Gaenor: Reloaded Options

[ShraX]

My sorry attempt at Khajiiti

--------------------

A short while later, once Naztheril finally regained his composure, they followed Masser's light north and turned to the northeast at a sign pointing toward a farmstead. The night was especially dark, Secunda now totally immersed in the smog from Valenwood, and even they had somewhat of a difficult time keeping their steps to the dirt path until their way was shown by the farmhouse's lantern outside the door. It was late but neither of them cared to ask permission to take the horses in the clearly unlocked stable not far away. They also helped themselves to a basket of corn for the trip. They would have felt slightly guilty for robbing the farmer who lived there, but it was unlikely he was spared in Henar's invasion.

It took them two days to reach the border to Elswyr, their entire trip having been in complete silence. Gaenor decided it was best not to discuss Valenwood in any form as Naztheril seemed to feel its pain as his own. He was connected to the land somehow, and bringing up such a thing that he knew was already plaguing his mind would have been unnecessary and damaging. The elf remembered again his experience in Skyrim, and replayed his battle with Jkoryl in his mind. He tried to bring himself back before the fateful clawing that changed him forever to try and figure out why that particular strike made him how he is now, but it was futile; he was unable to feel such things anymore, and it frustrated him to be incapable of knowing the reason. It was a demon's talons which struck me, he thought, and therefore could have held some sort of demonic curse. Honestly, he was completely clueless, but thinking on it helped keep his mind off their destination, no matter how badly he truly wanted to see the place.

They left their horses on the grassy cliffs overlooking Elswyr, and Naztheril ordered them to return from whence they came, which they promptly did. They edged themselves down the steep boulders onto the crumbled sandstones below, and began their trek through the merciless desert. The dunes forced them to take unusually large, awkward steps, and at times there would be a short sandstorm or small tornado if the breeze became especially strong. Both travelers needed not warn each other of the true dangers of Elswyr, those of which were likely watching their every movement as they continued.

The Khajiit were native to this land, and most of those who were not brought to the rest of Tamriel for slavery were bitter towards outlanders. They marked them all as civilized devils of the industrialized world, Argonians being a slight exception. Their war with Valenwood was long ago, but they remembered their enemies and held grudges deeper than any. However, they were not monsters, as some would like to think they were, and under the proper circumstances could prove rather helpful and friendly. Unfortunately, neither of the travelers had any idea about what those circumstances were.

"Aren't you hot?" asked Gaenor, breaking the long silence. Naztheril smiled, "Remember our traversing of the Cyrodiil moat? And of our first meeting in Skyrim? Although my appearance is that of a human, I can assure you that my ordinary traits remain. I feel no temperature." The elf nodded and hoped he had made his companion somewhat more comfortable with a bit of conversation. "Do you hear it?" he asked in a lower voice. The Beast stopped and chuckled. "Indeed, and they hear you. Cat's ears are extremely sensitive, even moreso than yours. It would be best if we allowed for them to become a bit more acquainted with us and our intentions here, would it not? Let them come to us." Gaenor stopped and turned back to Naztheril who jerked his head lightly to his side, implying that something hid behind the flat rocks nearby.

"Eez tajet ge cotezo. Hurry, gatelee jurtecen!"

--------------------

[ShraX]

"What language is this?" asked the elf from his cell. "It's Khajiiti," replied Naztheril while watching their captors patrol around the jail through a barred window, "but that doesn't help us." He turned around and slumped down in the corner, gazing into the bright sun's rays which met the sand-covered stone floor. "They took my hat," he said. "What, do they think it's a dangerous weapon? Perhaps I'd bend the bars here with it and escape." Gaenor was now watching out his window and saw two guards examining the top hat in curious wonder. After a short while it appeared that they at last determined that whatever it did, it was put to better use torn to shreds and discarded in an old bucket. "They tore your hat," he answered from the other side of the brick wall by which their cells were separated. Naztheril grunted with a loss for words.

It was difficult for either of them to tell since their windows faced the back of the camp, but they were brought blindfolded to one of the many Khajiiti nomadic tribes which dotted Elswyr. It was unclear to the travelers as to exactly why they had been blindfolded; the entire land was an enormous desert with absolutely no outstanding landmarks with which to fix one's position. Their plan was to simply march across in a straight line so as not to confuse their path to their destination, for both Valenwood and Elswyr were adjacent, and now they were just as ignorant of their location as they were since first arriving. The jail in which they now were held was the only structure in the encampment, the rest of it consisting of sewn tents, and appeared to be of Imperial design.

