The people of Tamriel had breathed a collective sigh of relief and cheered in gratitude for the newly-appointed Champion of Cyrodiil; the brave individual who had braved countless horrors and slayed monsters for the sake of the Empire. Men and women all around Cyrodiil cheered for weeks on end, quickly rebuilding and moving on with their lives, the memory of one man forever staying in their hearts. The last of the Septim Dynasty had brought them freedom from the daedra that had been pouring through the Great Gates, sacrificing his life in order to banish Mehrunes Dagon back to the hell he came from. But not everyone was pleased with how the Champion went about his mission.
The people of Pell's Gate were slaughtered to a man when the Champion rode through the small village wielding death in one hand and throwing lightning with the other. The first sign of the Champion's inner darkness and no one was left alive to warn the Council. Both Water's Edge and Bleaker's Way both followed suit; the Champion sparked a war between two clans in Bleaker's Way in the name of the Webspinner as well as massacring the people of Water's Edge during his stint with the Blackwood Company.
A series of murders and disappearances marked the days when the Champion went underground; pirates, guards and even a commander of the Imperial Legion were all found slain. While never proved, some believed that it was the Champion who murdered all these people during his time with the Dark Brotherhood.
There was never anyone left alive to report these atrocities to the Imperial Legion. It was only when a woman named Caelia Draconis was killed did someone decide to go out and start investigating the silent countryside. Yvonne Hamler of Leyawiin was a friend of the Draconis Family and employed a ranger to begin tracking the murderer. The investigator eventually tracked each of the murders back to the Dark Brotherhood, then set out to discover why no one from any of the villages in the countryside were visiting the bigger towns any more. Upon discovering all the bodies, the investigator brought news back to his employer. Immediately Yvonne informed her friends and family and soon Tamriel Against Terror was formed; a group of people that protested the violence and mayhem that the Champion was bringing to the land.
"And here we have the pride of our collection; the journal of Marcel Amelion, a farmer from Water's Edge. As you can see by the blood and tears staining the pages of his journal's last entry, Marcel was dying when he penned those final words of his. In fact, Marcel was so adamant to finish his story that he even continued to write in his own blood after his ink-well ran out."
The long line of tourists oohed and ahhed as they gazed upon the personal effects of the farmer from Water's Edge. Gathered in the hallways of Tamriel Against Terror were several exhibits that revealed the truth of the man that had been crowned as the Champion of Cyrodiil. From personal accounts to evidence gathered from crime scenes, the sole purpose of Tamriel Against Terror was to discredit the Champion and force the Elder Council to intervene. Marcel Amelion's journal had been the final piece of evidence that the group felt they needed, yet even after reading this over High Chancellor Ocato refused to destroy the reputation of one so beloved by the people and ignored any further attempts of the group to interfere. Instead the group decided to put together a museum and to display these items to the general public so that the people may form their own opinions. Together with the journal there was the shattered remains of an ink bottle, a dull sword of steel that hadn't been cleaned of goblin blood and lastly a silver locket that was engraved with the name of his daughter, Biene.
"Those of you who had paid the extra fee can stay and read the final entry while I take the rest of the group to the final hall." Gesturing to the open book on the display table, the guide then ran his finger down a sheet of parchment in his hand. Glancing up at the crowd, the guide shrugged and turned to the guard standing to the right of the display table.
"Looks like only one person paid. Oh well, everyone else follow me please!"
The guard watched the lone visitor stand to the side of the group, waiting until everyone had left before walking over to the journal and flipping to the final entry. Like all the other employees at Tamriel Against Terror, the guard had read the journal and could almost taste the revulsion that the visitor would soon be feeling.
Evening, 8th Midyear, 3E 434
Biene, how I miss hearing your voice so early in the morning, singing to the sheep as you bring them their food. I passed into our village today, entering from the north. I'd forgotten about the gutted wrecks that used to be our homes. I had imaged I'd smelt the wafting smells of Jolie's pie as my horse trotted to a stop, but instead I remembered the smell of death. There's a group of refugees here who have set up a camp in the centre of the village, I'll talk to them and see if they've seen the Murderer pass through. According to that Bosmer in Rimmen., the Murderer should have less than a week's start on me.
