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Fandom The Elder Scrolls: Immortals

Farseer of Ulthwe

Farseer of Ulthwe

You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing
ACT i - Origins​
Tamriel is in ruin. Skyrim is under the dictatorship of a drunken, cruel Nordic warlord. The land never flowed with milk and honey, and now it flows with blood. Armies have passed through the land, burning villages and looting peasants. In other lands, the Empire has crumbled, leaving Cyrodiil a mere fraction of what it once was. It is split, numerous factions that have branched out from the Empire are at war hopelessly trying to reestablish their former glory. Hammerfall and High Rock are at war over a dispute between the rulers. The war has been dubbed the Hundred Year War, and may continue beyond the length the name suggests. The Summerset Isle is a shadow of its once prosperous nature. Famine and disease grips the populace. A plague rips through the Isle, leaving only piles of necrotic tissue in its wake. Valenwood is experiencing a horrible drought, caused by an ancient curse. The large trees that towered over the Bosmer are now mere shriveled skeletons of dried wood. Rivers are polluted with the corpses of dead fish, as the curse takes hold of the wildlife as well. Elsweyr under the control of the Thalmor, who have grown in power in the last two Eras and split themselves from the Summerset Isles. They hold the Khajiit under their will with an iron fist. The Black Marsh is now abandoned, destroyed by the xenophobic Thalmor. They laid waste to massive bogs with fire. The Argonian population has dwindled and are a dying race. Morrowind is now divided. Argonians flee to the neighbouring province in order to find shelter. Some believe the refugees should be offered a chance, while the rest believe that the refugees should be kicked out, and left to their own devices.

However, from the ashes of Tamriel rose a single altmer. Mithron Adorin. Tired of seeing the world burn, he spent his life studying all he could. Politics, alchemy, medicine, magic. And war. He quickly gathered supporters from all Provinces and from the small guild, he formed a massive army of supporters. Mithron united Cyrodiil and its warring factions. He killed the warlord and allowed the people to elect their leader. He did the same with the Thalmor, overthrowing the leader and instated himself as the head of the guild.With the Thalmor, the Khajiit, the Nords and the Imperials he swept through the land and took Morrowind. However, despite his original selfless intentions, the power corrupted him, and within a few decades, he had total power, and became just as cruel as the previous rulers. Now, all he has left to conquer are the warring states of High Rock and Hammerfell. However, Mithron is smart. He will wait the war out; wait for one to take out the other. High Rock is defeated, and Mithron swiftly takes the weakened land. With all of the other provinces under his control, Hammerfell surrenders. Now, Tamriel is under one rule. Mithron is greedy. He is cruel. He is brutal. He is feared by all.

The year is 6E 853.

While the gods refuse to directly meddle with the mortals, they give them a little nudge. Each selects a champion, and has them meet together to form a guild of heroes. Heroes prepared to do unspeakable things in order to give Tamriel its freedom. They will not die until it is done. They are the Immortals.

Impoartant Information (READ BEFORE POSTING)
Out of Character Chat
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The rain seems to be easing.
For most of the morning, Makor and the warriors had taken shelter under the rocky overhang while rain lashed the surrounding woodland. As the last few drops patter on the ground, the orc looks at the sky, gray and unchanging.
It has been two days since Makor's father rode to to battle with Olzub gro-Shimok (a rival Orcish tribe that has forgotten the Way of Malacath), but Makor will not share this victory. At his orders, Makor finds himself patrolling the nearby forest, glory has never seemed so far away "We're wasting our time," Makor muttered under his breath for perhaps the tenth time today. Makor glances at Balgor, who stands beside Makor.
The aging blacksmith looks miserable as he pulls his hand over his face, wiping the water from his beard. "Shall we get moving again?" Balgor asks.
"Let's move, but be cautious, our enemies may be near." Makor replies.
Balgor nods in response, holding his sword tightly. Makor grabbed his axe and let his shield rest on his back. Both orcs looked around in caution, jumping in fear at the smallest noises.
About an hour later, Balgor and Makor were both exhausted. Icy breath exited their nostrils as they exhaled. "It's almost dark. We should be getting back to camp." Makor says. Balgor nodded slightly and wiped the beads of sweat that formed around his forehead. Makor steps forward a pace, then hears the whistling of an arrow. The arrow goes straight into Balgor's head. The next arrow just barely misses Makor. Makor grabbed the war-horn that always stayed on his belt and mustered up all of the little strength he had lift in him to notify his tribe. The orc grabbed his shield and lifted it up, ready for the next set of arrows to come. Little did he know, about forty orcs are going to come out of the forest and kill all of Makor's tribe using the element of surprise. The first wave of orcs charge at Makor. Makor lifts up his shield, "Malacath be with me." he muttered, eyeing all ten of the orcs. Just in time, Makor's tribe came charging. They outnumbered this wave, but they were all surely going to die in the next battle.
Now the whole army came in. There were around fifty or sixty rival orcs in total, but this didn't stop Makor and his tribe.
 
Sauriil wasn’t exceptionally good looking. An understatement. Oblivion, even a homeless Nordic old man wouldn’t dare look at him. Firstly, he was old. Being the Nerevarine, he had been alive for over three eras. While the effects of aging may not have changed him in terms of mental and physical health, time still weathered his appearance. Now, should one ignore such a countenance, they would find no comfort. A scar ran across his face, from his eyebrow, over his eyelid and down to his cheekbone. His flesh clung to his cheekbones, pronouncing his skull; almost as if he had no skin at all. His right eye, on the same side as the scar, was gouged out when a starving altmer attacked him for a scrap of stale bread. Staring into that eye, one would not find his soul. Only a black abyss. That half of his face was covered in tattoos, forming an intricate design of fiery vines tipped with leaves. His beard was scraggly, and hugged his chin tightly. His hair was rough and all over the place. It was unevenly cut on one side and had a sickening greyish-white colour. He wore a pitch black robe-like jerkin; its brim hanging near the top of his boots. Around his waist was a wide belt, covered in uniformed steel-grey metal studs. Around his shoulders hung a black cloak, closed around his chest. The shoulder and chest regions of the cloak were covered in raven feathers.


Despite his appearance, Sauriil was wise and a powerful mage. He was grandfather to Mithron Adorin, the emperor of Tamriel. He was royalty. Lately, he had been noticing a slack in Mithron’s moral compass. He knew the power was getting to him. So, he made the decision to confront him. Things were said, and threats were exchanged. It ended about as well as one would expect. He was thrown into the dungeons for treason, and was to be sent to a “correctional” camp. Mithron was getting crueler and crueler by the passing of each day.


Sauriil reached the so-called correctional camp. Gods, it looked more like a prisoner of war camp than anything else. In the western end of the camp was a massive cesspool, filled with feces and urine. Corpse of prisoners floated in the lake of waste, some fresh, others not so. The oldest one was already rotting, with maggots crawling in and out of its eyes, ears and other orifices. The camp smelled of blood, urine, feces and sweat. There were prisoners being struck with barbed whips; their backs were raw because of the older wounds, and turned inside out because of the newer wounds. The convicts were seldom fed and, thus, their ribs were almost leaping out of their torsos. Many of them were wearing clothes too large for them as a result. Despite their frail forms, they were still forced to break large boulders into smaller stones, which were to be used as building material. The prisoners were also the primary construction workers for the state of Mithron. Baths were rare and many of the prisoners had the mange, gangrene and other infections. It was truly a horrifying sight. Sauriil was tossed into an already overcrowded tent.


A guard spat as the old altmer fell to the wet, muddy earth. ‘Grab a pick’ an’ get ta work.’


Sauriil slowly stood up, and looked around. Countless new convicts are brought in each day. This is but one camp. He weaved through the large claustrophobic area and grabbed a pickaxe. Once again, he waded through the sea of people and made it outside. He coughed, the pungent metallic odour of blood mixed with sweat filled the air. The sky was a dull grey, covered in clouds. A thick blanket fog laid over the blackened mud. It all gave an almost monochromatic effect. The only colours truly visible were blackish-browns and greys.
 
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5E912 Under-Temple of the Velothiid In Ald Sotha on Masser

Today was the day after Jubal-lun-Sul had slain Numidium he had proven himself, the Dather of the high Alm would marry one who had once been a salt merchant, but now he was something more. Lorelv though that was not her name was the daughter to be wed and it was she that had first said yes to his porposal. Still it had been Memory the creation of Shet who had tasked him with slaying Numidium. That had been required for this event to even happen. Not because of anything the brass god had done, but because that had made Jubal-lun-Sul learn what needed to be known to bring about the completion of the grand design. Once long ago, long before landfall hand all but destroyed Nirn Lorelv hand tried to by herself achieve what was about to happen, but she could not do it, not alone at least. She had not gone by that name then as she did not go by it now but soon would go by it.