"What are we doing here?" asked the Bosmer. Naztheril put his head back to the dusty wall and sighed, "Usually, one is brought to a jail to wait. It's a waiting room, really.. except the ones waiting are often told about for what exactly they're waiting upon starting to wait. Not so in our situation." Gaenor stood from the cracked, wooden bench on the wall and paced around the small area of his cell. "They took my blade and amulet." His companion made no response but knew the elf was on edge, his calm tone of voice masking his true state of mind. However, there was nothing for them to do yet, and so they agreed not to worry and to remain focused until they were called upon.

==========

With Garonar's idol placed back in his shrine in the Ascadian Isles, Iranon was relieved of duty until Gaenor revealed himself. He paid for teleportation via the Mage's Guild on Vvardenfell to High Rock, then traveled south back to Valenwood to await his enemy. He still felt the ruptured link in his mind between he and Knight Henar, and it pained it greatly at times. Each time it pulsed through his head it sent a shockwave down his spine and caused him to jerk his torso out uncomfortably, as well as curse the elf's name several times for what he had done to his most prized puppet. He knew he would need to replace his servant in order to have a chance at defeating Gaenor in combat, and that the new one would have to be even stronger than the last. Firstly, he would need to craft a new weapon. "It has been long," he said to himself as he crossed the border into smoldering Valenwood, "but with a fresh servant must come a fresh blade." He raised one arm slowly and his eyes went back in their sockets, and the skeletal hands of three former civilians pulled up from the charred soil. They stood hunched over and obedient, awaiting Iranon's command.

He sent them to the east and ordered them to sentry the tall cliffs which served as a natural wall to Elswyr. "Haveth patience, they are near in time," he instructed his temporary minions, "and when they arrive, you shalst warn me and attack. Go." The mindless skeletons sprinted off and left Iranon to his next order of business. His eyes returned and his raised hand clasped his head in pain. He squinted out across the seemingly endless field of black and death and managed a wicked smile. "There is much to be done."

--------------------

[ShraX]

The Origin of Iranon
as told by an anonymous lorekeeper

It is well known throughout Tamriel and has been since before the First Era of the Empire that the Argonians of Black Marsh (or Argonia as it is called by the natives) have always upheld the idea of death in the highest regard. The fact that things that once were nothing, then have lived only to die, infatuated them, and had taken a high place in their shamanistic religious beliefs. The wise ones of their villages claimed to speak to the spirits of their loved ones past, and these spirits gave them counsel in times of great strife.

Necromancy, however, was forbidden not through law, but through association. If it was discovered that a necromancer lived among the other citizens in a village, they would immediately banish the suspect without hesitation, for they knew the terrible consequences of such a practice. Much like the Dunmer of Morrowind, they look down on necromancy in any of its forms, and shun those who have proved themselves to raise the dead.

Before Imperial-recorded time, in an unmarked region of Argonia, there was an epic battle between seven opposing tribes who had been waging a violent war for some years. Their dispute is still unknown and is open to debate, but it seems to most historians that they fought for control of a cave which, apparently, held great importance to the Argonians.

One warrior in particular was named Iranon, and was scheduled to leave his smithy for the battlefield in which this cave laid with the rest of his organized group. They ran swiftly through the swamps, clad in tough leathers and wielding long, wooden pikes, bound for the site of the cave to help take the area and claim it for their tribe. When they arrived, the ground was almost entirely covered in blood and corpses of their fallen enemies and allies. Mysteriously though, the cave itself remained clean and dry. Iranon and his group killed many, they being their tribes' last resort, consisting of the finest fighters they had to offer. They proved to be too great of opponents for their foes, and managed to take the cave at last.

Iranon was the first to enter the cave in hundreds of years, his comrades returning to report their victory. It was dark as blackest night, and there were no torches, but the warrior was somehow able to sense where his steps would fall before they did. He navigated the ancient cave until the entrance was out of sight, and the sounds of the insects and creatures of the swamp were no longer audible. He did, however, hear a faint whisper. It was coming from deeper within the cave, and it spoke in a language unintelligible to Argonians, yet Iranon understood. It told him of wondrous power and the glory of his tribe, and that he would be heralded a hero for years beyond reckoning. He enjoyed listening to such things, and he delved further into the recesses of the cave.

