Blackmoth Options

[Kell-Reevor]

Greetings everyone, I just joined this forum.
I have a story I have been planning for a long time (since I beat Morrowind). I hope you like if and by all means add it to the library mod if you feel it is worthy, thanks.

BTW, this was orignally a story I was working on for Adriens Chalice (sp?) It has undergone heavy changes since then.

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Soon after the Imperials conquered Morrowind, they built many forts to aid in keeping peace. Of these forts was a secretly kept ebony warehouse known as Blackmoth. This location was only too perfect for a short lived project involving the old Dwemer ruins it was built over. This project involved reverse engineering Dwemer technology and combining it with the endless power of magicka.

Three officers of the Imperial Legion were in charge, all of them were masters of a school of magicka. The first was a Cyrodiil, mastering the school of Alteration. The second was a Nord, secretly a master of Necromancy. The third was an Altmer, mastering Destruction.

Not much is known about the fate of Blackmoth. Upon realizing their report was over a week late, legionnaires were sent to investigate. Their fate is as well unknown, as they never returned. Time passed, and Blackmoth faded from the minds of the Legion.



Kell-Reevor lifted his seemingly heavy head to gaze upon the stone walls of Balmora. His trip from Seyda Neen was slow and tedious, as it had rained non stop. Even now, rain continued to pelt him. He opened his belt pouch… empty.

“It seems as if I’m destined to fail,” he moaned. Night had fallen, and he was without money and food, he could neither continue forward nor turn back. Dragging his first foot forward, then the other, he slowly drudged his way into town. The buildings here were of the same yellowish stone design as the wall that surrounded Balmora. A deep canal split the small town into halves. Rain water was pouring in, making the water rush into the nearby river. Across the canal was his destination, The Corner Club.

Approaching the canal, he could faintly hear a commotion over the rain smacking the stone ground and rooftops. It was coming from a building just to his left. Curious, he turned to the door and approached it. The rain pouring from the roof over the doorway only soaked him faster, but he paid no attention to it. Within the small structure he could hear a woman’s sobbing, as well as deep voices and laughter.

It was the shriek that did it. He swung the door open and beheld a terrible sight. The room was dark, humid, and stunk of alcohol. In the corner to the far right was a human woman, sobbing and doubled over. Strewn about the room were three Dunmer, their red eyes glazed from booze. This had to be the Council Club he had been warned about.

Kell was indeed an intimidating sight. Standing tall and bearing a black breastplate with a golden tree imprinted on the front. His sleeves and pants were black with gold trim, and from the base of his breastplate were long, wide strips of fabric, somewhat resembling a long skirt, of the same color. Over his shoulders was a black cape, fastened by a golden brooch. At his waist was a long, straight blade of red and black material. It was very clear he was from a wealthy family.

The dunmer men were clearly offended that a race they considered nothing more than slave labor would be dressed in such an exquisite garb.

“Mind yer own business ya filthy lizard,” one of the men slurred.

The average argonian would simply ignore such a remark, as they were well known as a patient people. Kell, however, had suffered a long and hard trip from his home in Cyrodiil. That paired with every stupid dirt farmer he crossed telling him to ‘spit it out or hit the road’ was too much for him. His tail became still, and he reached for the sword tucked under his belt.

He hesitated; he wouldn’t dare dishonor the good people who raised him by striking down a foe that was too drunk to know what he was doing. He could almost feel sympathetic for their situation. He would hate to see his homeland overrun with outsiders telling him how to live.

The woman looked up at him, teary eyed and dressed in simple brown robes. Her sandy brown hair was disheveled and matted. Her pleading look begged him to help her.

Without a moment’s notice, the nearest man lunged for the argonian. By reflex, he stepped to the side. As the dunmer stumbled by, Kell aided him forward by elbowing him in the back of his neck. With a thud, the drunk struck the wall. The second and third made their move, one drawing a silver dagger and the other an iron axe. Kell curled his clawed fingertips inward, making an elongated fist. With a left hook, he dropped the approaching man swinging his dagger, who now struggled to get back on his feet. The final man charged and swung his weapon directly for Kell’s snout. A clang echoed through the small room as Kell caught the blade in his right hand. Blood tricked down his wrist, and then speckled the walls as he jerked his arm aside and shoulder charged the attacker, sending the man down a staircase into the tavern below.

“What in Oblivion is going on up there?!” came a voice from downstairs.

It was time to leave. Now that the people downstairs knew the boys upstairs were no longer having their good time they would certainly want to investigate. Kell was no master of combat and would easily be overcome.

Spinning to the woman, he barely avoided a jab from the silver dagger. The second man was back up and taunting him.

“Im gonna shiv your boat!” he spat out, making another jab for Kell.