The guests of the wedding were gathering the entire race of the dunmer, was here for today and so were greater beings, Akatosh, Almamexia, Sotha Sil, Molag bal, and a great many more. This wedding was something special and they all knew it even if they could not tell why, and even those that knew why could not help but feel how special it was, and yet it was like something was wrong. Looking out ad unseen Lorelv could see them all it was as if all that lived where here gods and mortals none were left out yet scanning out she saw that something or someone was missing or not quite here. She could see the dragon, the first and the last of the dragons Akatosh. He was there but he was not all there a complete uncompleted being broken and whole as if something were not quite all there.

What Lorelv suspected would be confirmed by one she did not suspect woudl be the one to do so Lorkahn a hole where his heart should be. There was no need for words between the two as both knew now what the dragon hid, he was broken. It was as the two knew that Akatosh entered or rather he had already been that as he had always been there as he was needed to be there. The three then spoke of what was happening and the broken dragon revealed that for thousands of years he had been broken and never healed. Time had split one timeline taking its natural course the other lingering on limping and rotting a corpse that did not know it should have died.

Time needed to be fixed two made one so that the one might become another as it should. Still the two gods in the room could not go for one was dead and the other was there but unable to act as he did now then. Then he was whole, or would be whole to himself for the break was hat strong that he was one made two broken complete wholes. Thus it was Lorelv who was there but was not her for her names was not yet Lorelv but would be could go for she had and was mortal or at least she did not share her same essence as the her there for she was not her yet. So it was that she would become Lorelv and to help her accomplish what she must Lorkhan had a gift, his missing heart, the spirit of the world now dead yet living then, his blood the blood of the world shed so that the next might come, and his form the two above and the snake unseen watching the world.

The dragon gave nothing for such would break him even more, all he could do was give the one going back the way back, yet he could not send her to the best when to change things only a when so that she might correct it. It would have to be enough as if not corrected both worlds woudl linger beyond their time and what needed to be born could never be born. Lorelv now called such nodded and took a step through time and to another place, a dead world no longer dead a future that should not exist with people who could not do so.
 
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As brighter grows light, darker becomes shadow. So it passed that the Daedra Molag Bal looked on Arkay and thought the Aedra prideful of his dominion o’er the death of man and mer, and it was sooth.

Bal, whose sphere is the wanton oppression and entrapment of mortal souls, sought to thwart Arkay, who knew that not man, nor mer, nor beastfolk of all Nirn could escape eventual death. The Aedra was doubtless of his sphere, and so Molag Bal set upon Nirn to best death.

Tamriel was still young, and filled with danger and wondrous magick when Bal walked in the aspect of a man and took a virgin, Lamae Beolfag, from the Nedic Peoples. Savage and loveless, Bal profaned her body, and her screams became the Shrieking Winds, which still haunt certain winding fjords of Skyrim. Shedding a lone droplet of blood on her brow, Bal left Nirn, having sown his wrath.

Violated and comatose, Lamae was found by nomads, and cared for. A fortnight hence, the nomad wyrd-woman enshrouded Lamae in pall for she had passed into death. In their way, the nomads built a bonfire to immolate the husk. That night, Lamae rose from her funeral pyre, and set upon the coven, still aflame. She ripped the throats of the women, ate the eyes of the children, and raped their men as cruelly as Bal had ravished her.

And so; Lamae, (who is known to us as blood-matron) imprecated her foul aspect upon the folk of Tamriel, and begat a brood of countless abominations, from which came the vampires, most cunning of the night-horrors. And so was the scourge of undeath wrought upon Tamriel, cruelly mocking Arkay’s rhythm of life and death through all the coming eras of the et'Ada, and for all his sadness, Arkay knew this could not be undone.

After Bal had learned of his atrocity he gave unto her his power, she despised this as she did he and Arkay, but still he championed her. His plot was for her to lead he and his into power on Nirn but not directly, and her's was the opposite. As Lamae grew older the fondness of her children grew likewise, and so did her hatred towards Bal and his. She began a scheme herself to defeat and replace Molag Bal.
 
Ko'Sharra the All-Knowing
A nondescript hut can be seen in the woods of Cyrodiil. It looked like a simple, one-roomed hut that you could frequently see around these parts. Strangely though, aside from the plant life, it seemed quite devoid of life. It's almost like something is warding them off. As simple as the hut seems, something just doesn't seem quite right.

The inside of the hut certainly doesn't match the outside. The walls are all lined with bookshelves, each books amicably and lovingly arranged. A simple yet comfortable looking bed in a corner of the room, looking well slept in and the sheets neatly folded. On a chair across a desk sat the owner of the house, a female Khajiit caressing a well-groomed cat as she read a book. It certainly seemed normal, heartwarming even, except for the fact that the Khajiit was blind and that the book itself was talking.

"So you witnessed the havoc Dagoth Ur wrought upon Morrowind, experienced Mehrunes Dagon's invasion of Nirn in Cyrodiil, and observed and recorded Alduin's return to Skyrim, yet when Tamriel itself is destroying itself, you stay in a wretched hut in the middle of who -knows-where, eat sweetrolls every breakfast, and sleep for most of the day?" The indignant and exasperated voice coming from the book said, seemingly chewing out the Khajiit. If books could look annoyed, this one did. The Khajiit just smiled, caressing the chin of the cap on her lap. "Patience Eternity." She purred, " Ko'Sharra thinks that now is not the time to interfere."

She didn't particularly seemed to care about what was happening in the world around her. She may seem like someone of no worth lazing around all day, and they're most certainly right. She was of no worth merely because no one even knew of her. While others seek glory and honor, their tales of grandeur and might being sung in taverns all over Tamriel, this one seeks none of those. She merely sought out knowledge. Big knowledge, small ones, world defining answers, or mundane questions, none of those mattered to her. To her, all knowledge are worth knowing. This does not mean that she wanted to impart these knowledges to the world. She has no such goal nor ambition. Her goal began and ended in the acquisition of those knowledge.

"As you have said, my dear friend, Ko'Sharra have lived through those terrible times, and Ko'Sharra have seen what have happened. Believe Ko'Sharra, something grander is to come. For when the night is at its darkest that light shines the brightest." She chuckled as she said it, seemingly amused. The cat on her lap mewed, licking her fingers affectionately. "See, even little J'Khar agrees with me."

"Look here, I have no idea what you're going with, but I'm not telling you to save the world. I'm just saying, why in Oblivion would you prefer to rot in this wretched hut than to see and record whatever the fuck is going on out there!" The book hysterically roared in outrage, its pages flapping wildly. The book, had it had hands and fingers, would no doubt be making rude gestures towards the blind cat. Which would serve no purpose since the Khajiit is blind.

"Ah, so you were bored were you not?" The Khajiit said, raising her eyebrows knowingly. "Fear not, we shall be heading out soon." Ko'Sharra said as she rose from her chair, the cat on her lap nimbly jumping off her lap. She was clothed in a seemingly simple mage's garb, were it not for the countless magickal formations written all over it. On her neck is a loose piece of rope, eerily looking like a hangman's noose and a glove draped over her hand seemingly covered in bones. Strangest of all was the floating orb hover near the Khajiits head, the eye engraved on it starting to glow.

Out of nowhere, a void opened in front of the Khajiit. It was nothing and everything at once, it's visage too incomprehensible and complex for mortal eyes. It wriggled and trashed around like a mass of tentacles, yet the voice that came from it was the most terrifying thing of all. It was hollow and filled, depraved and holy, evil and benign. It whispered and shouted, wanting to remain hidden ad yearning to be heard. It whispers all the knowledge the world has to offer, all you need to do was listen... And pay the price.

"Ko'Sharra told you my friend, the grandest show is about to start." She whispered to the book, kneeling reverently in front of the void. "Hermaeus Mora, prince of fate and knowledge, your most loyal servant listens."​
 
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Callenix
It was an odd day, Callenix just felt it inside of him, he knew something was bound to happen, maybe it was a premonition or maybe, turning 29 was getting to him. The Imperial looked in his cup of cheap ale as it reflected his battle scarred face, his eyes had a dull and lazy look paired with his reflective grey eyes, he had the look of someone who was bored and needed some spice in his life. His beard was steadily growing, making him almost unrecognizable as the leader of the Fighter's guild. His nose had many scars on it, bringing back the memories of getting punched, kicked, cut, slashed, smashed, etc. His face always carried that ugly smug grin that made many hate as he looked upon his opponent deciding life or death.

As he took his next swig of his ale, he began feeling bored again. This sensation of being bored resonated through his muscles, might I add well toned from years of training, he wanted something to invigorate him to give him that sensation that you feel when you fight someone of your caliber, but alas that wouldn't happen and even though he held hope he knew that these hopes would probably not come true. The people who fought in the fighters guild weren't good enough to pose a thre...

wait hold that thought, what if I only fought with magic... nah

Callenix went back to gulping down his drink, then after he was finished he walked out and as soon as he walked outside he realized the beautiful view of the place that he loved the most, the Imperial City. But, alas he couldn't enjoy this view because of that Mithron guy who started conquering Tamriel a while back.