The whisper turned louder and eventually shouted, praising Iranon's name and poisoning his mind with delusions of his greatness. The cave was still solid in darkness, but the voice gave his eyes clear sight. He fixed them upon a small, ebony statuette of a horned, winged demon on an altar, surrounded by unlit mounds of black wax. The voice forced his hands to the idol and instructed him to keep it safe, and that he would wield unmatched might if he followed the voice's commands. The warrior, now cursed by the statuette, hurried out of the cave and north towards Morrowind. No one is certain as to why he traveled there or what became of the idol, but Iranon's fate is well known.

He returned months later to Argonia draped in rags and shrouded in a hooded cloak, his healthy green scales now pale and discolored, and his hidden eyes fully engulfed in black. The voice drove him into insanity over his time spent in Morrowind, and taught him the new power it promised. The battlefield was still lousy with rotting corpses, as if something was causing the victorious tribe to stay away. Iranon raised each corpse individually with necromantic magic and ordered them to attack each warring tribe, one by one until they were all destroyed. Four hundred soldiers died outside the cave, and Iranon now commanded an army of undead. As his bidding was carried out, he began construction of a great forge within the largest cavern, deep beneath the surface. Combining his knowledge of weaponcrafting with necromancy, he created tools of demonic destruction, fervently and rapidly all day and night for a long while, until his cave walls were lavishly adorned with them.

There was one weapon that he favored above all the others he had made, one he admired so greatly as to enchant it with the damned souls of his raised minions. He called it the Blade of Cinders, and although wanted above all else to use it himself, was commanded by the voice to reserve it for someone else, something with which Iranon silently and furiously disagreed, and eventually caused him to hate the voice for prohibiting his use of the sword.

No knowledge of the voice has been obtained as far as whose it was, but several signs point to Dagoth Ur since the idol was brought to Morrowind. Others claim it to have been Garonar, fabled Lord of Darkness, and still others say it belonged to a powerful Daedra from Oblivion, supporting the fact that the statuette was in the shape of a demon. There are many interpretations, but none are clear.

--------------------

[jack cloudy]

Nice bit of history, you've got there. I like your story.

[minque]

Ahhh enjoyable reading.....as always...

Very good shrax....indeed very good, and a good lore-lession..yummy...

[ShraX]

It was Garonar's voice which transformed Iranon from warrior to necromancer, and his voice which reserved the Blade of Cinders for Henar. He had foreseen the events which led to Olkair Henar's chancing upon the cave in Argonia, and he idenitifed him as the finest swordsman in history, and so he was the obvious choice for to whom the Blade would go. What he had not foreseen, however, was the potential of Gaenor and his amulet, and Naztheril was a complete surprise. Since being defeated in his keep those years ago, Garonar plotted without rest against his undoer, and now against his companion and Azura herself. Unfortunately for him, he was bound to his idol, and Iranon was his only physical extension into Tamriel. If only the beings of this insufferable dimension could contain my awesome power, I could manifest once more, he thought.

==========

In the center of Valenwood once rested the Sun Tree, the largest tree on the face of Nirn. Grown a millenia before recorded time, it is said to have provided the entire planet with the life force needed to sustain all vegetation. Its roots stretched across all lands and from them sprouted the other trees and plants of the world. It stood a looming three miles in height, towering over all of Valenwood and offering the Bosmer sanctuary in its hollowed base. It housed the royal court where King Antok Broadleaf ruled for many years, as well as a vast collection of rare Bosmeri artifacts that had been stored in his vault.

With the coming of Garonar and Iranon and the burning of Valenwood, the Sun Tree was destroyed, and now it lay lifeless on its side with half its branches floating carelessly in the ocean to the north. It took Garonar and Iranon's utmost focus and concentration to topple the mighty tree, and with the prior slaughter of most of the Bosmeri druids, its natural defenses failed. It was the Argonian's plan to construct a new forge upon the severed stump and craft a weapon to rival the Blade of Cinders in power.

