Descriptive Narrative
The first thing I saw peering through the thick plane of glass was myself. It was rather instinctive that I did this, for what else would I do at the crack of dawn?
What usually struck me was the delicate blue hue of my skin, much like a newly bloomed cornflower. Yet, now, my skin was a rather murky gray, much more like death than a flower. My high cheek bones accentuated its sickly feel in the shadows they produced.
Then there was the slight contrast of my lilac colored hair, which framed my face in rigid tendrils. Nothing was different about this except the hood that covered it almost entirely, allowing only a few locks to catch the light of day. The blood red hood cast a shadow over my face and hair, resulting in the desired presence.
There were wrinkles surrounding the profound redness of my eyes and their framing lashes. The shadows flickering on my face even frightened myself. They seemed to leap out at me on the other side of the glass, as if cursing me further for what I had become.
Adding to my menacing appearance was the predatory-like stance I took on, my muscles strained so tightly that a single move could spring me into action. The tight leggings showed the tenseness to my legs as well as the low crouched I was now so accustomed to. The rest of my outfit was equally as dark, rich red and form fitting. Right down to the painted metal gauntlets.
Judging my body, I was no older than twenty, but when looking at my face, one could easily see the long lasting effects of battle. At least, that's what I deluded myself to believe. No, not deluded hoped.
It was not possible that this wrinkled, battle worn assassin in front of me could be me. I wouldn't allow it. And, yet, I had. I was a vampire, sucking the life from others to contribute to my own.
But, how could I help it? The warm, succulent juice of life flowed freely into my mouth as if the most rare delicacy in the land. Simply by bending over, pressing my fangs against the warm and tender flesh of my victim could I sustain myself. How delightful it was to creep up to them in a crouch whilst they were asleep. How delightful to press my fingers against their throat, feeling the thrum of vigor within their veins and relishing the smell of life secreting from their pores. And, how delightfully unholy it was to relish in the salty, tangy flavor which fit my palette so perfectly.
Still, despite my nature being appalling to the very core, I found an odd delight to it. Never was I bored, never was there no purpose to life. Take today for example.
For todays agenda, I was off to seal another Oblivion Gate, hoping to cease the oppressing evil that threatened to crush us all. Reminded of my average daily chore, I stopped reveling in my change and set out.
Cyrodill was beyond what words could describe, its landscape a perfect melody of sweetly blending tunes. The wind carried the sweet scent of Morning Glory flowers from the stone roofs of Skingrad. The tall, dry grass swayed in the cool breeze, muffling the soft pad of my footsteps. The sun was setting, casting the fields and surrounding trees in an eerie red glow. Though it wasn't the setting of the sun that caused the sudden boom to the sky. Nor the clouds to turn an ominous black.
The gate was close.
Within a few steps the sharp spires were visible to the naked eye, their perfect obsidian surface gleaming with what one could only call evil. After that came the long, narrow arch of the gate itself. To signify its intent further, there was a bright red and orange vortex within the hallow of the arch.
I stepped uncertainly into its perimeter, marked by the blood stained spikes rising out of the burnt looking grass. The smell coming out of it caused my stomach to clench and several dry heaves to rack my body with pain. I covered my nose with a pale hand and the other reached for my dagger. I was going in.
It's impossible to recall what happens when traveling into the world of Oblivion. It's more like a massive blur of black and red, applying an unbearable pressure to the inside of your skull, to the point of spilling tears.
Whatever tears may or may not have fallen were quickly dried in the fields' fire dotted landscape. Not that I had anytime to take notice of this. I was fighting for my life the second I walked through the portal.
My breathing was already erratic and my body pulsed with pure adrenaline. The red hilted dagger was firmly in my grasp as I drove it into the nearest Scamp, all whilst trying to avoid another. More Scamps were flooding in from unknown places and I could feel the slight sagging of my shoulders. But I wouldn't allow it, I had just entered the gates.
Moving with what was surely unnatural speed, I weaved out from underneath the small devil-like creatures. Their horns grazed at my sides, and weakened me, but I was healed in the blink of an eye. I struck and struck again, reducing the crowd to one standing alone in the mass of its fallen comrades. Nothing was stopping me now.
The poor, embodiment of evil had no time to react as I drove my blade into its hard crust of a body. My blade slide out as the Scamp fell back to join the still ground. I stood for a few moments, relishing the feel of victory. I knew I was no where near done though.
Flames licked at my feet as I progressed through the lands, finding naught but a few scattered Scamp. I was about to give up my task for the day when up ahead I saw signs of what I came to see. Or rather, to destroy.
Ruins lay around my feet, charred bricks stood erect where there was once previously a building. What could this be the foundation of? But my thoughts were interrupted by a sound. It was a soft 'pitter-patter' at first, rising to a booming slap of a crescendo. The vibrations the sound projected were enough to raise the hair on my arms.
Interest renewed, I crept behind a slightly larger wall to see a cloaked man gliding by. Just with a glance I knew. A brush with him would mean death. Daedra were not to be taken so lightly.
When his steps had receded to a soft 'patter' once again, I sprinted the way he had come from. Just as I suspected, the tower stood there, looming over all of the Oblivion plains, like a beacon of the destruction yet to come. There was nothing to do except walk in.
And so I did.
Having had previous experience with the towers, I was half-expecting to be killed the second I stepped foot in them. It was much to my surprise that there was nothing there at all. I had entered into a room—desolate much like the rest of Oblivion. Its walls were dark and untouched by decoration, its floors unmarred by the wear of age. It was quite simply a room. It did not have the usual winding staircase leading away from the blood fountain, nor the blood chamber, nor the other rooms with names involving the word 'blood'.
Something was amiss in this gray room. And before I could act on this impulse, the room shook violently, throwing me down on the stone floor with a hard 'thud'. Fatigue suddenly gripped me, and I felt like lead weights were pressing upon my chest. The dagger slipped from my hand, and my arm refused to reach around my back for my bow. My limbs were confined to the unnatural chill of the floor much like the rest of me.
It was then that I heard the screech. It was bloodcurdling and my ear drums felt as if they were imploding. No human could make that noise. I doubt any monster could either. This was worse than any of those. Mehrunes Dagon.
The mere thought sent chills up my spine. He couldn't. It wasn't possible. Right?
I pressed myself against the floor now, afraid of what standing up would cause. It was only when the roof was lifted off the very tower that I got all my remaining strength and threw myself against the door. As I expected, it was locked.
Above me, where the roof had previously been, towered a four-armed human-like creature. His arms rippled with muscles and he seemed to have been chiseled from pure granite. His face was set in a hard frown, lines tracing along his forehead and the corners of his mouth, accentuating his fierceness. He had no hands, rather large talons—all the better to rip me apart. In them was an axe the height of a small house.
Apparently the adrenaline was tired out as my limbs felt heavy again, and I could taste the cold metallic fear on my tongue. It had nothing on blood.
Before I could even strategize, or even think about what trouble I was really in, the head of the axe came down, resembling the swing of an executioner. I knew no more.
Game Over.
I waited until my breath stilled to release my graze from the glass of the television screen. No longer was I looking at myself, I was looking at the massive lettering spelling my very doom. How very tempting it would have been to fling my controller at it.
Instead I nodded at the television curtly, as if acknowledging its mastery over me. My fingers curled out from under the motionless controller. Softly pressing the button in the center, the whir of my Xbox ceased, leaving me in the silence of defeat.
And, that was the end of my Saturday morning with The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion Game of the Year Edition.