Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Grief of Dawn
Prologue
The sun hung lazily in the sky and cast rays of warm light over the surface of Lake Rumare, turning the calm surface into a sparkling sheet of glass. The shadow of the grand Imperial City stood proudly before it, a dominating sight of stone structures and the impossibly tall royal palace that stood out starkly against the otherwise scenic view of nature that was nestled around it. An old winding road carved its way through the fields and trees and up into the mountains, disappearing over the horizon as it drew its way across the vast edges of Cyrodiil.
A small figure turned off the path, abandoning the marked trail and instead cutting through the unmarked hills that gently sloped upward into the wild forests. A tiny ramshackle cottage sat comfortably between two proud pine trees, overlooking both the magnificent blue lake and the grand city like a lone sentinel quietly observing the flocks of guards and travelers that passed under its silent gaze. Tiny boot-clad feet pattered up to the old wooden door, stumbling only once on the craggy patches of ground that peeked through the grass, before grasping the lopsided handle and unceremoniously entering without even bothering to knock.
"I knew you'd be here!" A triumphant, slightly annoyed voice proclaimed, coming from a small, slightly annoyed-looking Imperial boy.
His eyes swept the two-room cottage only once before coming to a rest on the innocent upturned face of the little girl who was seated comfortably at the rough wooden table. The girl smiled at the boy pleasantly, ignoring the scathing look she received from him, her blue eyes and straw-blonde hair matching her older brother's, though the resemblance largely ended there. Her tiny hands were folded neatly around a cracked pewter cup, and she seemed quite at home in the quaint little shack, which only seemed to heighten her brother's annoyance.
"Mother is looking everywhere for you," he said with a frown as he crossed the threshold and stood beside the table, his hands at his bony hips. "I told her you would be here, wasting the day away once again when you ought to be minding your chores. You know she does not like it when you wander here on your own."
"I knew you would find me here soon, Sam," the girl replied sweetly, obviously unfazed by her sibling's irate nature. "Besides, I am not alone here. Mother knows Granny is always here, too."
"That is the problem," Samuel mumbled.
An old figure that had been bending over the warm and well-lit hearth at the back of the room straightened up and turned, acknowledging Samuel for the first time. The figure was a woman, small and slight and thinly built, with silver hair tied back neatly in a tight bun at the base of her neck. She had stern, almost fierce green eyes that were set firmly between a narrow nose and the small, pale features of a Breton. She was a lovely old woman and in spite of her age her skin was relatively smooth and unwithered, save for firm creases around her thin mouth and eyes and a few shadows of ancient scars on her hands, arms, and even an impressive one that ran across her neck. She held herself with confident posture, bold and seemingly indomitable even aged as she was.
"Good afternoon, Samuel," she greeted him courteously, wiping the ash from her hands on her old, sagging robes. "Sadia has been waiting for you to arrive all morning."
Granny Rumare, as she was colloquially known, was often referred to as the Witch of Lake Rumare, and not without good reason. When the old woman was not calmly catching slaughterfish or hunting the occasional wayward wolf pack—occupations considered hazardous even for youthful hunters and fishermen—she was usually closed up inside her cottage, blending ingredients for potions or working on new spells or Gods-knew-what-else that the Mage's guild probably would have considered risky and irresponsible. She was a quiet woman and kept mostly to herself, never entering the city and instead relying on an assistant or the occasional curious child willing to earn a few coins or a sweet roll to deliver messages or purchase her necessities from the city's Market District.
Children are drawn to enigmas and eccentricities the way bees are drawn to flowers, and the Witch of Lake Rumare was no exception. Her cottage itself was peculiar and fascinating enough to draw the attention of every curious child within and without the city limits. Unassuming and decaying on the outside, inside the cottage was filled with an odd assortment of wonderful things. Bowls and jars were overflowing with the strangest plants that Samuel and Sadia had ever seen, brightly colored and dangerous things that looked like they had come out of a dream rather than grown somewhere within Cyrodiil. Baskets bulged with roots and potion ingredients, cupboard were lined with softly glowing crystals and stones, and along the wooden walls hung the weapons and dented armors of adventures past, though who they originally belonged to was anyone's guess. There was always a large pot of something boiling softly within the hearth, and upon the wooden table sat a bowl of fresh fruit and a plate of sweet smelling cakes and rolls. Any child would have found endless delights within the cottage, and endless trinkets to cause trouble with.
Yet most children were too cautious to approach the cottage, save for Samuel and Sadia. The place had been their own little haven since the day they had been bold enough to accept a dare and knock on the old door and offer the old woman the newest edition of The Black Horse Courier. Neither child minded their parents' warnings to not bother the elderly Breton, and both found pleasure running the occasional errand for her, as it usually was rewarded with something delightful.
Yet Samuel was grown now, and took his duties to watch his sister with an unusual amount of seriousness for his age. He was getting too big to slink off to the old witch's house and pester her for stories and fantastical tales of heroes battling ogres and gallant men fighting for the honor of pure maidens. After all, he was nearing twelve—listening to those musty old legends was something children did.
That did not stop him from hesitantly glancing around the cottage to see if Granny had acquired anything new and interesting, something the woman's sharp green eyes caught. Despite her stern exterior, there was a brightness in her eyes and always a small amused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"Would you care for a sweet roll, Samuel?" She offered him politely. It took all of Samuel's pride and self-control to decline; apparently the recipe Granny used was an old one from a shop in one of the southwest cities, and had been widely renowned back in her day.