==========

Meanwhile, Gaenor and Naztheril now stayed their third day in the Khajiiti prison, still awaiting some attempt at communication with their jailors. They discussed their situation several times and decided it would be best not to escape through force, as they would send the wrong message to the nomads, and have a difficult time crossing the rest of the desert to Valenwood if they were seen as hostile. At the same time, they were eager to continue with their journey and see firsthand the fate of the great forest to which both travelers had close ties. Late that night, one of their captors unlocked Gaenor's cell, awaking he and his companion on the other side.

"You.. you, speak Cyrodiil?" he asked, stressing each letter uncomfortably. "Yes," replied the elf, and he was brought outside to a group of four standing around a small campfire. His escort forced him onto a three-legged stool and made a clumsy gesture with his hands implying that the elf would be killed if he spoke out of turn. Those around the fire wore tattered leather and shattered pieces of old Imperial mail, and one had a fairly decent, closed helmet. This one stepped to the side and passed the others, then kneeled to the Bosmer so they could speak eye-to-eye.

"Who are you?" he asked with a much cleaner accent than the previous guard and muffled voice from behind the steel guard of his helm. "I am Gaenor, and the other with me is Naztheril. We are--" The Khajiit snorted loudly in interruption and turned halfway to his men and back again. "Ri'Zev doesn't care where you are going. You will answer questions now. What is this?" He scampered quickly behind a tent near the campfire and returned with the Blade and amulet wrapped in scuffed cloth. "These are mine," he replied. The Khajiit at the fire looked at each other and the helmed one grunted. He threw the amulet to the sand and held the Blade, standing now and twirling it about carefully and clearly without experience.

"Is Ri'Zev's now."

--------------------

[treydog]

Glad to see more additions to this engaging story. I really enjoy the way you show us the different parts of the plot moving toward the ultimate confrontation. The lore also provides fascinating reading.

[minque]

Glad to see more additions to this engaging story.  I really enjoy the way you show us the different parts of the plot moving toward the ultimate confrontation.  The lore also provides fascinating reading.

Agree with treydog here.....it´s fascinating, and very well written as well....

[ShraX]

Gaenor knew he would be killed if he opened his mouth without being told to speak, so for now he watched in partial amusement at the foolery of Ri'Zev, slowly twisting his arms and fingers around with the Blade as if to display actual skill with a sword. His men at the campfire chuckled to each other and watched on, but promptly silenced themselves when the helmed one turned in their direction. He slid the sword hard into an empty scabard at his side and broke its sides, as it was too thin for the weapon, and kneeled to the Bosmer once more. "Tell me," he inquired, "where did you find this thing," and motioned to the Blade. The elf remained emotionless and answered, "I won it in a duel." Ri'Zev cackled loudly at this and turned to the ones at the fire, who immediately began laughing with him. "Against who, my mother?" All four Khajiit were now in uproarious laughter, at least for as long as was Ri'Zev.

Once they calmed down, Gaenor's mock interrogator began again. "You know how to read words?" the elf nodded and he continued, "Dance in Fire.. good words, eh?" He knew where this was going. He could sense a smirk on the Khajiit's face even with his helmet closed, and he realized he was slowly being pulled into a trap. "I'm sorry, I've not read that." Ri'Zev unsheathed the Blade quickly and hopped back, pointing it in the Bosmer's face with loathing. "Don't play fool to Ri'Zev, Wood Elf! You've been told this war in that book, you know about this thing!" His arm was shaking slightly with rage, as if Gaenor was in the war between Valenwood and Elswyr himself. He quickly identified this particular Khajiit as, while affluent with words, quite lacking in intelligence, and knew to be wary of such people as they are quick to misunderstand such things, and take drastic action. "The war between our race's nations has been over for a long while, and neither of us partook in it. We have no quarrel," he responded quietly. Ri'Zev threw off his helmet to reveal a makeshift eyepatch over one eye stretching across a grizzled mane and bright red fur, and an open, foaming mouth showing his spiked teeth. "PARTOOK?! What is this thing? Hey, give this fool a weapon. I wanna duel, haha!"

==========

Under Garonar's command, it was Iranon's duty to first forge weapons of great power and to entrust them to those of weak will so they might do his bidding. Though he was once skillful in combat, he had been reduced to a full-fledged necromancer, complete with a frail, colorless body that could fight no longer. However well he knew this, he always longed to hold his Blade once more, and it pained him greatly for many years to be barred from its' use. It was now his obligation to craft a weapon to substitute the Blade of Cinders and to find a new servant.

