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> A Conclave of Princes
ghastley
post Aug 12 2013, 03:24 PM
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Well, if there isn't any wine and cheese and dancing girls, of course it's the ice cream kind of party. You just have to use logic on the precise details of the invitation. Ice cream may not have been stated, but it was undeniably implied.

And so Shoggy and Jyggy will be there, it appears. Maybe not the snowman.

This post has been edited by ghastley: Aug 12 2013, 03:25 PM


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Colonel Mustard
post Aug 15 2013, 08:50 AM
Post #42


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From: The darkest pit of your soul. Hi there!



Liz: I'm a Sheogorath fan too; easily my favourite of the Princes, and he was great fun to write!

McBadgere: Thanks! That chapter was probably the most fun to write so far, and Count Frostinius was one of those ideas where I thought of it and then just went 'yes. I'm making that a thing. Hells yes'. tongue.gif

Ghastley: Y'see, that's what you get when a stick-in-the-mud like Azura to organise a party; you miss the important things!


Thanks for reading, everyone, and hope you enjoy the next part! smile.gif

Mehrunes Dagon

The air of this place burned.

Had she allowed herself the mortal frailty to do it, Azura would have choked and gasped upon the roasting air. Instead, she merely grimaced at the brimstone taste of it as she surveyed the lava-choked wastes of the Deadlands. The molten rock was peppered with islands of obsidian, and on them ruined castles and riven towers of barbed architecture stood or leaned at crazed angles like stumbling drunks. Fires blazed, belching black ash into the storm-wracked sky which was crisscrossed by lightning, and winds of hurricane force howled and rent at the land.

From her place on top of one of the ruined towers, Azura leant against the parapet and waited, drumming her fingers on the stone. From beneath her, there was a rumbling, a deep thundering noise, and she glanced over the edifice’s lip to see the pool of lava bubbling, spitting and churning as something began to rise beneath it.

A colossus in the shape of a four-armed man rose from the molten stone, a giant of liquid heat standing before the tower. The gradual cooling of the lava formed a skin, one that was cracked as if it had been burned by the sun, and small rivulets of molten stone dribbled down its outside from fresh cracks or bursting sores of magma. Two eyes of pure heat glared at Azura and with a voice that was accompanied by roiling waves of tectonic heat, Mehrunes Dagon spoke.

“Why have you come to my realm?” he asked in a voice that was the crashing of meteorites and the toppling of empires. “Explain yourself at once!”

“I’d be more impressed by all that heat if I hadn’t come from Meridia’s realm, you know,” Azura said. “Stop showing off, I want to talk to you.”

“Worm,” Mehrunes Dagon snarled. “Insolent little wretch. I am lord and master of this realm and as my guest you shall pay me the respect that I am due.”

Azura rolled her eyes.

“Fine,” she said. “Fine. Oh mighty Lord Dagon, master of destruction, overlord of anarchy, I come to extend invitation to you to come as guest to my realm of Moonshadow, for a meeting of great import, one at which your presence is greatly desired.”

“Your invitation is refused,” Mehrunes Dagon said.

Azura blinked in surprise.

“Why is that?” Azura asked.

In response, the Supreme Obliteration swept out his fist, smashing it into the side of the tower. Chunks of pulverised stone flew from the blow, and the building toppled, falling to the ground with a cloud of dust and a cracking rumble. Azura hovered in the air where she had stood, and Mehrunes Dagon rounded on her with a snarl.

“Your hypocrisy sickens me,” he growled, a dry wave of heat accompanying the words. “You trespass in my realm, deliberately fail to observe the necessary conduct and reverence I am due and then you have the gall to believe that I shall go to you when you call for me, as if I were some kind of dog. I refuse your summons.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Azura said, voice a growl. “You are attending. Every one of the Princes is coming, yourself included.”

“And I have informed you, I will not come to your summons as if I were a slave,” Mehrunes Dagon said.

“I don’t care,” Azura snapped. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve had to put up with today? It has been a damn nightmare, from start to finish; I’ve had both Mephala and Molag Bal trying to make me their captive, I’ve had to deal with going into Jygallag’s realm, Sanguine would not stop trying to get into my underwear the whole time I was in his realm and Sheogorath wanted me to talk to a damn snowman. So I am not in any mood for you start throwing a tantrum, do you understand? When I tell you to come to Moonshadow, you come to Moonshadow.”

“You will not address me in such a manner,” Mehrunes Dagon snapped. “I am Mehrunes Dagon, Lord of Destruction, Prince of Annihilation, Master of-”

“You’re a joke,” Azura said “You’re nothing but an idiot with delusions of grandeur whose schemes are continually thwarted by mortals. That is what you are. It makes me wonder why you bother any more.”