He was out of time; the others had already reached him. He hauled the woman into his arms and bolted for the door. He took a slash into his right arm, drawing more blood. Crashing through the ajar door, he threw off his cape and wrapped it around the woman. The poor woman was no longer sobbing, but struggling to match Kell’s speed as he jerked her along across the bridge spanning the babbling canal. It was dark and hard to see past the foggy rain, but running was better than sitting still to get your bearings in this type of predicament.

“Wait!” The woman tugged his arm. “My home is just up ahead, to the right!”

Upon reaching the small stone house, the woman quickly shoved the door open and they both darted inside. Kell quickly checked the tiny green window by the door, from what he could barely make out they weren’t followed. He turned his back to the window and slumped to the floor, curling his large tail around him.

The small place was warm, dry, and well lit. It seemed like a nice place to hide out for a bit, but he had no intention of overstaying his welcome in a stranger’s home. He looked to the human, who was studying a bloody patch on her robes.

“You’re bleeding.” Her concern quickly changed to confusion. “How did you catch an axe in your bare hand? It should have cleaved you past your wrist.”

He simply stared at her. She had some way of thanking someone for possibly saving her life. About to let out a sarcastic ‘YOUR WELCOME’ he stopped himself.

“I’ll admit that wasn’t the smartest thing I have ever done, but I have never fought more than two people at once, I simply panicked.”

That didn’t answer her question in the slightest, but instead of pressing the issue, she chose to see if she could help. She approached and sat down next to him.

“Open your hand and let me see.”

“Its fine, I’ll handle it,” now he was in trouble, how could he show a complete stranger?

She grabbed his arm. “Come on, it might be serious and I need to try to stop any bleeding.”

“Let go.” It was a simple statement, but his tone was cold and threatening.

She jerked up his sleeve…and stared in shock at the sight. The skin on his arm had been burned off and cut away in some places, revealing a black metal frame beneath. It appeared to be pure ebony. Just above a major burn, the cut he received from the dagger was trickling down to his elbow. He smacked her hand away and jerked his sleeve back over his arm.

He had risen to the door and prepared to open it.

“Good bye.” He swung the door open to find the rain had become much worse. Letting out a whispered curse, he stepped out.

“Wait!” the woman called. Kell turned his head to hear her out. “You don’t like the rain do you?”

He looked away for a moment, then turned back to face her. “No.”

She seemed a touch confused. “But, you’re an argonian, doesn’t it rain often in The Black Marsh?”

“What’s your name?” He nearly interrupted her.

She blinked, puzzled. “Amara”

“Well, Amara, to be frank, I have never been to The Black Marsh. I was born and raised among the humans in Cyrodiil.”

Amara stepped back into the house and out of the doorway. “Why don’t you come back in then? It’s pouring outside, and it’s the least I can do after you saved my life.”

He weighed his options. Either act out the role of a paying customer in The Corner Club until the rain stopped, or take shelter in a warm, cozy house. It didn’t seem right after she noticed his ebony arm, but chances were the folks at The Corner Club wouldn’t appreciate his company if they found out he had no money.

He would spend the night sitting in a corner facing the door, ready in case the Commona Tong found him. Amara had already retired to the room up stairs. Kell opened his palm and surveyed the damage. The bleeding had stopped, after all there was little left to bleed. The gash was long and wide, he would have to be careful not to let anyone else see it as the skin would never heal over.

Leaning his head back in thought, he recalled the last moments he saw of his family. The people that served his father were all very close to him, as they were all he had when his father was off fighting battles for The Imperial Legion, they were as much his family as his father and his long-deceased mother. Taking another long look at his arm, he could only wonder why he was like this.

[Kell-Reevor]

I'm a little sleepy, but I decided it was finally time to introduce the villains.




The passage was long, narrow, and dark. It was a dungeon. It was Horsek’s dungeon. It was the place the old Nord was never to leave. He was bound there to guard its secrets, his punishment for the crimes he committed to the complex’s former inhabitants.

The old dwemer machinery that provided this section of the ruins with power had long since stopped clattering, robbing the claustrophobic facility of light. The stench of death emanating from his companion was overpowering, even for the old necromancer. The clanging of the thing’s heavy metal boots echoed throughout the corridor, easily giving away their arrival to the doors ahead.

With a shove, the round metal doors gave way, squealing as the opened. Before his was a small room, light by a single candle. There was only an old bed, a bookshelf, and a table and chair. Any fabric of the bead had rotted away a long time ago, leaving uncomfortable metal bars. The three-shelved bookshelf was stocked with books in amazingly good condition. Sitting in the rotting chair before the table was Konimus, master of alteration.

Konimus was truly a unique one. Scoffing at the idea of donning a stereotypical robe, he chose a grey jumpsuit. The suit was tucked into black boots and black gloves, the fingertips removed to allow his claws to stick out. At his waste were four belts lined on top of each other. Straps trailed from his belts over his shoulders, forming a harness for his massive sword, ‘The Whistling Willow’, or simply ‘Willow’. He was for the most part human, save for the claws, reptilian eyes, and the two horns that jutted from under his silver hair. Konimus was a half-breed.