Maybe conquering Tamriel is fun... nah, sounds too time consuming

As Callenix walked outside, he was pointed at by the guards and they went to apprehend him. They said that he was to be put in jail in a just manner as long as he complied with the law. Now Callenix understood why he felt that premonition and he knew why this was happening exactly, kinda, sort of. He had slight power within the Empire due to leading the Fighters guild and not openly supporting Mithron, most likely led to this. But, this was that sensation he wanted to feel. He started to fight the guards that came at him and eventually when he knocked out the 48 guard, he ran away and left the city. He didn't know what to do, where to go, but he felt a divine light leading him somewhere.

(going to sleep)
 
It was a wonderfully dull day In Passwall, when the Mazkin, the daedra of Dementia, and bodyguard of Tambur's lord and patron Daedra Sheogorath, had come to collect the young Lilmothiit. It was a surprise for him at first, for it was something New! Dark Seducers In Passwall?! Why that hadn't happen since the Grey March. And He knew all about that, Stanley the Grapefruit told him! Or did he tell Stanley? Tambur would forget sometimes.. Or did he sometimes forget himself? His pondering was cut short when a rather rough Mazkin, and not rough in the fun way mind you, hauled the young Semi-sane lilmothiit to his feet.

Where are they taking me? Did I cause some kind of offense to the Mad God? He thought as he was led away from his dear friend Stanley, offering one last wave of farewell. He had decided to keep his silence for now, and not voice his concerns. Why ruin the surprise!

The sound of boots on cobblestone filled the air, as the group lead Tambur past the gate guard, a rather large fellow, who didn't seem to like talk much. Must be that helmet he wears. Either way, getting back on track, the small armed group of seducers led him through the gates of dementia, and for days they traveled, killing Scalon, Grummites, and Baliwogs. A rather fun, and bonding time with his dark escort of Seducers.

It was during these travels that he found a prize that shall forever remain curious to those of New Sheoth. Passing into the courtyard the young Lilmothiit spotted the old odd, crystal obelisks. He knew what they were, and that back during the days of the Last Grey March, The Grey Knights of Order would use these crystal pillars to enter the isles from the Realm of order. But this was not what took Tambur's attention. No! It was what was sticking out of the obelisk of the mania side of New Sheoth. Wedged into the crystal obelisk, was a blade made up of the same material as that of the obelisk itself! Grasping the hilt of the blade, he pulled the weapon free, with relative ease. The blades perfect white crystal, quickly tarnishing and losing it's luster. The blade had sat in the isles for centuries, and much like the matrices that cutter uses to enchant madness ore, the weapon had absorbed the magic and madness of the land into itself.

His reveling was cut short when a couple of the ever so haughty Aureals, so lovingly dragged him the rest of the way to the palace. Tambur didn't mind much. From there the rest became a bit of a blur. Some bits about becoming his Lord's champion, some other about tearing his intestines out and jumping rope with them. He didn't like that last one much, preferring to keep his intestines where they were. It was at that time, things became strange. Stranger than most things that happen in the Isles. Tambur Passed out.

When he awoke, he heard the whispers of his lord, telling him the secrets of the Dwemer. Or was it Haskill that was talking to him? Anyhow, he found himself back in Passwall, with a mission, A Quest, A Purpose in life! Making his way through the portal from the Isles to Nirn, he stepped through with a tune on his lips, and a song in his heart, for his stomach was clear, and his mind full of bacon. Or was it the other way around?
 
Donan Rafeus

Cheydinhal was but a ghost of its past beauty; the once quaint town with simple Dunmer architecture was now gnarled and maimed from the war. Everything seemed to be in disrepair, from the largest building to the smallest chair. Poverty riddled its streets, making it even harder for Cheydinhal's inhabitants to recover from the flame of war. As a result of this, gangs have started to form in the surrounding area in order to secure resources for themselves and even raid the remnants of Cheydinhal for the smallest scrap of food or coin.

A few months ago, Donan (at the time, a self-proclaimed Paladin of Mara) set off on a trek through the land of Cyrodiil to spread the words of the Nine, specifically Mara's in this apocalyptic time: Live soberly and peacefully. Honor your parents, and preserve the peace and security of home and family. Without a reminder for compassion, the people of Nirn could be driven further into violence and death and famine. And Donan felt that, although being one man, he could remind the people of this world how to love and appreciate what they had, and to work towards the greater good of the future. One step at a time. Eventually he came across Cheydinhal and witnessed the misdeeds that former citizens would commit upon each other.

Donan would stay at Cheydinhal for several weeks to heal the minds of the townspeople, until several gang members attempted to root him out of the area with threats of death.

"You are misguided. Pillaging resources for yourself is not the best for you, nor the people of this town! Mothers, fathers, and children are starving to death and living in what seems to be a realm of Oblivion, thanks to your actions." Donan's nostrils flared with anger as he stood in Cheydinhal's square, surrounded by a small gang consisting of Nords, Imperials, and Dunmer. Each of them carried some form of weapon, whether it be an axe or a sword. "Kill me if you wish, but I won't let you assail this town anymore..." Donan raised his shield and drawing his sword from its leather scabbard. "May Her mercy reign over you."

Of course, one man against a gang of eight or so men didn't turn out too well. Although able to take down a few men, Donan was eventually beat within an inch of his life; stabs and bruises littered his body. It was then that the gang's leader decided to make an example of this Paladin of Mara: Donan was to be crucified in the town's square.

As Donan was raised upwards and nails excruciatingly pierced his wrists, a voice boomed throughout the minds in the town. A heavenly, soothing voice. A voice so soft, it felt as if a gentle breeze flew through your hair and over your face, calming your senses as it spoke. Although, it seemed only to address the gang and Donan. "My Children... So vastly have you strayed from the most essential and basic path of all: to show compassion, to love." The voice paused briefly, almost as if it were ashamed. "You will remember your old ways. You will treat each man and woman and child as if they were a brother or sister. Share the necessities of life: honor, respect, and love." The voice rang throughout each citizen's mind, seemingly changing their outlook. The gang slowly dropped their weapons, and began to weep as they realize their crimes against their proverbial brothers and sisters. "Bring him down." Expediently the long, rusted nails were shucked from Donan's body and he was let down to lay against the cross. His wounds began to heal, and a holy light shone from his eyes. Addressing Donan solely, the voice spoke expectantly of him "Your willingness to battle very much against the odds in order to preserve the well-being of these people was a truly valiant deed. I've been presiding over you in months past, Donan. I believe that you are truly fitting to become my champion. A Champion of Mara. You will spread my word of love across this desolate land, and help restore Nirn to order. My blessing shall be with you." A power surged through Donan, unlike any he other felt. Looking to the ground, he picked up his Lightbringer. Its blade rang with a radiant, warm energy. He was now what he so desperately wished for: A Champion of Mara.
And now, it was time for him to heal the world.​
 
Makor charges at the first orc he sees. The orc wraps his arms around his foe's waist and mustered up all of his strength to push his opponent into a nearby boulder. Makor's enemy is slammed into a wall before he takes a knee to the jaw. Makor finishes off his opponent with a with a clean swipe with his axe, decapitating his opponent. Makor eyed the skirmish with a grim look on his face. Makor and his tribe have won this battle.
The few remaining rivals keep their distance, their blades held ready, before a shrill horn blast echos through the forest.
Balgor wipes his blade on the clothes of a fallen orc, sheathing his weapon and then walks over to Makor, "How many?" Makor asks, still looking around.
"Five of theirs," he replies, "for two of our own. We should follow our attackers while their tracks are still fresh, but we cannot forget the dead. Their bodies should be bound and sent back to Orsinium immediately."
"We need all our warriors. Bury them here and be done with it."
 
Sauriil had been working for days now, with minimal rest and a couple of hours of rest in between. He had already gotten used to the smell; he couldn't tell if that was a good thing (in that he couldn't smell the odour anymore) or a bad thing (in that he's in a situation that has an odour to get used to). Cursed Mithron. It's always the prodigies who go half mad.

Sauriil had taught Mithron the arcane ways himself and he taught him well. Unfortunately. While he taught him much of his knowledge, the altmer was no fool. He knew that power can corrupt and kept the most potent spells to himself. Thank Auri-El he did, as well. Otherwise who knows the havoc his grandson would have wreaked upon Tamriel. He sighed. He remembered a time when Tamriel was peaceful. No, not peaceful. It was never peaceful, but at least there was some sense of order amongst the war and death. He continued to chip at the large stone. Couldn’t they use bloody mages for this shit?

He could have easily flown out of here, or better yet, teleported out of here, had they not used magicka dampeners to hinder his use of sorcery. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but smile. Mithron was never a fool, I would have been proud of what he has made of himself, if he wasn’t a sadistic dictator.

As Sauriil worked, he saw something. Off in the distance, a pale light in the shape of a man. It was probably all the dust that he was breathing in. Maybe it was affecting his mind. Little did he know what stood before was no illusion. The others did see it, but he did. And he was about to find out why. As he wiped the dust from his eyes the figure was gone; but he heard a voice in its place.