Mehrunes Dagon gave a roar and gestured with one of his four arms. Tracking his fingertip, a great wave of boiling lava rose, drowning the land in a cataclysmic tide of heat and fury, spitting gobbets of molten stone skywards as it topple towers and consumed castles. There were figures fleeing before the wall of heat, too slow to outrun it, Dremora, Scamps and other creatures that served Mehrunes Dagon consumed by the surge of pyroclastic fury. Azura quailed inwardly as she realised she had, in her frustration, pushed her host too far.

“Do you see that?” Mehrunes Dagon asked, turning his burning gaze back to her. “If I wished, I could tear this realm apart, annihilate it and all within it utterly. And yet, in but a matter of hours, it would all reform, as is the nature of Oblivion. This realm frustrates me endlessly, and I have longed for something I can destroy permanently. Unmaking Nirn would be the only thing that would let me fulfil my purpose and have satisfaction. I have the power here in my realm to smite you, rip you asunder and smash you to smithereens, but all that would happen is that you would reform again. You would be weakened, perhaps, but not for long. But if I were to destroy Nirn, then there could be no remaking and my existence would have true meaning. That is why I bother.”

Azura was silent for a few moments, unsure of what to say. Mehrunes Dagon was the one to break it.

“This meeting you are calling, this conclave,” he said. “What does it concern?”

“I will explain it to all of you in Moonshadow,” Azura said. “But I can tell you now that we may well need you to destroy something unique, something that can never again be recreated. And I need you to annihilate it so utterly that there will be nothing left to rebuild from.”

Mehrunes Dagon grinned with teeth that were glowing iron swords.

“I would gladly do such a thing,” he said. “If you had mentioned this earlier, I would have been much more eager to accept your invitation.”

“Perhaps,” Azura said. “So can I expect you in Moonshadow?”

“If there is something to permanently destroy involved in this little meeting of yours? Of course. Deliver me the glory of annihilation and I shall be sated.”
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Elisabeth Hollow
post Aug 15 2013, 09:16 AM
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Let's NOT anger the being made of lava, hmmm, Azura?! XD


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McBadgere
post Aug 19 2013, 02:06 PM
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Fair dues, Mehrunes Dagon is an ass... rolleyes.gif ...

I loved Azura's dismissive handling of him... laugh.gif ...

And then the...
QUOTE
"Oh mighty Lord Dagon, master of destruction, overlord of anarchy, I come to extend invitation to you to come as guest to my realm of Moonshadow, for a meeting of great import, one at which your presence is greatly desired.”


laugh.gif ...

Although, that bit at the end was cool...When he was less...of an ass... biggrin.gif ...

I did love the description of Oblivion, as - I will admit - were Dagon's reasons for frustrated rage...I know how he feels... laugh.gif ...

Really looking forward to wherever this goes...

Nice one!...

*Applauds heartily*...
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ghastley
post Aug 19 2013, 04:48 PM
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Dagon as spoiled child throwing tantrums is just right. "Hulk smash!!!"

I've lost count, who's still to be contacted?


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haute ecole rider
post Aug 19 2013, 06:02 PM
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Well, I finally settled down long enough to read this story.

I have to admit that I'm very, very intrigued . . .

Let's see, what stands out for me? First, the cats. Yes, definitely the cats. And it's perfect that they would report to Azura. Cats are creatures of the internal space - they are extremely self-aware and know where they are at all times. They are comfortable in light and in darkness. They are most active at dawn and dusk (well, my own cat is - may have more to do with his feeding routine than with any divine/immortal essence). Oh, and they see all and reveal none. Excellent spies, the whole lot of them. The challenge is getting useful information out of them, and it seems Azura is the mistress at this.

Loved the description of Nocturnal's realm as being not-there and there at once.

Hircine's obsession with the hunt in all of its permutations was fun!

Loved Hermaeus Mora's library, and especially his chess game with Julianos! Makes sense that those two would compete against each other in such a cerebral manner . . .

Sanguine the nymphomania hermaphrodite made me laugh. Yes, she was fun, and creepy at the same time. Of course he would try to seduce Azura - she would want to bed anyone that breathes (yes, even one of Hircine's amoebas!).

Mephala and Molag Bal were bone-chilling. Jyggalag was just as I expected him - anal retarded and tight-assed. Sheo was great as the total opposite of him. And of course, Mehrunes Dagon is very familiar to me from the Oblivion Crisis.

I am loving how you are fleshing (?) out the various Daedra princes. I think we are but about halfway through? Sixteen in all, right? Looking forward to more!