In order to do this, he fashioned a great anvil in the center of the Sun Tree's stump and a large smelting pot with bellows, a long work table and a water trough. With all the iron from the fallen elves used, he thought of with what to created the weapon. He would require a material much more potent than that of the Blade, ebony, and it would need to contain enormous demonic energies to face Gaenor's amulet. There were no such metals in Valenwood, and he pondered for some time on where he could find such stuff in the immediate area. Only in Oblivion could I possible obtain what I need to forge such a weapon, he thought. [I]Oblivion houses the most sinister of beings. The spirits of fallen evils past hath manifested there and built an empire of darkness and fire. Those who are sent into Oblivion are labeled 'Demon' and are known to have the blackest souls among all else who live and have died...[/] ...and then he knew.

"FOOL AM I," he shouted in frustration, "To Morrowind once more, for therein lies that which shall Gaenor defeat, and the Blade shall be mine again!"

--------------------

[jack cloudy]

He he. This is wonderfull. That Khajitt is so going to suffer.

[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."

--------------------

[ShraX]

The shocked Khajiit shuffled backwards and made way for the victorious Gaenor, who ripped his Amulet off the neck of his defeated foe and stormed toward the prison to release Naztheril. "Stand back," he said through the window, and sliced open the dried clay wall with his fiery Blade, exploding it apart and sending chunks flying past him on either side. The nomads, still awe-struck and frozen, simply watched the elf and his companion as they promptly left the camp to the west, headed to Valenwood and their confrontation with the Argonian necromancer.

=====

As for Iranon, he had already began construction of his new forge atop the broad stump of the Sun Tree. With fire of his own he melted down the iron armors and weapons of the fallen Bosmeri royal guards and built up from them a large, square anvil, and with the carved branches of the charred trunks around him he crafted a trough for cooling water, bellows, and a bucket. He never ceased his work for rest, never stopped to breath; his motivation for destruction pushed him on down the slope of his mind into a mad fervor of intense forging. Every so often he would glance back at the demonic idol he'd laid down away from his worksite, feeling a hotness of insecurity wash over him as he knew what he had done would never be forgiven if his plan did not work as intended.

=====

The two travelers made the border by nightfall and, despite their anxiousness to end their quest, they forced themselves down until morning. They had found a large boar grazing at the bank of the river just before the tall cliff leading down into Valenwood, and ate well. The issue of Garonar came up between them and they wondered at his capabilities. Neither had even seen Iranon yet, and knew not of his master's current condition inside the statuette.

"They were able to annihilate all of Valenwood within a day, and even to slay the Sun Tree. Clearly he's regained most of his power since his banishing by your hand those years ago," said Naztheril in thought. Gaenor said nothing but acknowledged him as he stared into the campfire. "This will be the end, you know," he continued. "We face those who've conspired against us these weeks. We face the master of Olkair Henar, the servants of darkness, the slaughterers of all Valenwood and the most evil creatures of any nightmare. My Lady Azura knows of the Elder Scrolls, Gaenor.. she has read them thoroughly, and knows your fate. She has told me of it." The elf looked up in question, the fire reflecting in his open eyes. "You've likely expected me to transform and smite our enemies with ease.. I am afraid I must disappoint you." Gaenor stood quickly and held his right hand in a fist, "Do not assume anything, Beast. My intentions remain the same - I will claim the lives of Iranon, then Garonar, in that order, and the battle will last no longer than fifteen seconds at most. You do not disappoint me as I've prepared myself for the nonsensical foretelling scripture of the Elder Scrolls and whatever plan it has for us. Do what you must, for you can do no more than what the Elder Scrolls have for you." Naztheril now looked to the fire and closed his eyes. "The Scrolls do not show you as the hero of this tale, Gaenor. There is another, an Altmer who will come in thirteen years to lift Iranon's curse from the land. He will--" but the Bosmer interrupted with a burst of flame from beneath his soles that shot upwards around him and disappeared instantly. Naztheril jumped back and stood now, bracing himself on a short tree nearby. "The Scrolls have no holding on my future," he exclaimed, "I make my own choices, no parchment has my life written down before I live it! Tell me," he raised his voice, "if you chose to aid me now, what would the Elder Scrolls have to say?!"