‘Gaze upon the guard near the stone you strike.’ The guard nodded as Sauriil looked at him. ‘Follow him.’

Sauriil saw that the guard’s eyes glowed a pale yellow and his blood vessels shimmered with a similar glow. Within a few moments both faded, leaving only a slight glow that can only be seen if deliberately looked for. He didn’t know what to think, but it was better than being stuck in this hellhole. And so, he followed him. He was lead main tent of the camp, where prisoners were brought and transferred to other correctional camps.

‘Hey, Rollo! Whaddya doin’ with him?’ The guard who stood at the exit of the tent stepped forward.

The formerly glowing guard, apparently named Rollo, replied, though Sauriil wasn’t sure if it was his words, ‘Orders from up high. They want him moved to a different camp. Here.’ He pulled a letter out with a signature and a wax seal next to it.

The guard groaned, ‘No one tells us shit down here. Alright, yer good to go.’

Rollo tied a rope (enchanted with a drain magicka spell, by the feel of it) around Sauriil’s wrists and tossed him in the back of a cart. They were mounting to-be transferred prisoners on other carts and there were still countless more to move, yet as soon as the altmer entered his, they rode off. What in Oblivion is going on? Are they letting me go? Who would want me out?

They crossed a bridge and continued on the path until they reached a small remote village with only a couple of houses, an inn-store hybrid and a makeshift temple, what appeared to be a former shop. Strange. Most strange.

The guard pulled him down and untied the rope. He pointed to the pseudo-temple. ‘Go.’

Sauriil did so, but cautiously. He felt the magicka flow through his essence again, and he prepared a Shockball. He covered the spell with his hand and slowly walked into the temple. It was empty, ignoring a single altar with a shrine to Anui-El. Now he was intrigued; Anui-El was no longer worshipped by the general populace, and this small village didn’t seem too occult or keen to keep the old ways. Kneeling at the shrine was a single altmer, wearing white robes with beautiful, intricate runes. It looked like the language of the Aldmer. The runes constantly shifted and changed, and emanated with power. The monk completed his prayer and turned to Sauriil.

‘We’ve been expecting you, Sauriil Adorin.’
 
Callenix Cavogren
Callenix kept following this light that he saw it was a slim bright orange glow that just screamed divine, at least to Callenix it did. He walked and walked and the light just seemed to move away from him and that's also when this voice popped into his head started to talk, the voice was soft and smooth and soothed Callenix as he heard it.

"Callenix! listen well, my name is Akatosh." The world seemed to shake once he had said that and everything around Callenix had changed, it was as if he was falling in a void. Then, the world shook again as Callenix stood in a temple, with nothing but a group of people wearing the Septim's famed royal clothing and they all had on a Amulet of Kings, which was odd because after Martin had died the Amulet of Kings he was wearing dissipated. Then they raised their heads and they were immediately recognizable. They stood in a circle in chronological order, farthest to the left was Martin Septim, next to him was Uriel the Seventh, Pelagius the Fourth, Morihatha, Uriel the Sixth, Uriel the Fifth, Cephorus the Second, Uriel the Fourth, Cassynder, Katariah, Pelagius the Third, Magnus, Cephorus, Uriel the Third, Kintyra the Second, Antiochus, Pelagius the Second, Uriel the Second, Uriel, Kintyra, Pelagius, Tiber (basic knowledge for true Imperial) and there was someone in the middle across from Callenix who hadn't raised his head yet, but Callenix already figured out who Tiber was, so who was this guy. While Callenix was gawking, he managed to kneel and then they all said at once. "Stand", So Callenix did exactly that. The person with his head still down lifted his head and said, "Young and mighty Callenix. You are next in line to inherit the Third Empire and bring it back to glory, but before you do this you must first deal with that tyrant Mithron who mistakenly thinks he rules over Tamriel." Then the shrine that the person who just talked, who he realized was Akatosh, was standing in front off lit up and a power rushed into Callenix and just like that he turned into a small dragon, that stood on two legs and was slightly smaller than a Giant, with a Amulet around its neck. Then, Callenix was transported out of the temple and back to the real world, where he finally had a purpose. For now Callenix wandered around Cyrodiil with no clue as to where to go.
 
Stepping through the portal, and onto Nirn, Tambur found found himself on a small chunk of land in the center of the Niben Bay. To his surprise, he wasn't the only one there as he was held up by one of Bravil's finest. The imperial was clearly terrified of Tambur, if the guard's shaky sword point was anything to go by.

"Stay away from me. You're from the other side! You're Mad! Everyone that comes through is Mad!" The Guard cried, clearly getting towards the end of his rope. Seeing that the only way to continue on, would be to get past this first madman. And Yes, This guard has clearly gone mad from fear; Tambur would have to push him over the edge of the proverbial cliffs of sanity.

"Greetilings!" The Lilmothiit said with a smile, before popping up behind the fearful man. "THAT IS A GOOD-LOOKING BEARD YOU HAVE THERE SIR." Tambur said startling the poor bastard, before standing now at the edge of the small Island. "I too have a beard." the mad fox continued, pointed at his furry visage. "Have you seen my beard? It is full of... Tiny men." Then suddenly he was up beside said guard showing him that in fact the fur was indeed full of tiny men. "Please. KILL THEM ALL!" Tambur bellowed, finally pushing the human over the edge and into madness.

"Well Done my champion! I've been working on turning this one since I put that door there!" Sheogorth boomed from the portal, filling the Lilmothiit with pride. "Haskill had brought it to my attention, that I should reward you for your efforts. Not even ten minutes out of the Isles, and already you're making me proud! Here, Take this trinket. Forgot to give it to you before you left." And with that, there was a small pop, and a large spear appeared in Tambur's hands. "Now, go to find the other Champions. I've got other things to do! Tah!"
 
Neekaza Lazarus​

"No, please, I beg of you don't! I'll change I swe-" Before the man had even known what had happened Neekaza had plunged the blade he wield in his hand into the man's chest, him falling to his knees when Neekaza had finished him off with a quick slice to the neck followed by a thump. Death had taken him in an instant. His disgusting head roll across the snowy ground as the rest of his body fell limp, lifeless. Neekaza hadn't even cared that he had just killed a man, beheading him with his own greatsword and sending him to the Dread Father. To him it was a menial task to kill bandits. Even if it meant that they could no longer harm innocents, he really couldn't care less the cause or whatever happened, he did it solely by the will of Sithis. There had been some rather unsavory individuals he'd heard of, being directed towards them and carrying out the task as any other contract, and for that sole reason was he wandering along the Jerall Mountains. Having been wandering the mountain range for a few days now he made a makeshift tent along the mountain side mostly for a shelter from the blizzard. Even though he had never feared the cold, or even felt it, he still thought it best to lay low until he could actually see where he was walking without being blinded by snow. Sitting up in his tent he spent the days waiting and sharpening his blade. He was beginning to think the storm would never end, and if that were the case then he couldn't afford to stay there any longer but going outside he risked getting lost in the blizzard. Cursing under his breath, he began packing the few things he had managed to come across in the mountain range during his time spent, and left the makeshift tent out into the harsh winter winds. Neekaza hadn't the slightest clue how long he had been up in the mountain but he sure in Oblivion wasn't going to stay there. After throwing the fur cloak he had salvaged over his shoulders and tying it up, Neekaza headed down the path way that led down the mountain side to Serpent's Trail.

Neekaza had been walking for some time hoping that the storm would come to an end but to no avail. He could barely see anything that wasn't within a few feet, not that there was anything to see. Aside from the odd boulder there wasn't much to see in the snowy mountain range. He was lucky he hadn't veered very far off the path, at least he hoped he hadn't. As he trudged on he couldn't tell whether he was nearing the bottom of the seemingly endless pass or whether he still had a ways to go, there was one way to find out. The longer he trekked onwards he couldn't seem to shake off the feeling that he was being watched, or even worse, followed. It was hard to hear over the sound of the roaring winter winds but he had managed to catch a faint growl, coming to a halt to investigate. Footsteps could now be heard, more like giant feet hitting the ground in a rapid succesion, kind of like a giants and as he turned around right at the last moment he just barely managed to dodge a boulder being hurled at him from afar. His vision narrowed in front of him where he could see the faint silhouette of a large yet bulky form. As he got up from his prone position he then came to realize what it was, a loud roar confirming his suspicions. Ogres. His hand just barely made it to his blade in time as the hulking creature charged at him, fists ready to pound him to the ground. Neekaza had manged to get behind it however, jumping up as he slammed his blade into the Ogres back which caused a horrid shriek of pain from it. It reached its hands behind it to try and grab him but Neekaza was faster, striking its right arm only to roll once more, this time to get in front of it, and finished it off with another strike to the neck. However, the strike never hit and Neekaza had found himself thrown 10 feet away, hitting the icy ground with a loud thud as he skid across the snow. His vision blurred but even through the storm he managed to make out yet another Ogre. Just his luck. Using the strength he had left he mustered as much magicka as he could, his sword being knocked out of his hand, pouring at least half into a lightning strike which pierced the Ogre who had thrown him directly in the heart, a scorching whole replacing the area which once gave its body life. It was then that Neekaza felt a sharp pain in his side, noticing the third Ogre to have arrived yet striking him in the side. His vision blurred as he tried to get back up, determined not to die here but he was outmatched and half beaten to death. He lifted himself up onto one knee, trying to make out where the creatures were. To Neekaza this was an annoyance, and one that might cost him his life at that.