It's funny how we notice the little things that don't really matter. There was a crack on Biene's tombstone. Absolutely minuscule but I still noticed it. It brought me back to when I had to bury her. My own daughter, dead before I'm even fifty. I couldn't afford marble from the Imperial City so I had to deal with the stonemason in Bravil who fashioned the tombstones for everyone who died that day; the bastard took the last of my savings just do pay for them all. Barely a year on and already the stonemason's work has deteriorated. Just a little bit, but even a small crack can spread outwards.
Night, 8th Midyear, 3E 434
A stroke of luck! The leader of the camp, a wizard named Helelias, told me that the 'Champion' had come through the village on his way east. Not only that, but the Murderer even told him where he was going!
Teledasel is my next destination; the Murderer is hunting for a bandit that supposedly prays on the merchants that stray too close. While that may sound like a decent act of justice to many, I doubt that the Murderer is pursuing his target because of the law. No, likely it is that the bandit in question wronged the Murderer in some way; perhaps he didn't want to give up a cut of the earnings? No matter, Teledasel is not far, I should arrive there in a day or two of steady riding.
Morning, 10th Midyear, 3E 434
I fear that this is the end. After so many months of searching for the one that took the lives of our entire village I have finally found the perpetrator and tracked the so-called 'Champion' to the ruins of Teledasel just beyond our border with the Black Marsh. During my last entry I deliberated whether or not I should proceed past the border and into the unknown on my own, but I know that this is my only chance to avenge your death, Biene. The Murderer never stays in one place too long; travelling Tamriel end-to-end looking for adventure and leaving death behind. Now I have found the Murderer's lair at last; the abandoned fortress Teledasel where once our ancestors stood guard against the Argonians. It seems fitting that I shall end the Murderer's life while the ghosts of yore watch on, silently applauding as the deed is done. Tonight I enter the ruins.
Evening, 10th Midyear, 3E 434
The way in was far too dark for me to see without aid, but I refused to light my torch and instead believed in Akatosh, knowing that He would not allow any harm to come to me. Traps of all kinds littered the path in, the majority of them not sprung. I had nearly lost my life when I stepped on a pressure plate on the main staircase down, triggering a mechanism that sent a spray of darts right at me! But Akatosh did provide and luckily the trap had not been set by someone knowledgeable in the craft. The darts had flown overhead harmlessly, over ten inches too high. Just after that I'd almost stepped onto a false floor but luckily I'd seen the strange discoloured stonework. It wasn't even a real tile either, merely a thin stone slab that covered the pit.
I found an old storeroom next to one of the vast halls so I set up camp for the night, but only after I'd set a few minor can trips along the corridor leading back to the ground level. If the Murderer should attempt to slink out of this fortress while I sleep then a mere Sonic Alarm spell is all that I need to wake up quickly and swoop in for the kill.
The stonework of the fortress reminds me of Castle Cheydinhal. Not surprising though, seeing as they're both Dunmer-built. Castle Cheydinhal is old and while not as old as Teledasel it's not like Dunmer architecture varied that much anyway between an age or so.
Heh, I've got better things to do then think about architecture but it does help dealing with the anxiety. I'm worried; there's no denying that. Sure, I'd already come to grips with my old skills while tracking the guar-lover across Valenwood and Elsweyr and before that across Cyrodiil as I gathered information on my target; talking to those who'd seen the 'Champion' in action, or who'd offered jobs and the like. I'd followed the trail all across Cyrodiil, visiting the various sites of major battles and sneaking through the city streets, knocking down a member of the Thieves Guild in order to find out whether the 'Champion' had ever been affiliated with them. As it turned out the Murderer had been a part of each of the major guilds at one point or another; reaching the rank of Grandmaster then appointing their second-in-command to take over unofficially, leaving the Murderer with what I call 'token leadership'. I tried to meet with a representative with each of the guilds but most of them refused to see me; alas their morales and dedication to the 'Champion' saw them ignore my pleas. I spoke to Raminus Polus from the Arcane University who actually agreed to speak to me of the Murderer, but I'm not going to repeat that here. My point is that I feel my journey is at last coming to an end and I really have no idea how this will go. Even if I do defeat the 'Champion' in the name of justice, what then?