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Colonel Mustard
post Aug 22 2013, 09:34 AM
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From: The darkest pit of your soul. Hi there!



Elizabeth: Yeah, one of Azura's problems is that she doesn't always know when to quit...

McBadgere: I always found the frustration aspect of Mehrunes Dagon to be the most interesting thing about him, and the whole 'impossible-to-fulfil potential' aspect to him made him almost sympathetic and pitiful at points. I'm pleased it worked for you, and that you enjoyed the rest of the chapter. smile.gif

Ghastley: Thanks! That sort of behaviour certainly felt right for him.

As for the remaining Princes, we have: Malacath, Boethiah, Clavicus Vile, Naemira, Vaermina and Peryite.

H.E.R.: Thank you very much indeed! smile.gif

Cats felt like the perfect spies for Azura; I'd originally thought of having her getting the information by weaving on a loom, but the more I thought about the more cats felts appropriate means to get the information.

I'm pleased you liked everything else, and I'm dead pleased that Molag Bal and Mephala were bone-chilling; that was exactly what I was going for with those two. I believe there will be 17 parts (the 16 princes figure doesn't count Jyggalag, I don't think) and there may be an 18th part depending on whether or not I decide to include the Ideal Masters or not.

I hope you enjoy the rest smile.gif



Also, as a quick note to everyone reading this, my apologies for not reading and commenting on your own stories; the rest of August and early September promise to much of the same, I'm afraid.

Malacath

The only sound was that of Azura’s footsteps padding in ash and the sweeping of her cloak against the grey, dead ground. The Ashpit, the dead land of the Outcast Prince, was silent as a corpse as Azura proceeded towards the circle of rolling hills in the distance.

There were no plants or animals here, and no daedra patrolled these inhospitable plains. Nothing moved, nothing lived, and the air reeked of despair and death. More ash floated down from the sky like snowflakes, the clouds that dropped them so thick and dark that no sunlight shone upon this realm, if this place even had a sun. The one feature of the land was a huge spine, an arch of immense bones from which ribs jutted at random to curve into the ground, holding the realm together. She followed its course, to where the huge arc touched the dead soil.

The gloom of this place grated against her, the silence and the darkness heavy and oppressive. Nocturnal would have been at home in this place, Azura could not help but feel, but even then this was not the protective dimness of the Evergloam, a hiding place from prying eyes, but the blackest pits of isolation and despair given shape and geography.

“Our time upon Nirn is limited.” Azura half-murmured, half-chanted the Ashlander funeral hymn; the place and its oppressive, singular gloom begged for a breaking, but a song of cheer would have felt offensively out of place, while the hymn and its talk of death and ash felt fitting to the Ashpit. “Plants wither and livestock dies. We are born, and we age, our birth is but a precursor to our end.”

In her case, Azura reflected as she reached the foot of the ring of hills, such sentiments were completely untrue.

“The flower that is mortal shall wilt,” she murmured to herself as she climbed. “Our joints shall seize, our hearts shall still; we shall leave this world of flesh to join our ancestors. From the lands of ash we come, to the lands of ash we shall be returned.”

She reached the lee of the final vertebrae, and there she saw Malacath. The Outcast Prince, the Cripple Lord, the God of the Maiming and the Chaining, he looked up at her with bloodshot eyes. His face was like that of an Orc, wide-nosed and gnarled, broken and yellowed tusks gleaming dully in the nonlight of the Ashpit. Manacles encircled his wrists, chaining him to an anvil, and the skin around the bindings was reddened and suppurating. His form rippled with muscle, grey skin bulging with constrained might, immense form covered only by a ragged loincloth.

He rose awkwardly on and maimed legs and feet, where the bone had been shattered and had healed imperfectly, leaning on his anvil for support and grunting with painful effort of movement.

“It has been too long,” he said, breaths ragged and gasping. “Since I have been visited by you.”

“It has been some time, has it not?” Azura said “Who do you fare?”

This earned her a deep, bubbling chuckle, one tainted by deep bitterness and remorse.

“How do I fare? How do I fare? Hah! Well, I do not want for company, if you count company...as Boethiah coming to mock me and snap...my legs once more.”

“That still occurs?” Azura asked.

“Of course it does,” Malacath said. “Boethiah hated me in my days as Trinimac, and he hates me now. He will never forget a grudge, ever. So he comes to my realm, with mocking words and sneers, and delights in shattering bone once more. And what am I to do about such a thing?”

“I am afraid I have no answer,” Azura said.

“Pah, even if you did I would most likely...not hear it,” Malacath replied in his deep, wheezing death-rattle of a voice. “Not from the likes of you.”