Gaenor's emotions were taking him. The gruesome murder of his sister, his changing at the battle with Jkoryl, the confrontation with the Nerevarine and Almalexia, the destruction of Valenwood, Terenius' murder.. it was far too much for him to deal with inside. The Blade and Amulet allowed for this wild feeling of vengeful rage to be let out in a controlled stream of energy, but not even the Elder Scrolls foretold such raw power that resided within this elf. He had lost too much to bear, and it was being purged in abnormal ways; the fire came from beneath him this time, not from his sword. He was becoming unstable, a bomb waiting for what was left of its fuse to be lit.

--------------------

[ShraX]

It was in Naztheril's god-given nature to follow the prewritten instructions of the Elder Scrolls. He had always heeded the word and will of Azura, and hers were those of the Scrolls themselves. His entire existence had been coordinated by them, as were all things, and never before Gaenor had he thought of refusing their writings. 'I wonder,' he thought during the silence that followed his companion's question, 'what would happen if I chose my own path for once? What if my rejecting their commands is also written within them? I feel I want to aid him further, but the Scrolls show me returning to the Night Sky and merely spectating the outcome.' "I.. want to come with you," he said aloud, and the elf turned from his sleep. "I am curious to see precisely what the Scrolls have to say when I deny myself of their guidelines." Gaenor smiled.

=====

It was dawn of the sixteenth day of Rain's Hand and Iranon had completed his great forge. "My master awaits.. his destiny lies on the anvil, under my hammer, and in the shape and form of a new Blade, one to smite Gaenor and return what is mine to my hand." He bent low to the ground and took the idol, almost bowing to his former lord, and with a forceful grunt released it behind him, sending it into the heated smelting pot. He watched as it tumbled in, never to be restored, and felt a sharp, stinging pain in his chest, causing him to topple over onto his back. He opened his eyes quickly and growled between his teeth with anger as he slowly stood once more. "Your power shalst not take me again, demon!" he proclaimed, and promptly began work on his new weapon.

=====

The two travelers made their way together down the steep cliffs leading down into Valenwood, more and more bright green grass appearing the further they went. It reminded Gaenor of Cyrodiil, and he could no longer remember the feeling of grass. Upon reaching the bottom, the all color vanished, and the grass disappeared, leaving black powder and charred earth in its' stead. They looked at each other, as that what seemed appropriate to do at the time, and ventured forth into their ruined homeland. It was not more than thirty paces until they discovered the skeletons.

There were four on patrol at the border, each wielding a large halberd much oversized for the otherwise small undead minions, although they seemed to carry them with ease. They marched about in what would be a comical fashion if the elf and Beast didn't realize they would need to fight them before continuing, and battle with the non-living greatly differs from that with live foes. They were somewhat like Gaenor, in fact; they felt no pain, their strength was unnatural, and their movements were unpredictable. They didn't seem to notice the travelers, or at least they showed no signs of alert, even when the crusted sockets of where their eyes once were pointed in their direction. "Are you able to shift to your other form?" Gaenor whispered, and Naztheril shook his head. "Now is not the time to discuss this, but I promise to explain when we find a.. less crowded area." The Bosmer unsheathed his Blade and its flames exploded upon it at once. The sentries stopped and turned their rotted skulls in his direction, and readied their arms.

Each had pieces of chain armor draped over their bones in different spots, and torn flesh still hung from their ribs and limbs. Dirt and blood stained their dull paleness, still being fed upon by the worms and maggots inhabiting the short pockets of skin that remained. They drew closer and formed a crescent, about to surround the elf as Naztheril stood back, cursing Garonar and Iranon for what they've done. The destruction of Valenwood itself prevented him from morphing into his true self, and he was left to watch his friend fight for his life against the animate dead.

The Amulet shone brightly but the skeletal soldiers continued unhindered. One increased its speed and raised its halberd high into the air, preparing a chopping strike, but instead it met with the fiery Blade, and Gaenor behind it. "Not this day, brother," he snarled, and spun his sword through the creature's face. It collapsed immediately, forcing a surprised chuckle from Naztheril, and the remaining three burst into a charge. The vermin hidden in their bodies were strewn to the left and right, and elf prepared himself. His sharp eyes diverted themselves by instinct a moment before impact towards the one he'd just felled, and let out a furious battlecry as he threw himself into the oncoming three.

The fallen one's displaced bones rattled, and it pieced itself whole once more.