"Such pity." Said a voice. He hadn't known where it was coming from, time seeming to slow down around him strangely but none the less Neekaza wasn't one to question such things. "A pitiful way to die, meeting your end at the hand of mere Ogres." The voice was but a whisper in his head causing it to throb even more. Neekaza almost dismissed it as him going insane from being up in the mountains too long and likely the beating he took in the head but something about the voice seemed oddly familiar to him. "All will eventually turn to nothing, but alas not yet, for there are greater matters to attend to than trivial contracts in the mountains." Responded the voice. Neekaza looked up to the sky, the snow seeming to stop even at the sound of this dark whisper. Although he did not know the source of the voice, he knew what it had been referring to. "You speak of Mithron Adorin?" He asked
"The Nerevarine's grandson, the false emperor. He brings not one but many calamities, in which those he has already caused."
"What's this have anything to do with me?"
"You are needed to help in defeating him, no mere man can stop him for his power is too great as is and shall only continue to grow."
"Why have I been chosen out of countless others who through themselves in worship to you?"
"Unlike others, you do not let the impossible stop you from achieving your goal. You stare death in the face and are not fazed. You have no fear. Keep in mind, there are others as well. Though for you, you shall do my bidding for I the Dread Father commands it."
Neekaza's eyes widened as he realized the voice was that of Sithis'. He rose to his feet, the Ogres seeming to drop to the ground as he did so. Placing his right forearm across his chest he bowed his head slightly in response. "Guide me so I may carry out your will, Father."
"I bestow upon you the power of darkness, shadow, and death, use it wisely. " Neekaza nodded, and with that the whisper of what was Sithis' dissipated, now replaced with the howling of the wind, Neekaza felt a surge of darkness course through his veins. He could feel the dark power begin to imbue itself to him, becoming a part of him. He knew now what was needed of him, turning around the back up the pass to which he came where he set out to Bruma.
 
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Baragon
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The sight made his blood boil. The rotted, fetid corpse of a juvenile black bear chained to a tree, stabbed several times over and shot with several arrows, most of them missing vital areas. They just left it here to rot and whiter away into dust. They did not bother taking the skin, harvesting any of the meat, or even a single claw for alchemic purposes. Baragon knelt down and took a closer look at the corpses mouth to find at least four teeth missing. Bastards had to have their trophy didn't they?, he mused. Dorga, Rolf, and Lago each sniffed at the corpse, backing away from the scent of the bear. Looking at all the arrows that missed their mark and were stuck in the tree, it was no wonder they didn't skin the disgraced beast. These fraudulent "hunters" were utterly devoid of any meaningful skill. Conjuring a bound war axe, he freed the body of its restraint. The meat was far too spoiled to bother harvesting and the skin had far too many lacerations to consider collecting its fur, so Baragon did the only thing that seemed sensible. After finding a decent clearing and collecting the necessary materials, he burned the corpse, ridding the forest of one more piece of decaying filth. Building himself another, separate fire he sat against a log and began cooking a hare and a couple of squirrels he had hunted and skinned earlier.

Hunting was becoming more and more of a chore each passing day. This dead bear was the fifth wasted corpse he had found in less than two weeks. First it was a couple of wolves, than a boar, next a sabertooth tiger, and now a bear. All of them had been dispatched in similar fashion. Chained to a tree or rock and done away with in a most unsporting fashion. He knew who was doing this. Some of the local nobles had taken to the newest fad of having their underlings or a hired magika user subdue the predators, secure them, and when the animals awoke, the nobles could have their fun and gloat to their inner circles that they had bagged a vicious predator. Such a cruel joke it was. Where was the honor? Where was the fairness in these reprehensible practices? How could these great creatures compete against such terrible odds?

And that was just the predatory animals. Game animals such as deer and foxes didn't fair much better. They were being killed in droves. For Hircine's sake, they were even aiming for birds. And why were they doing this? For there lavish feasts of course. Since when do you have to have so many feasts and grand gatherings in such a short space of time? The worst offender was of course the emperor himself. These days Baragon couldn't travel a mile in the forest without running across the minions of the royalty and higher nobility, laying waste to all the game they came across. Him and most other hunters were struggling to make ends meet. The forests and open planes, once so full of life were quickly becoming shallow husks of what they once were. Baragon used to be thankful that it was just the cities and their surrounding towns and villages that suffered under the tyranny of the emperor...now Mithron's wretched rule had reached the wilderness.

He was pulled out of his troubling thoughts by the quiet whining of his four legged companions. They were quite hungry as was he. "Oh very well you big babies. Let's get you fed." He pulled the skewer off the fire, pulling meat off the rabbit and squirrels for the wolves. They eagerly chowed down on their share. Splitting open the hare, he gingerly took out some organ meat, savoring their rich flavors. "Why would anyone throw away the best parts?" The meal was cut short unfortunately when he heard several pairs of feet making their way towards his camp...
 
Makor sets his patrol to finding stones, clumps of earth, wood and anything else that will form a cairn, while Makor and Balgor drag the bodies of the dead warriors to a sheltered spot a small distance from the path. Soon the bodies are obscured from sight. The process takes a little while, but at least Makor doesn't lose any of any more of his patrol.
One of Makor's warriors, Gulgug, is a skilled tracker, and she leads the way through the forest. Makor and Balgor follow behind her.
"The scumbags that attacked us," Makor says as he walks, "they wore the same black jerkin as the man we found dead on the trail. Were they in the same tribe?"
"It would seem so," Balgor replies. "though whether they have fled from the battle or are mustering here for a separate attack, I do not know."
"And the one on the trail, with his throat cut," Makor continues. "Who did that, and why were his companions there?"
"I suspect that his companions themselves may have been responsible. I think he was bait for a trap that we just walked into, thought it wasn't as effective as they might have hoped. In any case, once we have tracked our attackers to their destination, I am sure we shall find some answers."
As Balgor says this, the forest somehow gets even more eerie than before. The trio thinks nothing of it at first, but as they continue talking, a wolf pack jumps out of the trees. Makor isn't surprised, it was probably common in a place like this, but then, a bear comes walking. It's claws are as long as spears and its teeth as sharp as swords. The bear bellows and the wolves growl as they slowly move in on the trio. Gulgug draws her short sword with a frightened look on her face. Balgor draws his claymore, ready for death and Makor roars in rage as he swings his axe at the nearest wolf. The three orcs easily killed the wolves. Then came the "woosh" of an exhale, and the scratches of the bear's claws are now on the wet ground as it launched itself at Makor. Within seconds, Makor was fighting for his life. Gulgug jumps on the beast's back in an attempt to kill it, but this just makes the animal even more angry. The bear instantly lifts its back up, tossing Gulgug into a nearby tree. Balgor swings his claymore with all his might, severely injuring the bear. The furry beast roars in rage, now standing up on its hind legs. Makor quickly rolls to the side, disregarding the sharp pain in his ribs, and hacks at the bear with his axe, instantly killing it. The injured orc stands up, his back hunched due to the pain.
Just as they think it's all over, a spriggan walks towards the trio. This was obviously the cause of the unusual attack. Makor eyes the spriggan in anger and charges at it. Makor is pushed back, his life just hanging on a thread. His vision goes blurry and he's now lightheaded. His vision completely blacks out. Makor was unconscious.
About five minutes later, Makor wakes up and looks around. The spriggan is gone and Makor stands up. The stench of death instantly creeps up Makor's nose. He looks down, only to see Gulgug and Balgor ripped apart. Makor shakes his head and continues to wander around the forest. For some reason, Makor had no idea what he was doing here. He wanders around the forest as if he'd never seen anything like it before. It's getting late, I should set up camp . . . Makor thinks to himself, grabbing as much wood as to start a fire then go to sleep.
The next morning, the orc wakes up, still feeling lightheaded. The pain is now kicking in and Makor can barely walk. As he tries to stand up, blood starts dripping onto the ground, gradually getting faster and faster each second. If I don't treat this wound, I'll die soon. Makor thinks to himself, now holding the biggest wound (which is on his left hip) tightly to stop the blood from dripping. The orc looks around, the same puzzled look on his face. He looks down at a ledge and attempts to get on the lower ground. As expected, Makor falls, but fortunately for Makor, there was water to break his fall. Makor decides to stay down. He looks to the lefts. Mushrooms grew under the shady roof of the forest and the berries lay ripening under the leafy dome of the forest. Makor stands up and sees a cave. In the cave, a red light can be seen. Makor walks in the cave with a cautious look on his face. He eyes the wet cave, trying to ignore the constant and tedious sound of the dripping water. Small, loose stones causing the orc to trip. To enter the cave was to become engulfed in chilling blackness. Makor grabbed the lantern that always sat on his belt and lifted it up, and the inside of cave now came into view. The red light appears again, this time in front of Makor. Makor shudders in fear, now frowning. "Makor!" someone yells out. Makor looks around, clutching his axe tightly and now raising his shield.
"Who's there? Show yourself!" Makor replies.
"You are a fool if you don't know who I am!" The voice says again.
Makor has a puzzled look on his face. "I do-don't know." Makor says softly. It can't be him . . . Makor isn't worthy enough . . . "Are you really that thick headed, my son?"
Makor shakes his head, "No. It can't be you."
"Well why am I talking to you then? It is I, Malacath, the Daedric Prince of the spurned and ostracized, the keeper of the Sworn Oath and the Bloody Curse."
Makor kneels down on the ground in shame, "I'm sorry my lord. I didn't recognize you. Forgive me."
"Follow the light, I have much to show you."
Makor stands up, putting his axe away and follows the light.
The light leads to a shrine of Malacath. Makor places his head down on the ground as he kneels. "My liege. Why have you summoned me?"
"That is something I can't reveal to you yet." As Malacath says this, an portal opens. The orc walks in, a tense look on his face. "This is the Ashpit." Makor looks around with an amazed look on his face. To the other races, the Ashpit may look like just a realm made of dust, ash and smoke, but to the Orsimer, this is where they will go when they die. They will dine, drink and fight for the rest of their lives with Malacath here.
The red light disappears and in its place comes a throne. Then, something is being created out of the ashes. Malacath is revealing himself to Makor. Malacath sits down on his throne, his claymore at his side. Once again, Makor kneels on the ground, trying to show as much respect as possible. "My liege . . . I don't know what to say. I'm not worthy for what ever it is you want me to do." Makor says.
"You are one of the strongest orcs I've ever seen. Not only are you a great warrior, you also follow my code strictly. Makor gro-Baroth, you are are the chosen one."
Makor looks up at Malacath, "What do you mean the chosen one, my lord?"
"You will lead the orcs, and you will by my vessel into Nirn."
Makor nods his head, "Yes, my lord."
As Makor says, Malacath stands up and places the palm of his hand onto Makor's forehead. "We will now be one." Crimson magic flows out of Malacath's eyes and mouth and enters Makor. "You now have my abilities. But beware, only use these abilities as a last resort, for they will take over your body if used unwisely." A hammer falls in front of Makor. "This is Volendrung, or more commonly known as the Hammer of Might. It will be your weapon."
Makor places his hands over the hammer and lifts it up. For him, the hammer is as light as a feather. "You've also gained another ability. Daedric Fire. This was created with all of my hate for Nirn, use it wisely, for it will destroy anything in its path."
"Thank you, my liege." Makor says.
"Go now, my son."
The portal opens again and Makor walks in. He is instantly transported back to where he was, and now instead of a puzzled look on his face, a proud one instead.
 