"I was waiting for you to get here," Sadia said to her brother, showing no signs of wanting to leave and return home where clothes needed to be washed and floors needed to be swept. "I wanted Granny to tell me a story, but she said you'd be angry if she told it to me without you here."
"I would not," Samuel retorted stubbornly. "I don't have time to listen to old stories anymore anyway. Father is reaching me to be a blacksmith now and I have more important things to do."
"Is that so? Such a shame," Granny sighed, gathering some of Sadia's dishes and moving them to a stone tub by the window to be washed or neglected for an indeterminate amount of time. "I suppose the two of you best be off then. Remember to thank your parents for the corn and tomatoes they sent along last time for me, would you?"
Sadia frowned. She knew the old woman had probably been expecting this. Granny would not spin any tales for her without Samuel there, lest Samuel grow cross from being left out, and Samuel was too stubborn about wanting to prove he was not a child anymore that he would never simply ask to stay. Sadia still found all the legends of the older days fascinating, and she was not about to miss out on a real treat just because her brother was an obstinate pig-head.
"Oh please, Granny, just one?" Sadia begged with a voice drenched in sweetness. "You never refused to tell us a tale before. Please, Sam likes to listen to them, he does, and he'll stay if you agree to tell us a story."
"I would not," Samuel said at once without any real conviction in his voice.
"He would too, Sam listens to all the songs the travelers sing in the city, and he reads all the books, and he practices to be a Bard someday himself—"
"Be quiet!" Samuel snapped, his cheeks growing red, and Granny looked back to him while repressing another smile.
"A Bard, eh?" Granny mused. "This is the first time I'm hearing of that. The blacksmith vocation not to your liking then?"
Samuel did not answer.
"What tale would you have me regale you with this time, anyway?" Granny continued, moving to the table and sweeping crumbs to the floor with a slightly crooked hand. "You've listened to the stories of the Knights of the Nine, of the realm of Madness, of Sheogorath and the Greymarch, of the magic painting and the confused twins and the haunted mansion and—"
"What about a tale of the emperor?" Samuel suggested, quite forgetting himself. "That was back around your time, wasn't it?"
Granny had turned away from the table to reach for a watering can, which she nearly dropped but caught with an awkward stoop. She was quiet a moment, and unless Samuel was quite mistaken there seemed to be a sudden tenseness about her.
"What is there to tell of the emperor?" She asked in an even tone with her back to the two of them, setting the watering can back down as if she had forgotten her use for it. "The old fool and his council-appointed lineage are hardly worth mention—"
"Not the now one," Samuel said, standing a little closer to Sadia, who was smirking up at him. "What of the old emperor, of the Dragon's Blood? The tales of the daedric lord, and the battle of the Imperial City, and the Akatosh statue? Do you know any of them?"
"Listen to The Fall of Dagon," Granny replied softly. "Walk through any bookstore and search blindly through the shelves. You will find a hundred authors writing a thousand different tales on those battles and times."
"But you tell the old tales best," Sadia pointed out.
This was true and both children knew it. The old woman had a knack for telling stories, capturing moments that the bards and scribes just could not grasp.
Granny gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh as she crossed back to the hearth and stoked the already blazing fire. "Not today, children," she said quietly. "Perhaps another time."
"Oh please, Granny," Sadia whined. "Please. Just for a little while, just for a moment! Just one story."
"A story like that takes more than a moment, child," Granny said firmly, but she made the fatal error of turning to catch Sadia's eye. The little girl had caused them to grow big and wide and round as saucers, large and pleading and innocent as a blue-eyed fawn. Samuel had to give her credit, no one pulled off the imploring puppy-dog-eyes attack like Sadia, and such a gaze stilled even the Witch of Lake Rumare.
"Just one story," Sadia dropped her voice to a quiet beseeching murmur, just the right tone to really twist in the knife. "Please."
Even Samuel could not tear himself away now. He had heard his parents mention some of the battles their parents had lived through, of the Oblivion Crisis and the Battle of Bruma, of the illegitimate heir to the throne and the mysterious Champion of Cyrodiil. Surely the old woman knew some of those tales herself, and surely her smooth voice could cast a spell over them and make it as though they themselves were personally reliving such adventures.
Granny moved very slowly, almost wearily and with carefully calculated deliberateness. She remembered the use for her watering can at last and tended to a few softly glowing roots with light blue leaves. She set it down afterwards and shuffled back to the hearth. The children watched her every move with bated breath. Finally, she lowered herself into an old chair and sighed, folding her hands in her lap and looking at the two of them thoughtfully. A long finger twisted a broken golden chain that was fastened and knotted inelegantly around her thin wrist, catching light from both the fire and the sun rays leaking through the window and dappling it against the wall.
"All right," she said quietly. "One story."
Sadia gave a squeal of delight and launched herself from her chair, bounding over to the rug by the hearth. Samuel held his excitement with a little more dignity and slowly moved across the room to join his sister at Granny's feet. The Breton laughed, and her eyes had their pleased glint back in them once again.
"Such avid listeners," she chuckled. "Shouldn't you be out playing knights and bandits rather than listening to an old woman prattle on about the past?"
"Sam and his friends always play too rough," Sadia replied with a shrug.
"All right," Granny rubbed her eyes a bit and thought. "This is a tale from long before either of you were born. It happened years and years ago, in the closing days of the Third Era, in the year of Akatosh, 433. It begins, as most tales do, with a young hero…"
"A gallant and noble hero, right? A champion from a faraway land?" Sadia asked excitedly, receiving a hissing reprimand from Samuel.
"Hardly," Granny continued patiently. "It beings with a simple person in a simple place, right here in Cyrodiil. It begins in the Imperial Prison…"
