To know one's end is a gift of paradise.
-- Visias Philien, Priest and Diviner of the Temple
2 Sun's Dusk, 3E 430
Fort Darius, Gnisis
Mersius Auricus doubted he had ever seen a darker nightfall.
The stars were all but blotted out, indistinguishable through the bleeding pall that had begun to infect the sky in recent weeks. If not for the numerous watchfires that lit the village like so many eldritch flames of Oblivion, he thought, not even an Eye of Night incantation would be able to pierce the gloom. Twilight had come an hour past like the fall of Stendarr's hammer, stirring deep, fresh fear in the hearts of Gnisis's ragged defenders. This was the hour all dreaded. The terror of the past few days had taught them the true meaning of the word.
Atop the walls of the fort, Auricus gazed into gathering darkness. Where once he had hankered after a few good swigs of fine Cyrodilic brandy in the barracks at this time of day, now he desired nothing more but sleep. Yet sleep was now a rare commodity at best, a luxury he could ill afford to allow himself in his current capacity as Knight Errant of the Imperial Legion and a senior captain of the garrison of Fort Darius. The men were frightened, as were the townsfolk. It didn't surprise him one bit. He, too, had looked in the face of the boundless horror that had seized them that first, terrible night. He, a weathered campaigner himself. He feared more for the troops than the villagers. Professional soldiers all, well trained and prepared to dare their lives in battle for the glory of the Empire...
... but against foes such as they now faced, would their nerve hold? Even the hardened veterans quailed, and the garrison had its fair share of unproven recruits and troopers who had never seen real action before that first night. Yet it was on their shoulders that the desperate defence fell. He would not have them break this soon, for if they were to give way then much more would be at stake than the Legion's vaunted honor. Gnisis itself would be left wide open behind the fragile line of the militia.
It had been a long time since they had had any contact with Ebonheart. The higher-ups were doing an outstanding job of keeping tight-lipped about the situation on the rest of Vvardenfell. In hopes of avoiding a panic, no doubt, and with pretty good reason. General Darius himself had rarely been seen since the first night, shutting himself away in his quarters in the barracks where only the most senior officers could tread. Nothing in all his years of military service had prepared Auricus for this. He could only wonder at what was going on behind the walls of the Council Chambers in the seat of Imperial power on Vvardenfell, whether or not Gnisis factored at all into the grand scheme of the district leaders.
Not that they had had no news at all of the outside world. Even before the siege began, the rumors that had come flowing in from the traffic at the silt strider platform had been anything but pleasant. Auricus had spoken himself with many of the grim, harried travelers who bore tidings of war from all over the island.
Great House Redoran was reported to have marched forth from Ald'ruhn to reinforce the War Ordinators and Buoyant Armigers at Ghostgate, already long shuddering under furious assault as Red Mountain spewed out its terrible ash hordes. The first line of defense. The outer redoubt. Auricus could only wonder at whether even the combined might of Redoran, the Order of War, and Vivec's own knight errants could withstand the tidal wave that was the onslaught of the Sixth House. In a corner of his mind, he hoped there were Imperials from Buckmoth there as well. Surely the Legion had a right to be there, to hoist the glorious standard of the Imperial Dragon at the end just as they had at the beginning, after all that they had done for Morrowind and Vvardenfell.
In the east, an isolated Great House Telvanni was rumored to be fighting a gruesome battle against enemies from the deep, as the shores of Sadrith Mora crawled with entire fleets of mutated dreugh that could walk on land and devour men and mer alive. The very thought of it made Auricus's skin crawl. The dreugh, those fearsome aquatic beasts hunted for their hides, the terror of the depths... surely even the Telvanni, ancient masters of the arcane, could not have foreseen such a hideous turn of events. He thought of Wolverine Hall and the scattered Telvanni tower islands, and how their garrisons were faring against the abominations. Were they, too, as close to the edge as his was?
The situation in Balmora appeared frantic, as the merchant princes of Great House Hlaalu struggled to salvage their assets from their chaos-ridden capital while the same, fell terror that besieged Gnisis and many other cities across Vvardenfell scourged the countryside. Auricus struggled to imagine the bustling city torn apart by anarchy and confusion. It was anything but encouraging. How could such an atrocity be? What the hell were the Hlaalu doing, just packing up and jumping ship like that? Wasn't it their city? He clenched a fist, seething in silence. Damned money-mongers, all of them. Damned soulless money-mongers. Flying the coup at the first sign of a palpable threat to their precious interests. And Moonmoth? What was Radd Hard-Heart doing over there? He exhaled a long, deep breath, feeling in his gut the answer even before it flashed into his mind. Holding the line, no doubt. Just barely. Just like Darius.