ACT ii - Immortal​

Sauriil grunted, skepticism dripping from his tone, ‘Expecting me?’

‘Yes. You are the silent one, yes? Or have come only to tell us that we are are wrong.’ The priest spoke with friendly sarcasm. His geniality was unsettling. He let out a dry chuckle as the priest continued. ‘Anui-El told us of your coming. He wants to help you.’

The altmer continued to stare at the priest, who then added, ‘And the rest of Tamriel.’

Sauriil let out a short huff, signalling him to continue. The priest lifted a plank of wood in front of the altar. He cast a spell Sauriil had not seen before. It was a white flame, so bright that it seemed to absorb the surrounding light. It seeped into a stone receptacle, which ate up the light like a famished bear would devour a fresh fish. He heard a click, and stone grinding against stone. After a few moments of stone gears turning and grinding, the wall that stood against the mountain opened. It was a staircase that led into a large cave system, for what Sauriil could see. He looked to the priest, who gestured him to enter.

The old altmer hesitated, quickly glancing at the priest before entering. He gripped the hilt of Keening, drawing the blade a little bit. The cavern was huge, but empty. Not even a pebble littered the cold, dark stone floor. There was, however, a frame of a massive portal. It was made of what looked like common marble, but it emitted a powerful magic aura, and it wasn’t from the portal itself. As he took a step forward, the priest closed to door to the cavern. Sauriil drew Keening and turned swiftly. The priest didn’t follow him. Great. Looks like I have to find a way to activate that damned portal.

He took a single step forward, and, with a loud thunder-like crack, the portal was roused. The portal was a blue swirling rift, with a black centre. The thunderous sound was being drawn out which, Sauriil assumed, would only stop once the portal closes. The magical aura was so powerful it gave him a small headache.

Holding Keening in his left hand, he powered a shockball in his right. The spinning orb of electricity emitted a blue light, which was reflected off of Wraithguard’s golden-bronze metal. He stepped through the rift, and felt as though the portal was tearing his bones and flesh apart. Within moments he entered a realm of pure light. The only solid entity was a fairly large platform of marble-like stone. It emitted the same energy as the portal frame. Yet the light was different. The aura it emanated with was immense; far more powerful than anything he has felt before, yet it did not harm him, as such a large quantity of magicka in one area would. Instead, it did the exact opposite. His magical strength was more powerful, his physical abilities were enhanced. He noticed details much faster.

In front of him, a figure materialised. The figure was made of light, yet had a flesh Sauriil could not described. The light took the form of an Aldmer, tall and muscular. He was infinitely beautiful, yet terrifying to the same degree. He wore no armour, nor clothes of any shape or form. Just naked, ineffable light. As soon as his eyes looked upon the figure, Sauriil knew who it was. Anui-El Himself, the soul of all things. He hastily sheathed his weapon and knelt before the deity.

Rise, Eltmer.

The altmer stood up and bowed his head. ‘What do you require of me, of all people?’

You have been chosen.

‘Chosen? Chosen for what, exactly?’

Sauriil suddenly felt a surge of energy, far beyond what he was already experiencing. He saw each particle of light, he could feel it almost solidify. He gazed upon Anui-El inquisitively. A fraction of my essence has merge with yours, Eltmer. You have been named my champion.

‘Champion? Why me?’

You have been chosen for your defiance of your grandson, the Akanium. For that, you and the others have been chosen to free Tamriel.

‘Akanium? Dragon-God? My grandson may be powerful, but he is no dragon, never mind a god.’

Find the others. Defeat the Akanium. Become One of the Immortals . . .

His voice faded into the light, just like the surrounding realm. Sauriil reappeared in the ruins of the Black Marsh. The poisonous fumes that once befouled the air had been burned away. In its place, was death and decay. The swamps were now all but shriveled trees and dirt burned to mere ash.

This is where you are to build the foundations of purity, Eltmer. From here you will spread it across Tamriel.

Sauriil was blind. Light flooded his vision, or lack thereof. He saw a flood of visions. A guild hall, here in the Black Marsh. Numerous warriors, each with the essence of a god. War. Death. Fire and flame. A world drowning in blood. Runes covered his sight as the vision faded. Was that . . . a prophecy of an Elder Scroll?

One of the many gifts I have given to you. I will reveal to you a prophecy, when the time is right. And to you I give Divine Fire, to burn your foes and tend to the wounds of your allies. I give you the power to become light, and travel any distance you will. But use these powers sparingly, for such might must have a cost.

The Anui-El’s presence within Sauriil’s mind disappeared. The only piece of Anui-El near him was now the essence within his soul. He summoned an atronach horse, a spell Sauriil spent centuries perfecting. He began riding toward the nearest inhabited province, Cyrodiil.
 
Baragon
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Baragon tilted his head up and took a few sniffs of the air. Cheap steel armor, some neglected chain mail with rust setting in, fabric that probably cost too much and was stained with sweat, and something that resembled cologne. Great, just what I need. Some dimwitted nobility and his lackeys. The fur on the neck and back of the wolves bristled and they started growling. Baragon gave a grunt directed at them and they silenced themselves, although their fur still stood on end. Into the opening walked a rather pompous looking Imperial of about fifty years of age, a younger looking man Baragon assumed was the son, and eight armed men.

"Well, well, well...what do we have here?", the noble asked aloud. "It would appear he is a hunter, father", the son sneered back. "Oh dear me, that is most unfortunate", the Imperial droned on with a nasally sound and a toothy grin that made the hunter want to smash his fist into that pompous mouth. Taking a bite from a rabbit leg, Baragon looked up the man and said, "Can I help you with something?" The noble looked at Baragon and chuckled. He looked expectantly at the other men gathered around and they all chuckled as well. "Well, in order for you to hunt in these lands, you need to have permit. You do have one, don't you?"

