(Author's notes: This story is completely independent of my Twin Nerevarines story, so don't expect Varansaur and Oreotragus to make any more than a passing cameo.)
CHAPTER ONE
The mighty statue of Molag Bal, god of schemes, towered over the throng of worshippers below. The statue's granite eyes, set in a massive dragon-shaped head, did little to reflect the sheer malice of the god it represented. The worshippers were all Dunmer men, dressed in identical green robes and sporting identical flat, black haircuts. The one exception was a Dunmer woman, wearing a red and gold robe with grey hair tied up in a bun. As the other worshippers fell to their knees before the statue, she approached the pedestal, a limeware tray of various precious jewels in her hands.
She raised the tray over her head and shouted "Praise be to Molag Bal, greatest of the Daedric sixteen!"
"Praise be to Molag Bal, greatest of the Daedric sixteen!" the other worshippers repeated.
"Cess roht yoodt seht hekem! Ayem lyr-lyr!" the woman shrieked
"Roht yoodt lyr ekhem!" the men shouted in reply.
As the worshippers watched the woman slide the tray between the statue's massive clawed feet, they failed to notice a dark figure emerge from behind a torch. If they had, they would've seen that the figure, although dressed entirely in black fatigues, was clearly Khajiit. His pointed ears and long, feline tail were clearly visible. His green eyes reflected the firelight like mirrors, which was probably because he had tiny mirrors on the lenses of his eyes to enhance his night vision.
None of the worshippers noticed him as he crept along the wall to the back of the shrine. But something did. The Khajiit's large ears picked up the sound of something running towards him. He quickly turned his head to the left and saw a creature sprinting in his direction. With its giant ears, stiff tail, and small yet potentially deadly claws and fangs, it was very obviously a scamp, the lowest of the Daedric summons. It was weak, but could probably severely maim an inexperienced traveler. Fortunately for the Khajiit, he wasn't inexperienced. As the scamp leapt at him, he slashed with his huge claws. The scamp dropped to the floor with a guttural hiss, with four large slash wounds across its throat leaving no doubt as to how it had met its fate.
Worried that someone may have heard the scuffle, the Khajiit dove behind a rock. He tentatively peeked out from behind it. No, the worshippers were too mesmerized by the flames that were now shooting from the statue's fanged mouth to have noticed him. This suited him nicely, as he didn't think he could take them all on at once.
The Khajiit turned, jumped on top of a wooden chest, and inserted one of his claws into the lock. Within seconds, he heard it give way. He jumped to the floor and opened the chest. Inside was a pure white mace.
"At last," the Khajiit whispered, lifting the weapon from the chest, "the Mace of Molag Bal. Now, S'Ravha's collection is complete!" S'Ravha always referred to himself in third person, as the Khajiiti language had no word for "I" or "me".
At that moment, he heard a harsh, yet feminine, voice shout "Die, fetcher!" from across the room. Spinning around, S'Ravha saw the worshippers of Molag Bal all looking at him, with the woman holding a giant red and black spear.
"How did you know S'Ravha was here?"
"Our lord, Molag Bal, told us," the woman replied. "And now," she said, as the men all drew their swords in unison, "at his behest, you will die!"
S'Ravha quickly tucked the mace inside his fatigues, knowing that Molag Bal would not be likely to allow him to use it against his own followers. He then pressed an emerald in the center of a ring on his left index finger and, in a plume of green smoke, completely vanished from sight.
What happened next, not even S'Ravha could explain. A lapse in attention in the middle of a job was so unbecoming of a thief of his prowess. Possibly it was caused by the fact that he was enjoying sneaking, invisible, past the confused mob that had been so intent on killing him. Perhaps it was the excitement of having captured the Mace of Molag Bal, the final piece necessary to complete his collection of famous Daedric artifacts. Or maybe it had been the influence of Molag Bal himself, upset at the loss of his legendary mace. But whatever the reason, S'Ravha failed to notice the scamp, that he himself had slain not a minute ago, until he had tripped over it, smearing the front of his otherwise invisible body with scamp blood and making a loud, wet, splat that alerted everyone in the shrine to his exact location.
"There he is!" the woman shouted. "Kill him!"
S'Ravha tried to regain his feet, but the scamp blood on the floor proved to be more slippery than anything he had ever fallen in before, and he quickly found himself surrounded by angry, sword-rattling Molag Bal worshippers. It seemed hopeless.
It was at that moment, however, that a loud "crack!" echoed through the shrine. A very tall woman had suddenly appeared on the statue's pedestal. She was dressed in a dark blue robe with gold trim. Her golden skin reflected the firelight almost as much as S'Ravha's eyes, and her white hair seemed red in the light of the flickering torches. She was clearly an Altmer, a high elf.
Her light green eyes narrowed as she stared directly at the Dunmer woman. "Relthasa Noren."
Noren glared back. "Anterriel."
"So, you thought you could hide from the Mages' Guild in here, eh? No necromancer disgraces the guild and gets away with it!"
"Not until today," Noren said, tossing her spear at Anterriel like a javelin. The Altmer sidestepped the spear, which struck the tray and scattered the gems all over the floor, revealing that there had been a human heart buried underneath them.
Just as the rubies hit the floor, the crooked, ovoid door to the shrine burst open. A tall man with long-blond hair charged into the room, wildly swinging a mighty two-headed axe. He had a blue bear paw painted on the left side of his face. His armor was heavy and clunky, which made him look more like a runaway boulder than a warrior. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and said; "I'm here for Stoncien Draconius."
One of the worshippers stepped forward. "There is nobody here by that name, Nord."
The Nord held up a gold ring. "I found his ring outside the shrine. The Imperial Legion knows you've kidnapped him. Give him to me alive, and nobody will get hurt."
S'Ravha chose that moment to break free of the worshippers that were holding him. As he jumped clear of the crowd, one of the worshippers grabbed him by the ankle. S'Ravha reached out to steady himself, and inadvertently grabbed the lid of a giant stone chest. The lid flipped back, revealing the contents of the chest: a bald human corpse. His chest had been cut open, and his heart was missing.
The Nord took a step back. "Draconius…dead!" His eyes darted back and forth between the man in the chest and the heart on the floor. "Dirty lying murderers!!" He raised his axe over his head and charged the mob, which quickly scattered.
"You seem pretty coarse for a Legion member," Anterriel said, as she conjured a fireball and tossed it in Noren's direction.
"I'm not a guard," the Nord said. "I'm a mercenary."
S'Ravha smirked. Fate had smiled upon him this day. Between the Altmer battlemage and the Nord mercenary, the worshippers were a little too preoccupied to stop S'Ravha from dashing out the door, and taking the Mace of Molag Bal with him.
(Yes, it be short. Reviews would be greatly appreciated.)