The thought of an Argonian with a Human disgusted some people, including Horsek. Some people simply didn’t care, viewing everyone as people united under one rule. The rest thought it was the sweetest thing they ever heard of, the idea that love would mean so much to two people that it would overshadow their obvious differences. The people disgusted by it were many, however, and often felt they were racially superior.

Most half-breeds would simply take on the traits of their mother, masking their mixed heritage. Konimus, however, was one of few that inherited traits from both parents. At first, it never bothered him. He led a normal life as an Imperial citizen, eventually joining The Legion. It was at this time that things went to Oblivion for Konimus. It was now that bigotry had finally impacted his life. It was not through the actions of others, however, but of his own.

The constant slave raids in The Black Marsh and the Empire’s “efforts to end them” brought about civil disobedience and protesting from the Argonian inhabitants. Fearful of a massacre of Imperial citizens, troops were deployed to silence them. Their orders were simple…kill them all. Konimus had a choice: follow his superior’s orders, or die a traitor’s death.

Anyone that ever says people die a quick death at the hands of a sword has never fought a battle, if the incident could be called that. More often than not, the victim suffers miserably before they finally die. Life is strange like that, strong and fragile at the same time. The dieing eyes of the people Konimus dispatched still haunt him to this day, ten years later. His weeping could be heard through the entire facility he now called his home. It hurt him the most because, while he had always considered himself human, he could never escape the reality that he was also Argonian, the very people he had put to the sword.

He had told his story many times to Horsek; as well as to Direnvyn, before the unfortunate Altmer blew himself apart. Horsek cared little for his whining, but he dared not mention it. He respected the man too much to piss him off, and deep down, he was beginning to worry about him. He had an unhealthy habit of collecting books that recorded the suffering the Argonians endured, both fiction and non-fiction, as he could relate what he had done to the contents within. By doing this, he was only fueling his madness. The thing that worried Horsek the most, however, was the fact that Konimus hated himself for that massacre, yet he would turn his weapon on any human without regrets.

Convinced he was too deep in his thoughts to hear the two approach, Horsek spoke. “We have been having some power out…”

“Why are people so quick to look down on anyone other than their own kind?” Konimus interrupted.

Horsek was confused, and worried he knew where Konimus was heading.

“They regard everyone else as animals, as fodder to be scraped from their boots.”

Now he was scared. “Sir?” the Nord managed to whimper.

The hollow thud of a book slamming shut made him jump. It wasn’t physically the loudest thing he had ever heard, but at that moment it seemed like it. He noted Willow resting on the table. He saw what the thing could do. The weapon’s design consisted of spikes that grew out and hung down the length of the blade, resembling the branches of a willow tree. The distinct whistle it made as it was swung completed its name. It appeared as something directly out of a nightmare, tearing and crushing rather than cleaving. Horsek had absolutely no desire to be pulverized by it.

Konimus spun around and slammed the book on the floor. Horsek retreated a step, while the thing that was Direnvyn remained motionless. Konimus reached behind him and lifted the sword with one hand, his skill with alteration making what an Orc would have trouble carrying seem almost weightless. He kicked the old chair away, and then turned to bring his weapon down upon the table. Each crash he made in his rampage was deafening in the small room.

It was over almost as quickly as it began. Konimus was very still, his head hung low as he viewed what just two seconds ago had been a sturdy table.

Horsek kneeled over and picked up the book he had been reading. ‘The Seed.’ “Why are you doing this to yourself? You will only hurt yourself.”

Konimus clicked the massive weapon to his harness then turned to glare at the necromancer. Two black eyes and a tattoo on his forehead Horsek sometimes call the third eye; a four-parted, circumcised square with a line jutting from the bottom that split into two diagonals. The glare faded, and he sighed. “I’m leaving this place.”

“Why?” Horsek asked gruffly.

The man’s eyes wandered to the book still in Horsek’s grip. “I must leave to repent for my crimes. Rotting in this rusty metal pit is nowhere near enough to compensate for what I’ve done.” He looked up. “You two should consider doing the same.”

Horsek shook his head. “Impossible,” he grunted, “The secrets I possess must never pass on to another.” He looked to his right to the giant figure towering over him. “As for Direnvyn, I’m not sure he would be accepted anywhere outside of this ‘rusty metal pit’.”

He had a point; the only visible part of Direnvyn was his head, leaning off to the side on the top of his metal body. The flesh around his mouth had melted away, and a small metal plate had to be bolted over it to keep him from drooling all over himself. From the corners of the plate leaked a thick black ooze. The same substance leaked from his blank, dead eyes, making him appear to have been weeping. His secret of releasing the power in a soul gem with a single, chaotic burst died the same day he did.

Konimus made for the door. “These are troubled times, I should have no trouble finding penance in a place like Cyrodiil. Where people gather, trouble gathers as well.”

That was that. He never said goodbye. He simply told them he was leaving, then left.