He slumped against the anvil, struck by a hacking, gagging cough. For a few moments, he convulsed, a wheezing colossus who sent flecks of phlegm and blood spraying into the air around him, before he finally stopped, gasping for breath.

“I wonder, Azura,” he said. “Have you ever seen the statues my...worshippers have erected of me? They are greatly amusing, in some ways. I am shown as strong in them. I wear armour, I carry a weapon. I am the great lie of the Orsimer.”

He pointed a quivering finger at Azura.

“You...you are loved by your people for what you actually are, but me? If many of my worshippers could see...what I really am, I fear they would abandon me. They would not understand me. As all others have done, they would reject me. But do you know which orcs have...seen my true form and still held their faith?”

“Which ones?” Azura asked.

“The greatest. The most powerful warlords and...chieftains of the Orsimer. They saw me, and they were great because they...understand what I am. They understand why I, the cripple, the outcast, the unwanted, am strong. They understand why Boethiah fears me...enough that he cripples me again and again. They know that though I am crippled, I am mighty. Do you know why?”

“I can’t for the life of me imagine the reason,” Azura said.

“Of course not,” Malacath chuckled. “You have never been cast out. You are one of the beloved Princes, after all. One of the ‘good’ members of our ranks, as those limited mortals understand...such concepts. Worshipping you is tolerated even by the church of the Eight, after all. Perhaps not encouraged, but tolerated. What other Prince can claim such an honour? That is why you can never understand. You shall never be outcast. Yet being outcast is why I am strong.”

With a shaking finger, he pointed to his heart, grinning with his broken teeth.

“My heart is that of one who has been...cast out,” he said. “And in it burns the two things that...make me strong, two things that make me feared. The two things that only one who has been rejected, despised, abhorred, repeatedly...cast out by all can have left in all of the world. Hatred and hope. That is why I am strong. That is why my Orsimer are strong. And that is why the greatest of Orsimer can...understand me and know that my hatred and my hope are what...makes my people mighty, for hatred and hope are forces that can...topple empires. That is something you can never know.”

There was something fearsome in the eyes of Malacath as he said this, a light that was terrible in its intensity, burning bright with a long-suffering rage and fury. The other Princes, Azura included, had always spurned him, and any fool could see that those repeated slights had long ago burned a deep, bitter scar into the Prince of Outcasts’ mind.

In the distance, thunder rumbled. Azura glanced skywards, seeing the black clouds of the Ashpit stir and boil.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Boethiah comes,” Malacath said. Pushing himself up with the aid of his anvil and raising his arms as high as the chains would allow him to, the Prince filled his lungs and roared out; “Here I am! Here stands Malacath! Come to me!”

He broke down into another fit of coughing, hunching over himself and laughing even as he hacked blood and mucus onto the ashen ground. After a few moments he recovered, grinning as he slammed his fist on the anvil, a look of mad fury in his eyes.

“She comes,” he said. “And she will find me unbowed.”

“Malacath,” a voice rang out across the crater. “You have a guest, I see. No matter.”

Azura turned, glancing up at the figure who stepped into view from behind the bone.

“Azura,” Boethiah said. “Would you be so good as to explain to me exactly what you have been doing, lately?”
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McBadgere
post Aug 23 2013, 04:30 AM
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Wow... huh.gif ...Cheery place... laugh.gif ...

Fair dues, liked the whole outcast vibe of the realm...

It won't be a great shocker when I say that I don't know all the inns and outs of the Daedric Lords, and so I don't know if this thing with Boethia and Malacath is you or Lore, but the idea that Malacath's legs keep getting broken... indifferent.gif ...

Ayyy...

Oh, talking of Boethia...Um...Is it one of them "They can be referred to as either." things that you have...Malacath call it a He in one bit and then say "She comes" later on?...

I love Malacath in Skyrim actually...He reminds me of Colonel Decker from the original A-Team series... biggrin.gif ...

Excellent story, brilliantly written...Loving it!...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...
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haute ecole rider
post Aug 23 2013, 03:10 PM
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I loved your description of Malacath here - how his strength is in his outcast-ness. His suffering and agony only feeds his power - the power of hatred and hope. It's a very interesting take on one of the more mysterious figures in the Lore, IMHO. I knew Malacath was Trinimac at one time, beautiful and glorious to look upon. I also knew that Malacath is now twisted, deformed, and horrific beyond description. Yet he is still worshipped in his degradation. For this reason somehow I can't find it in myself to pity him - only to be awed by his endurance.

I also liked that Boethiah makes sure that Malacath's suffering does not end. Does Boethiah realize that he/she is only feeding Malacath's power by torturing the poor guy?


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