A permit? What in Oblivion is a permit? "A permit, huh? Funny, I don't recall needing to have one in years past. When did this 'permit' become a...thing?", the hunter inquired while licking his fingers. The Imperial cocked an eyebrow and continued sneering. "Oh, about two days ago, by decree of emperor Mithron. He, along with several key members of his royal staff and nobility now owns the exclusive hunting rights to most of Tamriel. All others must have written permission, or a permit if you will. I trust you have one." Baragon took the skull of the rabbit, cracked it open in one swift motion and deftly took out the brain, popping it into his mouth. A look of revulsion crossed over the faces of the noble, his son, and several of the men.

"Yep, sure do", the hunter replied, as he continued chewing the brain with his mouth open.

"Oh? Then you won't mind if I ask to look at it", the noble asked as he struggled to look Baragon in the eyes as he finished eating the brain. "Oh, I don't have it with me", he shrugged. "I'm quite certain I left them in my other trousers."

"Oh, of course you did." The Imperial rolled his eyes and laughed as he decided to play along with the obvious lie. "Might I ask where your other trousers are."

Baragon threw the rest of the rabbit carcass to his wolves as he got up from his sitting position and looked the pompous jackass right in his dull, glassy, brown eyes with his own piercing, steel grey eyes and smiled. "Oh I imagine your wife would know the answer to that." The other man's face slowly contorted in rage as he took in the implication of what the hunter had just said.

Whipping out his sword and pointing it at Baragon, he fumed, "You smug bastard! I'll cut out your tongue for that!" The son and the other men all drew their respective weapons. The wolves were up in an instant barking and snarling at the men. Conjuring up dual, bound war axes, Baragon took his fighting stance. "Take your best shot. I hope you're better at fighting than hunting." With that, the Imperial lunged forward with his sword aimed at the hunter's torso. Deflecting the sword, the fighting ended as soon as it had begun as the hunter spun the noble around and held the bound war axes to the man's throat. The son and other men were in position to start attacking, but held back due to the precarious situation their superior was in. Dorga, Rolf, and Lago continued snarling and surrounded the duo so the others couldn't interfere.

"You won't survive this. I guarantee it", the noble attempted to sound menacing. "I think the same could be said about you", Baragon growled back as an edge from one of the axes dug into the man's neck drawing blood. Bringing the edge to his lips, he licked the blood. "Mmmm...not bad."

"You're insane!", the man's son yelled. "I'll tell you what's insane!" Baragon fired back. "Desecrating the sacred art of the hunt by having minions do the dirty work for you and claiming the glory for your own! Running off real hunters who know how to put a successful hunt to full use! Letting the carcass of your prey waste away just so you can have a useless trophy. Throwing the balance of the wilderness out of sorts by killing far more than you need! And having a single mortal claiming the realm of hunting as his own! That! That is insane!"

One of the men behind the duo decided he'd heard enough, and brought his crossbow up to fire at the hunter. Sensing this, Baragon released the Imperial, dispelled one of the axes, grabbed a knife from one of his pouches, and threw it at his would be attacker. The knife embedded itself into the man's skull and his body dropped. The smell of blood was becoming intoxicating. It was around this time that dusk had fallen, and the moons had risen. Quite appropriate timing. "I...I think it only fair you should know, but you're all about to become...my prey." Falling to the ground, he felt the change coming over him. Teeth sharpened, nails grew into claws, and hair became dense, black fur. "By the divine! He's a werewolf! Run!", one of the men cried out as he started to run. "You should...listen...to him", Baragon struggled to say as his vocal chords changed and his voice dropped into a menacing growl. Looks of terror came upon the whole party as they scattered. The change was complete, Hircine's hound would have his prey tonight.

A few hours later​
The beast devoured the heart of his last victim, the one who had cried out his warning to his fellow men. The little bastard had been a slippery one. Realizing that the hunt was successful, the werewolf leaned back and howled into the night along with the three wolves that followed close behind. Glory was his, as was it Hircine's.

Feeling a presence behind him, Baragon whipped around, ready to tear apart new prey. There before him stood the Lord of the Hunt himself, in all his glory. Well done my hound. Well done indeed. Hircine reached out his spear and turned the hunter back to his original form. The hunter was quick to kneel before the Daedric prince. "My lord, I have done away the offenders of your sacred practice." Yes, yes you have, but they were not the only ones unfortunately. Mithron, he is the cause of all of this. Such arrogance. Such insolence! Rise my hound. I have need of you. You shall be my champion. You shall be my wrath. You shall be the ultimate predator in these lands! And with that, Hircine placed his hand upon Baragon's chest, imbuing the mortal with powers the likes of which have not been seen. Go, I will be watching. A gathering of other champions will be happening soon. You are to be at this gathering. Bowing in respect to his wishes, he looked up a moment later to see that the Daedra was gone.

Making his way back to his camp, the hunter found a set of leather and fur armor with a wolf design on the chest, a spear of magnificent craftsmanship, and a ring with a wolf insignia on it. Take these. You will have need of them. Equipping the gear of his lord, Baragon set off, allowing his instincts to guide him.
 
It was a nice sunny day with a gentle breeze that everyone could enjoy. Yet one bosmer insists on staying inside dugeons, fighting hordes of draugr and skeletons. " Is this the legendary dungeon that is said to contain the most fearsome undead?" He said with a raspy voice as he thrusts the Dawnbreaker into one of the Draugr's chest. He was wandering for days, following Meridia's quest for him. It has been five days since Meridia gave this quest to him. As he walked around the halls of the dungeon, he kept thinking of the reason why Meridia gave him this quest. If the quest was only to eliminate all the undead, he would not be called to do such thing. From a distance was a figure of a draugr wearing ebony armor. He hasn't realize the threatening opponent until he heard a familiar sound. "Fus Ro Dah!", the draugr shouted as more draugr closes in. He immediately went spiraling to the end of the hallway, feeling a bit fuzzy from the shout. "Damn!, This guys know how Thu'um?! How many of these things are here?!" He shouted as he tried to focus on how many Draugrs are in the hallway. " I see one who looks like the rest and three, no five draugrs wearing ebony armor. these guys must also know how to use Thu'um." He said as the draugrs close in. Thinking that this is an easy task, he didn't bring more weapons except from the Dawnbreaker. " Looks like I have to kick it up a notch." He mumbled as he charges to the weakest Draugr, blasting it into ashes as he heads to the other draugrs without any plan in his mind. after countless shouts and extreme pain, he thrusts the Dawnbreaker to the chest of the last Draugr. " Finally! I can rest!" He said as he falls down to the cold floor, completely exhausted from the battle.

After a few hours of rest, He went back to the Shrine of Meridia in Skyrim. He knelt down the statue and a bright light appeared in front of him. " Well done, My champion. I'm surprised that you took so long but nonetheless, you did a great job." He looked up at the light with a completely exhausted look. " It would've been easier if you had told me that there are undead that can use Thu'um!" The glowing light flickered as a laughter was heard coming out from the light. " My foolish champion, all undead are the same to me. I have warned you that this is the most fearsome dungeon you will face but you didn't listen. As I see it, you have only yourself to blame." As Meridia said those words, He was left speechless then, He sighs and kneels down to Her. " Okay Meridia, what do you want me to do now?" The light starts flickering as she spoke " Now you must travel to distant lands in search for those who have the same quest as you. They are starting to gather, find them and join their cause. My blessings will always be upon you. Now, rise my champion. Prove to me that you are worthy of being chosen." The light starts to fade as He grabs his Dawnbreaker and heads to his home. He grabs some casual clothes and his favourite dagger as he ventures forth as a start of a new adventure. " Oh well, there goes my normal life. I wonder where I will find these guys." He mumbles as he rides a carriage that is headed to Cyrodiil.
 
Taneya Kayrean​
Skyrim was a cold, harsh land these days.
Taneya Kayrean crept through the dark, damp cavern he had been sent to. The locals at the nearby mill- run by an older Nord named Riggmar- had pointed him toward this very cave, saying that a necromancer was holed up within. Seeing as the priesthood of Arkay had all but vanished in this part of the world, the Argonian had opted to do the job on their behalf. Creeping around another corner, he found who he was looking for, a Dunmer who appeared to be raising another zombie.
Now or never, Taneya figured, reaching for his quiver of mixed-up arrows. He drew an elven one and shot the necromancer in the knee, knocking him off his feet. With a yell, the Elf pointed his hand at Taneya, firing an ice spike.
Taneya leaped aside, slamming his shoulder into the cave wall beside him. He grit his teeth and raised his bow. Good, his arm was fine. The zombie had reached him by this point, and grabbed his injured arm, attempting to rend it from its socket.
Taneya let out a roar of agony, twisted around, snatched an arrow from his quiver, and stabbed it into the zombie's head, shoving the corpse away. It twisted and fell to the ground, leaving Taneya free to raise his bow and shoot the necromancer in the shoulder. He let out a yell of pain, and Taneya sprinted forward, sliding to a halt beside his quarry.
"Call off the corpse and we can both live," Taneya threatened. Behind him, the shambling zombie fell to the ground and disintegrated into an ash pile. "Good. Now come quietly back to the mill, and you don't have to get hurt. Well, you don't need to be hurt any more."
"I have a better idea," the Dunmer said, raising his hand to Taneya's chest. Taneya brought his arms up as the elf fired a firebolt right into him, sending the Argonian pilgrim flying. He smashed into the cavern wall behind him, and cracked his head on the stones. Thank Arkay for scales, he though, before rolling away as the Dunmer fired another firebolt at him.
Taneya scooped up his bow, grabbed another arrow, blinked away the blurry vision his minor concussion was giving him, and fired.
The arrow flew straight and true, somehow, striking the Dunmer in the center of his forehead, killing him instantly. Taneya grimaced at the kill, and rose to his feet.
"Arkay have mercy on you," he muttered, before his vision blurred again, and he collapsed.