--------------------

[ShraX]

Sometimes, shorter entries are appropriate

'Why would Iranon send but 4 skeletons to guard this border?' thought Naztheril as he watched his companion battle the sentries. They all seemed to make the same movements and all at once, making his blocks and parries somewhat easier to perform. Despite having one arm, his fighting skills were masterful, and the strength it left behind at the destruction of Knight Henar was only added to the other. Indeed, he had already defeated one undead warrior, or so he briefly thought. Something grabbed his ankle.

The skeletal fingers pulled the creature up on the elf, bent down, and fought on with its brethren, halberd in hand. Naztheril gasped and edged further back in terror. True, he had lived for ages and experienced beings from other dimensions a thousand times more frightful than these unliving atrocities, but he was mortal as well, and knew his limits. Without the life force of Valenwood to power him, he was helpless as anyone before such danger. He prayed that none of them would notice his presence, and backed away even further, growling through his teeth at his uselessness to Gaenor. The Bosmer was now pitted against four of the mindless abominations and was quickly yet unknowingly tiring from the exertion necessary to drive their strength back from each blow. Moments later, however, Naztheril's fear turned to reality. One sentry stopped, and its cracked skull shifted in his direction.

=====

The Argonian toiled away at his forge, tirelessly molding and shaping his creation from Garonar's idol. With each pounding of the metal the purple-white souls once held by his past lord were let free and drifted upward to the night sky. They were being purged from centuries of imprisonment, and for each spirit loosed, Garonar's power waned. This did not phase the maddened Iranon, for he knew the power he truly desired for his new weapon resided in his former master's dark essence. He hammered on, frequently cooling the now sword-like mass of metal in his water trough, constantly muttering incoherent Daedric and shaking slightly out of insecurity and nervousness.

It had been hours, but for the necromancer it seemed an eternity. He had completed his weapon at last, and held it slowly toward the rising sun. It was black from hilt to point, solid and whole. Demon's wings spread from the center below the blade, out from the head of a snake, gaping its mouth wide, bearing its fangs. The double edge was keen and sharper than swords of Akaviri design, and was light as air. Truly, this was the finest offspring the forge of evil had ever birthed, and its maker found sanctuary in its presence. He became still, and the feel of such a thing took hold. He felt indestructable, like an entirely new being. It was utterly breathtaking to Iranon; the most perfect sword in existence in his hand.

"Past twilight hours in light of dawn your fate shines down upon Valenwood, elf. Your time on this plane hath come to an end."

--------------------

[minque]

Very nice and interesting as usual....really good work ShraX!

[treydog]

More fine work from ShraX! Still an epic story, with great scenes and wonderful characters.

[ShraX]

The skeletal warrior burst straight through the battling elf and his kin toward the defenseless Naztheril, some yards away. It raised its halberd high and thrashed it about in the air as if it were nothing, and stamped its steel greaves, charging at him. The Beast knew Gaenor's skill was abnormally high in combat, but the sentry was too fast. Within seconds it was upon him, its putrid, scorched bones rattling in its armor, shaking violently while raising its arms to strike a downward cleave, severing his ancient life force from Azura and the mortal plane. The Bosmer's eyes grew red once more, and he shoved hard the three guards on him in hopes of saving his companion, but it was in vain. Gaenor's Blade was powerless to stop it, and it swung with full strength.

No, the elf's sword was unable to rescue Naztheril.. but another's was. As if by some miracle of unknown proportions, there he stood, clad in the royal plate of Cyrodiil, his tabard shimmering brightly and branding the undead's twisted memories with the Septim Dragon; it was the Prince, and his timing was much appreciated by the Beast, now toppled on the ground after losing balance from bracing for impact. "For the Empire!" he cried, and slid his edge off the skeleton's weapon as what seemed like an army of Imperial soldiers stormed into Valenwood, quickly dispatching their foes and securing the perimeter.

The travellers and the Prince greeted each other warmly and exchanged tales of their exploits since they last met. "Our abrupt parting bore fruit after all, my friend," explained the Prince, "for shortly after you left, my messengers from the southwest brought me news of Valenwood's sundering. I noticed your friend's badge depicting the Sun Tree, and only assumed his illness was due to this disaster. I called for anyone with a sword from throughout Cyrodiil in the name of the Empire, and so amassed this force to combat whatever evil dwells here. We are at your command, Gaenor." With that, he gave an enthusiastic bow to the two, and Naztheril smiled. The elf nodded in acknowledgement and pat the Prince on the shoulder, then sat off of weary legs.