No one is likely to care about my story; no, they will just sentence me to death and that will be the end of that. No one knows the truth of the Murderer except me and I can't accept that this will end like it will. If only I'd acted sooner and attempted to compile some sort of evidence against the Murderer; eye-witness accounts, blood-stained clothing and sketches. There was no shortage of any of those things but I was too set on my goal.
I guess its time to accept why I'm here and how it will effect Tamriel. I'm going to kill their 'Champion'; beloved by all except those people left dead in the dust. People will think I murdered a Champion, that I acted in the wrong and that I should be punished by death. It's very likely I won't even live to see a court of law; I'll probably be assassinated by one party or another. It's sad actually. I don't want there to be statues erected to the Murderer. I think I've gone all about this the wrong way, what difference would it make to justice whether it is I or a magistrate that is the one to hand death to the Murderer? Knowing that such an evil force has been put into the ground forever would have been enough for me and for you too, Biene.
Sometime at night, I think. 10Th? 11Th? I don't know. Midyear. 3E 434
I'm dying.
The slippery bastard who lives in this damn fortress trapped the corridors in more ways then one; when I awoke to the sounds of my Sonic Alarm I ran out immediately, sword in hand. (blood-stained) and now I lie dying (blood-stained)my lungs are full of (blood-stained) the Champion is going to get (blood-stained)
Biene, I (blood-stained)
The journal ended there, followed by a page soaked in blood. The tourist audibly sighed, drawing the attention of the guard. Stepping around the desk, the guard gave the tourist a pat on the back. The guard had seen many people come through here, stepping away from the journal with obvious disappointment in their appearance. It was the greatest piece of evidence of Tamriel Against Terror for that very reason.
"Sad, ain't it? It's a real shame that he never got his justice in the end; by Martin I would have refused to die I think. How about you, sir?" The guard asked, looking down at the journal. "I wonder what he wanted to write at the end."
The middle-aged Imperial agreed with the guard; it was a great shame indeed. "I too would have liked to read it; I've come a long way to do so. I met this man once, right after the people of Water's Edge were massacred. I'd come into the village to see what had happened and found him in the centre of town, weeping over the body of his daughter. I remember back then he didn't know who'd done the murderous deeds but its obvious he found the culprit in the end."
The guard's eyes widened in surprise and excitement. Setting his spear and shield against the wall, he rushed out of the room. "I'll be one moment, I'll just go get a scribe! If you could tell us the details of what you'd seen, that'll be brilliant!"
Alone in the room, the Imperial sighed again and looked down at the journal. He'd come a long way, true, but not for it to end like it has. There was precious little time before the guard returned and the Imperial had work to do.
Holding his hand over the tome, the Imperial felt for the seam. It'd had been too suspicious; that a man could lie dying and pen coherent words yet pass away so quickly without his handwriting even wobbling for a moment was not possible.
A flash of violet light that illuminated the room for a moment, leaving the smell of burning parchment told the Imperial that it'd been a success. All the blood on the page had been an illusion; created by Tamriel Against Terror to hide the real last thoughts of Marcel Amelion. The Imperial leaned over and re-read the last entry quickly.
Sometime at night, I think. 10Th? 11Th? I don't know. Midyear. 3E 434
I'm dying.
The slippery bastard who lives in this damn fortress trapped the corridors in more ways then one; when I awoke to the sounds of my Sonic Alarm I ran out immediately, sword in hand. Instead of the Champion, it'd been the bandit who tripped the alarm, but he in turn trapped some of the steps on the way up and now I lie dying at the hand of the bandit, my lungs are full of blood. But it was astonishing, the Champion found me! I couldn't believe my eyes, but the Champion was actually grieving and tried to heal me, but my wounds are too great. The Champion is going to get help, I can't be moved, everything hurts so much.
Biene, I think I made a mistake. Could it be that I read everything the wrong way? My head is starting to hurt, I can't... think. I love you, Biene. (blood-stained) coughing it up now, won't be too much longer. The Champion won't return in time but at least the bandit lies dead, not twenty steps up. So sleepy now.