Molag Mar, the reports said, had become the staging ground for a crusade, as hosts of the Tribunal Temple struck out north into the ravaged wilderness of the Molag Amur in pursuit of an as-yet unknown menace. Madness, Auricus thought, slowly shaking his head in disbelief. What in the name of the Nine were they thinking? Forsaking the refuge of the pilgrim fortress, charging headlong into the blight-swept wastelands like overeager recruits in their first action? All for... what? Some insane, zeal-fueled holy war against an invisible enemy, elusive as the ashes in the wind? It was nothing short of sheer lunacy. But then, he had always suspected those bastard Temple priests would try something like this. Fanatics all. Blind fanatics. What did they know of military strategy? What did they know of prudence, in the first place? Bastards all. Blind bastards.
And the Ashlander nomads of the wastes had apparently been scattered to the four winds, too few in numbers and strength to resist the encroaching evil seeping through the failing Ghostfence. Their faith in their all too mortal savior so rudely shattered after the Nerevarine's fall beneath Red Mountain, they had once again, just like the rabble they were, fallen prey to division and internal strife, as always. And, Auricus thought with more than a hint of sardonic bitterness, at the wrong time. Ahemmusa. Erabenimsun. Urshilaku. Zainab. Attacked. Fractured. Defeated. All but wiped out.
All the cities and settlements of Vvardenfell had become islands under siege in a sea of war.
Only Vivec still stood free. This Auricus knew well, as did all. Who, after all, could threaten a city occupied by a living god? The travelers spoke of the influx of refugees into the great city from all corners of the island, the lucky ones who had begun their own exodus to safety before the days of darkness. Ships, it seemed, were departing from Vivec and Ebonheart by the hour, ferrying panicking hundreds away from this, the war that would seal the fate of all Morrowind.
It was at such times that Auricus wished fervently he was on one of those, his hands on the rail of a ship's top deck instead of the cold, hard stone of a crenellation. But always, the sobering sight around him brought him back to the harshness of the present and his duties.
Gnisis itself posed many problems. The garrison's withering strength was first and foremost. They had lost many a good man over the past nights, and the loss of the silt strider forced the deployment of messengers by foot... none of which had returned from their dire errands to summon reinforcements from Buckmoth. Auricus was old enough a soldier to know what that meant. They were cut off. Totally. Then there was the local eggmine. Though they had sealed it off since the fighting began, recent reports by perimeter scouts listening at the entrance had given Auricus, and the other officers included, good cause to believe that something dark was stirring in the blighted tunnels beneath the earth. And the wizard. Thus far, attempts to persuade Baladas Demnevanni to lend a helping hand in the village's defense had been flatly, if not brutally, repulsed. The reclusive Telvanni ancient, with his seemingly fathomless wisdom and magic, would certainly help them to turn the tide. Yet he would have none of it. Cloistered away in his sorcerer's study in Arvs-Drelen, he seemed bent on abandoning his adopted hometown to its fate.
He let out a long, slow sigh. For a moment, he turned for a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction of the village's dominant edifice, the Gnisis Temple, receptacle of the storied Ash Mask of Vivec. There was the heart of the village, the very wellspring of morale that kept the defenders' spirits up and was the real reason why any of them stayed here, in this forsaken place, fighting for homes that no longer existed or superiors that no longer cared. Tended to now by its resident priests of Almsivi and the Mask's own Ordinator guardians, it now served as a makeshift hospital, accomodating the sick and wounded of the garrison when no room was left in the fort. He knew instinctively that the villagers would go on battling to protect the sacred relic so long as they yet drew breath. Now that was something no one would suffer to fall into the hands of the things that had picked Gnisis as their killing ground.
What were they to do now? What was the general thinking? Were they to remain here, and hold until the bitter end? That wouldn't be too far off, Auricus reckoned. If things remained on this course, that was. They could change. But he had never been one to put much stock in miracles. His right hand left the wall and curled around the hilt of the old but still very serviceable broadsword of Imperial steel that hung from his belt. His trusty blade, that had seen him through his first action in the Five Years War at Sphinxmoth. Through adventures of a... more dubious nature, in the years thereafter. And through the nights of far more recent times.
Again he stared at the sky, bleeding crimson like some vast fresh wound. Dark redness. Red darkness.
Suddenly, he caught himself almost hoping that nothing would happen tonight. That, for once, they would not come. That the soldiers, worn and weary, and the miltia, bent and battered, would finally earn a blessed respite. That he would at last be able to march down to the barracks quarters and give General Darius and his fellow officers a good earful of just what he thought of the current situation. That there would be no more slaughter, at least for one night.
But Mersius Auricus knew better.
He had never been one to put much stock in miracles.