"Iranon is our enemy," the Bosmer informed, "It seems he's taken unexpected precautions with his protection. Those undead fell to my Blade, but rose again moments after my killing blow had been inflicted. It was your Imperial steel that truly vanquished the fiends, from which a question arises; is Iranon himself immune to my Blade? My amulet had no effect either.. this troubles me." Naztheril gazed into deep thought as he did at such times, and the Prince gave an answer. "You realize Azura brought us together to bring light to this darkness. If our Imperial weapons were capable of smiting that which you could not, one could merely guess that simply any of my soldiers have the ability to defeat Iranon. So, take my sword, and we will defeat him with ease."

Gaenor knew it was more complicated than that. Although he was still unaware of Garonar's demise and transformation, he saw Iranon as a vicious and powerful threat, and doubted the Prince's men had what was necessary to best him. The other weight on his mind consisted of the Blade itself. It was his. He had become attached to it since first gripping its hilt long ago in the Ascadian Isles. He remembered Nels Llendo and his insane drive to but hold the Blade again outside Eredjan. 'Erek dian tor grodek.. that's what Nels said. Probably Daedric,' he thought.

Erek dian tor grodek. Freedom banish the wielder.

--------------------

[ShraX]

The Prince brought with him approximately 200 soldiers, mostly the men and women who saught revenge for Henar's near purging of Cyrodiil. Not all wore armor, but each were outfitted with a broadsword and tunic with the Septim family crest. The majority had fair combat training, as do the middle-class Imperials of the Empire, but some were farmers and peasants, unaccustomed to the ways of war. There were even a small few of different races that chose to take up arms against the darkness from Valenwood, including a Bosmer or two. Despite their differing lives, however, they stood ready to challenge Iranon and the threat he posed to all Tamriel.

A crude map of the nation was drawn in the rough dirt, and the two travellers and the Prince formulated a strategy.

"The Sun Tree has been felled," said Naztheril, "I felt its death in Goldstone Ridge. You see, since being sent to Valenwood those ages ago, I've grown a strong bond between my own spirit and that of this once-forested land. Iranon dwells on its severed trunk.. I know it."

"It will be difficult, but the only choice we have is to charge him. Tactics will do us nothing in combat with such a being, and Garonar could be with him," suggested Gaenor. "I will lead the charge with your men catching me up. I have experience with the warlock."

"Indeed. I can think of no better plan, and I trust your judgement. We march for the Tree's base in one hour. I will prepare our forces.

=====

The sword never left Iranon's grasp. He had been infused with such energy as to never tire from swinging it about, as it weighed nothing. He cleaved at burnt columns and trees, cackling wildly and sweating blood out of anxiousness. It seemed Garonar would not return, but the Argonian was deeply paranoid; he knew well what happened to his betrayers. He envisioned the hell he would experience if his essence was freed, and the unbearable transmogrifying of his soul into a twisted Daedra. He quickly glanced toward the eastern border and snarled. "Erek dian tor grodek! Erek bol hazik, ehk trun.. ehk trun.. ...Gaenor flur warkoz bitrim mubuz.. Master forgive me! Thine whim shalst be carried out, and my Blade shall welcome these hands as it did long ago!" He raised his arms and his sword grew darker than the charred earth on which he stood.

He paced back and forth quickly and returned to the great stump and his forge. The crafting tools and metal shavings on his work tables were then shoved off, leaving a ringing in his earholes. He shook violently yet his weapon remained still, and with a shattering screech he split his anvil in two and toppled to the floor.

"Hurry, elf.. I can feel the Blade's warmth more now," he muttered to himself. "You must be close. I've finished what you started, see?" He lifted the sword above his limp body and forcefully drove it into the stump below. "Now let us barter.. your sworn enemy for my Blade.. fair trade is it not?!" He laughed some more at empty space and rolled over, clenching his legs up to his chest. He was beyond desperation, and his yearning for the Blade of Cinders was stronger than ever. He would stop at no obstacle to hold it once more.

--------------------

[minque]

Oh aye...impressive as always....it´s amazing how much personality there is in the lil´bastarde.....

[Taillus]

Like Minque said. Quite impressive as always. Now that I am all caught up again I will be eager to read more!