Gaenor: Reloaded Options

[ShraX]

I posted this on the official TES forums, and although it's not finished, I'll continue updating both here and there.

If you haven't read the other two stories I've written, one of them is in the Fan Fiction section of this site, and you can PM me for the other. There really is not much needed to know when reading this one, except who the already well-known characters such as Gaenor and Almalexia are.

Enjoy--

The Nerevarine lay a lifeless corpse upon the Mournhold Temple steps. His blood trickled out of the slashed openings in his neck, limbs and torso, and down each stair, leaving its stains as it went before collecting into a shapeless pool on the tiled courtyard floor. The High Ordinators were still, their armored masks hiding the looks of terror on their faces as they stared at their defeated savior. The Temple doors were now wide open, and Almalexia hovered at the entrance. Her Hands were nowhere in sight.

"My champion," she said softly in disbelief, her golden face emotionless. "Who is responsible for this?" She spoke quietly but the entire city heard her. A Hand emerged from the darkness of the Temple and removed his helmet., engraved with the Daedric runes for S and V. "Our guards watched the battle," he explained in his low, rumbling voice. "They dared not aid your Nerevar for fear of death by his murderer - the Bosmer, Gaenor." The Demigoddess floated down the stairs, over the the corpse of the Nerevarine and turned back to the Temple. "Salas, this wood elf has gotten his revenge, but Terenius' life is nowhere close to Nerevar's in worth. Remain here and clean this mess. I will find young Gaenor and speak with him." Her Hand bowed and ordered the two Ordinators, still in a stupor, to dispose of the Nerevarine's body, as well as those of the four slain Hands within the Temple. Almalexia's wrath was unbridalled, and vengeance consumed her. Her fury at the news of Nerevar's death manifested physically, killing all but her favored Hand, Salas Volar, in an explosion of goldy flames.

She flew from her place in the Temple courtyard high above the city and into the clouds which concealed the late afternoon sun's light. The moons were now more than halfway over the mountainous horizon and brought their stars with them. With a gesture of her wrist the dense clouds parted in two and the light of the lowering sun lit the city aglow. She closed her eyes and began searching for her prey. However, this was unnecessary. Almalexia expected this mortal to flee into hiding from her might, but he welcomed it. He was sitting on a bench in the Bazaar, doodling shapes in the dirt with his sword.

His armor was sundered, dented and sliced through. One pauldron was missing as well as both gauntlets and parts of his greaves. It wasn't clear to tell from his ebony armor, but he was covered in blood from head to toe. He leaned his blade on the bench and removed his helmet, then placed it over the hilt. It was hot and sweat was dripping from his forehead to his beard. He put both hands to his face and wiped it, and ran his fingers through his stiff hair. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes, waiting with open arms for death's embrace.

Almalexia dove towards him like a starving hawk upon a field mouse, disintegrating the clouds with the aura of flame around her. This mortal wood elf defeated her martyr in combat and had the audacity to sit on a park bench in plain sight! Masser and Secunda were rising in unnatural quickness and the sun was already out of sight. The furious demigoddess did not realize in her blind rage, but Gaenor tore away from his hands and looked up past her to see it: both moons took position directly above him, Secunda in front. As they slowed to a stop everything around him turned pitch black, aside from the raging Almalexia, now halted in mid-air, as well as both moons.

The elf slowly stood and faced his enemy in partial confusion. After his ordeal he truly cared not what his fate was. 'An eye for an eye,' was his logic. 'She took Terenius and I take the Nerevarine.. but this is very strange. perhaps this witch's debt is still not repaid.' He walked past her toward the moons, which were glowing and pulsating with light, as if to communicate.

"Much has happened this day. We must speak."

[ShraX]

Iranon was raised as a warrior of Argonia. From childhood to his twenty-seventh year of life he was trained in the art of spear combat, and the ways to move to be most comfortable and versatile while wearing thick leather armors. He lives in the most hostile area of the swamp for a decade, learning how to defend himself from both natural and unnatural threats. He was later conditioned in the use of swords and quickly learned to wield them with great efficiency and skill. He loved the sword and taught himself to mold various metals into its' shape and form. He never forgave Garonar for his prohibition of his use of the Blade of Cinders, as it was his masterpiece, and he felt the only one worthy to use it was him. For hundreds of years his grudge was held with as much anger as ever, and due to the recent coming of Gaenor and the awakening of his inner fire, Iranon followed the plan he'd made as his last resort long ago.

He removed from the inside of his cloak a long wooden pike marked with Daedric symbols and planted it into the dirt. He vanished in an instant and appeared in Garonar's shrine in Morrowind, a continent away. "Master," he said between his gritting teeth, "I've returned for you." The familiar, hideous skull of flame took its place before the black idol, but this time Iranon averted not his eyes. He stared into the empty sockets of his lord's essence with seething contempt and put his past fears to rest through thoughts of revenge. "Returned for me, Iranon," the booming voice inquired. "What means this? Why are you not setting forth my plans in Valenwood?" The Argonian trembled with fury and could contain himself no longer, after such long suppression. "SILENCE," he shrieked, then continued quietly, "for I haveth different plans with which to set forth. These years you've waved me about as would a toddler with his first training sword.. the time has come for you to play the role of the sword. Come, I shall take you, and from you smelt a new Garonar, one who I shall control!" He grabbed the statuette, forcively dissipating the skull image and left a cackling echo in the catacombs there in the Ascadian Isles before disappearing suddenly, bound for Valenwood and his vengeance.

==========

"I'll bet you fight like a sick monkey, elf!" Ri'Zev taunted from across the circle of stones they stood within. Almost the entire camp watched on from all around, as well as Naztheril from his short window at the jail. Gaenor had never been in an official duel with anyone but was familiar with traditional Imperial code of conduct when in one, which these Khajiit seemed to have adopted. Normally, each opponent chose a weapon blindfolded and began fighting at the count of five. Ri'Zev had already chose his weapon, the Blade, while the Bosmer was promptly given a cracked iron mace one of the onlookers tripped over while on his way to the ring. He also had never fought an inhabitant of Elswyr before, and had little to go on as to what to expect from his arrogant foe.

"Orz," shouted one from the audience and Ri'Zev tightened his grip on the hilt of his new sword. The elf looked toward the supposed counter, then back at his enemy. "Jur, Jenv, Kj'an," he continued, and Gaenor began moving slowly in place, anticipating the commencement of the fight at the last number. "FRAK, FIGHT FIGHT!!" The crowd burst into cheer with eyes of bloodlust, and Ri'Zev growled fiercely. His knees bent down and allowed for a quick, silent spring into the air, and his body's silhouette became engulfed by the bright desert sun as the Bosmer watched from below. The Khajiit threw his arms upward over his head with the Blade in hand and let out a screeching, phlegmy roar before cleaving downward upon his decent.

Gaenor was greatly and foolishly underestimated. The Blade and his Amulet were but two objects from which his inner power was channeled, and in anyone else's hands, his sword was just that; a sword that happened to catch the eye and fancy of a half-minded nomad who sorely lacked any sense of depth-perception due to his missing eye. The elf turned full his body and skipped off his feet, spinning thrice and crashing the mace down onto the back of Ri'Zev's skull, shattering it and the handle of the weapon into shards that would spell his victory. He tore the Blade from his opponent's claws and slid it into his belt, looking around at the crowd who immediately quieted themselves once they realized what had happened.

"Move."

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