope I prove myself worthy of your loyalty in the coming days. That's it. Thank you.”

“Well, then. Thank you, Martin.” Jauffre addressed one of the Blades in the front rank, the one next to Cyrus, that had been standing in the center position during the homage. “We'd all best get back to our duties, eh, Captain?”

“Aye, sir.” He took two paces forward, bowed slightly this time, then turned to face the Blades. “Blades. Assembly of Honor, Dismissed. Attend to your duties.” And with those simple words, the assembled members of the Empire’s elite dispersed to usual obligations.

With little else to do, and still kicking myself for what felt like continued intrusion, I approached Martin and Jauffre. Well, Martin, really. Jauffre saw me, nodded, then simply walked over to the Blades captain in what looked to be a private conversation. Martin smiled with a rueful regret as I approached. “Not much of a speech, was it? Didn't seem to bother them, though. The Blades saluting me and hailing me as Martin Septim.” He sighed, his eyes seeking the stars that had now come out in their splendor, Masser and Secunda moving in their strange patterns. “I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I know I would be dead by now if it weren't for you. Thank you. But everyone expects me to suddenly know what to do. How to behave. They want an Emperor to tell them what to do. And I haven't the faintest idea...”

“Well,” I said, “We’ll probably have to start with getting the Amulet back.”

“Of course. The Amulet of Kings. So we...” he stopped, as if catching himself. “So I...can take it to the Temple of the One and light the Dragonfires. And stop the Oblivion invasion.”

“And become Emperor. With all that we talked about. “

“The Emperor... that's still an idea that will take some getting used to.”

“I’m sorry, Sire.” Martin looked up at me, sharply. It was the first time I had used that form of address since the conversation where I had agreed to avoid using it. But my end had been fulfilled, and now Martin seemed to accept that he was going to become the Emperor. “I’m sorry for any doubts I may have caused. These men and women believe in you. I didn’t want to cause you additional stress. But if you wish me to depart, say it and I will go.”

“No, you spoke only Truth and outlined why it seemed acceptable to you. Emperor I may be, but the Empire still defends freedom of one’s speech. I don’t want you to go. In any case, we need the Amulet first. Maybe Jauffre will know where to start. Until then, I’m going to get myself some food, and then rest.” Martin clasped me on the shoulder as he headed indoors.

I watched him go, then turned to find both Jauffre and the Blades Captain before me. They moved surprisingly well for an old man and an armored warrior. “Awtwyr, this is Captain Steffan. He is my Second here, and commands in my stead whenever I am away.”

“An honor, Captain,” I said, trying to work up a smile. Trying, and failing.

“The honor is mine. Jauffre tells me you went into an Oblivion gate, closed it, rescued Martin from the ruins of Kvatch, and then saved the Grandmaster’s life at Weynon Priory. I hope you find our hospitality a welcome respite.”

“That would be nice. I have not slept in a bed or had a proper bath in a month.”

“The Main Hall contains our primary dining area. Due to the nature of the watches, we serve meals at almost all hours of the day. The East Wing contains an alchemy lab, leatherworking and tailoring workbenches, a small library, a set-aside dining table for quick meals, a sparring area, and other necessary resources for daily duties,” said Captain Steffan, gesturing as he did so. “The West Wing contains sleeping quarters. Ours are downstairs, Emperor Martin’s and the Grandmaster’s just above us. They are separated by sex, you enter the female quarters at your own peril. There is a lower entrance in each section to the basements. Under the Grand Hall is our cisterns and store rooms. Under the East Wing is our forge and a spell practice room. Beneath the West Wing you will find the commodes, sinks and bathing facilities for your ablutions. Again, there are separated areas, but there is one large bath that has set-aside hours for each sex in mornings and evenings. Otherwise, it is a communal facility, and we expect and give each other a decorum of respect during those times.”

“Am I being put upon for the leering Legionary stereotype?” I asked the two.

“No,” said Jauffre. “We are simply warning you about what to expect. If you find a Knight Sister in there when you go to bathe, remember she is a Knight of the Blades first and foremost. As our guest, she is expected to offer you the same.”

“Understood,” I said. “And now I think I will have that bath. Grandmaster, Captain,” I said, turning and heading towards the west entrance.

“Oh, and Awtwyr,” called Jauffre.

“Yes?” I turned and replied, waiting for what he wanted.

“No razor to your face or head. Retain your hair till tomorrow, please. I assure you it is important.”

“Stendarr help me,” I swore under my own breath. “Aye, sir. One more day of hirsute savagery.”

This post has been edited by Captain Hammer: Aug 12 2013, 06:21 AM