Taneya woke up some time later, resting easily on a sleeping bag that had been laid out for him. He jerked upright, and instantly regretted it, falling back down and clutching his bandaged head.
"Easy, my boy," an older man said, sitting at a nearby campfire. "You've been asleep for almost a day now. You took quite a beating there."
Taneya looked up at the man, dressed in simple robes, with a walking staff propped up on a rock. "How did you find me?" he asked. The man chuckled.
"I could hardly let my Champion go and die, now, could I?" the man asked.
"Um... what?" Taneya asked.
"Since you're injured, I'll make it short," the old man said with a grin. "My name is Arkay, I'm a Divine. No applause necessary. I'm here to claim you as my Champion because I like you, kid. If anyone can help save Tamriel from Mithron Adorin, well I'd bank on you being helpful. So, when you're feeling better, get up, leave the cave, and find the other Champions. Do try and get along, though, the world rests on it."
Taneya just looked at the older man. At first, he thought some local was playing tricks on him. After a moment, the Argonian nodded, and lay back, relaxed. "I'll do it," he said.
"Never gave you a choice," Arkay responded with a grin.
A Champion of Arkay, Taneya thought. In a world like this, it's about time a hero like that came around
A day later, an orange-robed Argonian stumbled out of a specific cave and began a trek South
 
Lamae who had just finished with her latest blood ritual, went back to her chambers. When in the room, she realized that she was not in it but instead in a mirror version of it, she had felt this coldness millennia ago. It was a coldness she would never forget, it marked her death. "Molag Bal..." Lamae whispered in a harsh cold voice. She stepped out of her sanctuary to be met by gray blue skies and the shrieks of the damned, though she hated Bal, his realm felt comforting, she wanted it, no she needed it, Lamae will do anything for this place or one like it. Out of a black puddle of blood came one of the many visages of Molag Bal, it spoke in his calm disturbing voice.

"Ahh, Lamae Bal, my newest, yet eldest champion, the blood matron herself, queen of my undead-"

"What do you want Bal!?!" she shouted at him, she did not want to throw away his patronage as she knew that she could use him for her own plots, but still she insisted.

"A plot, a scheme is forming on, TAMRIEL!!!" his voice boomed at the name obviously he felt negatively towards it "You must become a part of it, you must assert my will into those disposable mortals."

She rarely ever agreed with Molag but she did in this instance agree only to further her scheme further ber goals to overthrow Bal, to assert her dominance over the Lord of dominace. She would use both her patron lord and those in the scheme to her advantage no matter the cost. When she did accept his task he gave her one more power upon her previous ones, one that allowed her to control all her vampires and scions like a queen bee does it's hive... she was one step closer to her victory, to her ascent.
 
Cheydinhal- Cyrodill

Inn the inn Lorelv Sat in and inn a lute in hand as she strummed a few strings producing a slow long forgotten melody from ages past that might as well be another world at this time. After coming to this era she had found that she needed to know the past to know where the split had occurred though in truth she had some ideas. She had noticed how much land this Tamriel had and could guess that landfall had never happened, though given how little these people had progressed it was a good thing that it hadn't , well it had to happen sooner or latter. She unlike the many immortals now running around wasn't on the same mission in fact she had few plans to get rid of this king though her actions would do so. That was for when she reached Alanor for now she would make do simply telling stories of a long forgotten age more then 2 eras ago that happened in distant lands.

" The Hortator wandered through the Mourning Hold, wrestling with the lessons he had learned. They were slippery in his mind. He could not always keep the words straight and knew that this was a danger. He wandered to find Vivec, his lord and master, the glory of the image of Veloth, and found him of all places in the Temple of False Thinking. There, clockwork shears were taking off Vivec's hair. A beggar king had brought his loom and was making of the hair an incomplete map of adulthood and death." She started reciting ancient verse likely viewed as heretical should any remember from where they came.

Time would pass as the people listened to lessons treated as folk tales and stories of interest their meaning lost upon those who their words were not meant for. In the end the lesson would come to its end as her melody came to its coda " The ending of the words is ALMSIVI. She said signifying the end and the source though that concept had lost significance even with the religion that had once revered that term.

With her story for the day ended Lorelv got up from her chair and went to the innkeeper to get her pay and then head out, she had a long tip ahead of her and she needed to go as soon as she could. She did have a meeting with a brass god who was behind schedule for his appearance and rampage. All of this to fix a broken dragon and fulfill a goal started with the birth of nirn a true escape from the grey maybe that had yet to happen yet had already happened in another place. That was part of why she had not bothered to visit and centered of learning for all they knew they in truth knew nothing having forgotten why all had come to be and fought over the chance to go further than even the gods. It was the common person that spoke truth and knew the world greater than any scholar might realize for the earth whispered its secrets to those that cared for it not those that hid from it.

With a sigh she went outside into the fresh air and started walking down the streets, if she was lucky she could catch a carriage to the next city instead of having to walk, really magic had gone down hill morrowind had at least had ways to move between the mage guild halls, though the mages guild had long broken up, still they could at least have made some fast travel. Well at least she knew where to go and even if it took a few months she had time to get there.
 
Donan Rafeus

A few weeks had passed since Donan's acension to championhood; he decided to spend a bit more time in Cheydinhal to get used to his new abilities.

A rather lax day, Donan hadn't encountered much trouble as of recent. Perhaps he has finally mended the people of this town. He sat inside the local inn, playing chess with a rather tactful old man for a few hours. Suffice to say, Donan didn't fare too well against him, but that didn't detract from the fun. Mellow tunes from a lute and a wondrous bard's voice sparkled the air as the two men had an intellectual duel. For the past month, Donan enjoyed his weekly game of chess with the old man. But, now, it was time for Donan to go onto his destiny and spread the word of Mara. Perhaps he would even meet a few champions of the Nine as well on his great journey! Or, possibly, a champion of the Daedra.

Donan exited the inn after making a few warm goodbyes to friends he made during his stay. Heading straight towards the town's stables he prepared his knapsack and saddle, affixing them to his horse. The next place he decided to visit would be Blackwood, to the far southeast of Cyrodiil. According to word of mouth, that area has been populated with savage bandits whom plunder any passerbys. This includes, of course, the men under Mithron's vile service. And Donan wasn't about to stand down for that. He got on his horse and began to ride on the main road out of town. However, about half an hour after he left, Donan noticed a lone Dunmer woman clad in scarlet robes walking about the path. His horse trotted up behind her slowly as he inquired "Why, pardon me, but... Are you in need of some assistance? The next town on this path is more a few days on foot." Donan stopped his horse a few feet beside her.

Karcen Karcen
 
Lorelv was a little surprised that another woudl offer her a ride, but only just as divides had appeared and the other was truly not your own these days with plague and famine, and the divide between mer and man was truly at an all time high with an Altmer lording over the lands. Still a ride was a ride and she suspected this man was not like many that would offer a ride and often found the gift of the god of the world turned against then.

" A ride is always welcome but the way is not a short as a town over, but it is a start" She said speaking is round about ways one might expect a bard or any wordsmith that was a little out there to speak as it was true she was going further than the city and it was a start. " Still i feel there is more to this than a kind stranger giving a ride, perhaps fate has sent you, perhaps not" she said going rather cryptic in her musings " But yeah the answer is yes i could use a faster journey from one place to another"

Zoltan Zoltan
 
Donan Rafeus

"Hmm, well, how far is this journey of yours? And where must you head?" A puzzled look crossed Donan's face. He was curious to see how far he could take the woman on his way to Blackwood. Donan wished so greatly to help the stranger to their place, yet there was a area polluted by Mithron's stench that was in much dire need of help. Oh well. Something sparked in Donan's mind, he's yet to introduce himself to this person! Oh, how rude he's been! "Ah, and you may call me Donan. And if you don't mind my asking, who are you?" Getting off his horse, Donan's feet slammed to the ground and his armor clanked about. He extended a handshake to the stranger and a warm smile.

Karcen Karcen
 
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