I love (blood-stained)
Satisfied, the Imperial began to chant the spidery words of magic underneath his breath. A shroud of smoke enveloped the journal for a moment before it dissipated. The journal could no longer be illusioned or charmed by anyone else any more; meaning it could no longer lead any more people astray. Now it held only the truth and nothing else but the truth. For too long it had been used as a tool of men and women who did their best to incite hatred against the Champion; it was the sole pulling power of the organisation and the loss of it should lose them Shutting the tome in satisfaction, the Imperial turned to find the guard had returned already, his mouth open in a wide gape. Next to him was a timid-looking woman wearing brown robes and carrying parchment and ink as well as a much stronger-looking Redguard woman with long dreadlocks. The Redguard scowled furiously, pushing the scribe back behind her. Dressed in a suit of leather armour and wearing a red mantle the colour of blood over the top, she casually swaggered a step closer then her companions, a vicious dirk in hand.
"You fool! What have you done? That was a precious tome and you've ruined it! Who are you?" The Redguard demanded, stepping closer. An intense anger burned behind her eyes, hot enough to even warm up a Nord in the middle of the winter cycle.
"Just a passing stranger, no one really," the Imperial said flippantly, casually reaching up and scratching his head. "I'm no one really, no one at all. Just in the wrong place, wrong time like usual. My name, if you'd have it, is Bendu. Bendu Olo, at your service."
"There's no way in Oblivion we're going to take shit out of you, Imperial. As if you can pull a stunt like that on me, your mother would have had to been addled to name you that. Now, the way I figure it, you knew that the journal was enchanted. Sure, any wizard could stroll on in here and dispel my spell but they'd have to first know what to look for. Try and explain that." The Redguard's eyes flared again, magicka almost seeping from her hands as she barely held back on any number of lethal spells.
"I'd heard poor Marcel's journal was over here so I thought I'd just come a take a look at it. So I'm reading, pretty disturbed what I'm hearing and then I come to the end and something does not seem right at all. I wouldn't bother with that little blade, miss; I've taken the liberty to completely enchant myself, not an inch untouched. That little pigsticker couldn't hurt me even if I sat on it, let alone if you actually tried attacking me."
The Redguard smiled and took a step closer, flicking the dirk out of her grip in a flash and sending it hurling towards the Imperial, who simply sidestepped and watched the blade bounce harmlessly off the stone wall behind him. Grinning, the Imperial turned back and shrugged, his hands out in front of him with the palms facing upwards.
"What can I say, I'm good. In fact, I can easily imagine leaving here without a scratch on me. Can't say the same for you three. Miss, while I appreciate the attention you're giving me I really must be off; those Tsaesci won't leave Archon all by themselves, will they?"
The Redguard narrowed her eyes. Shrugging off the mantle she wore, the Redguard tapped her forehead with two fingers then began to chant. Another purple light shone out from her fingertips, the same hue as the Imperial's spell earlier. She moved her fingers up and down, tracing the Imperial's form at a distance. Her face reddened with anger as the powerful enchantments on the Imperial's clothing held but broke out in laughter as his face fell off, revealing the true visitor to their lair. The Redguard bowed mockingly while her companions stood, stunned.
"Welcome, Champion. I was wondering when you'd stop by."
"Well, you knew that it would come to this eventually, Yvonne. Learning how to place illusions on my body, my very voice made it oh so much fun. Now, you've meddled with things that are simply not yours to meddle with at all. True, I may have not been a very nice person at times but you know as well as I do that Water's Edge wasn't my fault.. It was the hist sap from this very land that caused the Blackwood Company's recruits to massacre those poor townsfolk; I was merely there undercover but I realised instantly what was going on. Now, true, there have been other occasions where I really have no excuse for my actions but don't we all act a bit on the dark side now and then?
You yourself have now tread across that line, using lies and magic to distort the dying words of a poor farmer in order to facilitate your grip on this land's people, turning them against me. On the whole I believe I've been rather good; beating back the Daedra, helping Martin defeat the Great Evil, slaying the Last Watcher of Skyrim and finding the lost city of Alajheros in Hammerfell. Without me this land would have turned to dust long ago and frankly I'm only living up to my title, as you should know. I'm not just the Champion, am I?"
Author's Note:
Yeah, leaving it there. True Believers, you know the deal about what I'm saying here.
Personally, I wasn't really happy with this. I'd written it sometime last year but buried it due to problems with Lore and Canon and whatnot but with Skyrim coming out later this year, I thought 'why not?'
Anyways, hope you enjoyed it.