Once upon a time, there was a Dremora Churl.
He served the Daedric price Molag Bal and wanted to be the strongest Dremora Oblivion or Nirn had ever seen.
His story, like all stories tied to the Elder Scrolls, begins in a prison.
He sighed as he wandered the halls of the Wailing Prison. He had been working this shift the last two hundred years and he was already tried of it. There were two types of people that ended up here; the kind that wailed, just as the name suggested, and those that were defiant and just downright rude.
The wailing kind sobbed endlessly. The defiant kind barked insults.
Both ended up becoming numb, unfeeling shells of their past selves in no time flat.
In other words, they turned boring.
Sure, there were more prisoners here now that Molag Bal had been attempting some special, secret plan that involved souls, but they were still the same.
He wasn't allowed to know about the plan as he wasn't anything but a lowly Churl, but he had heard rumors that it involved a Planemold.
He wasn't entirely sure what that was, but it sounded dark and scary, so it must be.
As he passed under one of the gates that looked like it could crumble at a moment's notice, he nodded to the Dremora's whose shift he was taking over.
The other Daedric servant waved haphazardly before wandering off, looking as bored as He felt. It was always the same here. Prisoners in, memories and humanity drained, boring people left.
"My cousins are out dropping anchors and what do I get?" He muttered sullenly, kicking at the ground with his spiked boot. "Guard duty…"
Why his cousins were so lucky, he wasn't sure. He was a better fighter then all of them combined, but somehow they had gained the attention of someone important and been given tasks more exciting than prison duty.
They were actually getting to taste battle, to lock blades with foes, to kill mortals. He sighed. That was His dream.
"Someday," He vowed. "Someday."
It could be worse, however; one of His neighbors was tasked with sorting soul gems with that stuck up Imperial battlemage. That had to be truly torturous.
He started to walk the halls, although He honestly wasn't sure why this place needed guards. No one ever tried to break out, at least not since He had been here.
Absently He ran his gloved hand over the cell bars and muttered; "Dead, dead, staring off into space, crazy, dead…" as He walked, looking into each section.
"Sobbing, screaming, dead, dead…"
He passed by another cell and stopped, glancing inside. There was another human, one that looked unchanged by the realm's darkness.
Yet.
Clearly, she was one of the new prisoners He'd been hearing about.
She glanced up, squinting at him before getting to her feet uneasily. "Wow, that was disorienting. I hate cultists…always the cultists…" She gave him a once over, frowning. "Hey, what's happening? Can I call you Steve? You look like a Steve…"
He stared.
"What?" he finally said.
He was completely and utterly baffled. This mortal wanted to call him "Steve"? What was a "Steve", and why was she asking? And why wasn't she scared?
"So yes? I can call you Steve?" she insisted, leaning her elbows on the space between the bars.
He crinkled his face in disgust. "No!"
"Alright, then what's your name?"
He paused. "I…I don't have a name,"
Now she crinkled her face. "You don't have a name?" she repeated, sounding skeptical. "That makes no sense. Is that a Daedra thing?"
Before he could reply, she continued; "How does anyone get your attention? Are you numbered? Do they just point and shout, 'hey you'!"
Growing more and more enraged and confused by the mortal, He glowered at her, trying to put on the sharpest, most frightening look He could muster.
She just frowned, "Sorry, didn't mean to offend you. I won't call you Steve, okay?"
Now he was even more confused.
"So, dreadful Dremora number five hundred and eighty six, where is here?" the girl said, looking past him and out into the prison beyond. "Hmm…dark, death motif…could be…Namira, Dagon, Malog Bal…but it's a bluish tint on the lens, so must be…Cold Harbor?"
He stared at her.
She was right, of course, but she was….curious. Mortals were always the same, she was different.
It was like she was already crazy even before she got here.
Her lips curled to a half smile. "Well, this isn't how I planned to spend the day…"
"You realize you aren't ever leaving," He said, hoping to sound ominous. She needed to understand the torment she was going to endure for the rest of eternity.
But all she did was smirk, blue eyes twinkling with something He couldn't figure out.
"We'll see."
"Dreadful Dremora number four hundred and two!" the mortal girl exclaimed from the floor in her cell. "How's your day going?"
He scowled at her as He walked by, annoyed she wasn't soul-drained yet. Seriously, she was much too happy and carefree for someone locked up and alone. In Cold Harbor. It was supposed to be awful.
Plus, she was mocking Him.
"Mortal," He spat as He continued along His way.
He heard her chuckle. "That good, huh?"
He ignored her. Mortals were mortals.
"Dreadful Dremora number seven hundred and forty three!"
He closed his eyes and counted back from ten. He had tried everything to intimidate her, but nothing worked.
"One of these days I'll guess your assigned number correctly!" she called as he walked past with no interaction.
Was that what she was trying to do?! How infuriating.
"Dreadful Dremora one thousand one hundred and nine!"
"Stop!" he snapped, wheeling around and barely keeping Himself from drawing His weapon.
"So, not your number?" she asked, gripping the bars.
He seethed, "I don't have a number, I don't have a name. I also don't have time for you, mortal. One day I shall walk by your cell and laugh at your rotting corpse as the rats chew on your bones!"
He expected wide eyes at His obviously frightening speech, but all she did was hold her hands up, lips pulled to an amused smile.
"Whoa." She said. "That was intense. Nice speech. Very scary."
He wanted to kill her, but they had orders to not kill the Soul Shriven in the prison.
Yet.
Her expression fell to a more serious look, smile less mocking and more sympathetic. "Though…sorry. I shouldn't mock you. I won't anymore."
She held her hand through the bars, "Truce?"
He stared at the offered hand, repulsed.
Seriously, what was wrong with her?
He growled and stomped away, wanting to forget the annoying mortal and busy Himself with wandering halls of boring, already depressed shells.
He braced Himself the next day for her call, but He didn't hear anything when He walked by, and so glanced inside the cell. She was there like always, this time leaning against the far wall. She smirked when she saw Him, but said nothing.
He hesitated.
He was slightly disappointed she was keeping her word.
"…How did you always know it was me?" He asked.
It was foolish to try and have a conversation with a mortal, and a waste of His valuable time. Especially if someone found out.
The girl gave Him a quizzical look, like all foolish mortals did, and so He sighed, explaining; "Whenever I walked by, you were already babbling. How did you know it was me and not one of the other guards?"
She smiled again, "The guard that comes for rounds before you has a limp. The guard that comes after you stomps harder. The guard that sometimes comes instead of you has different facial markings."
He blinked.
She was frightening observant.
He frowned, still surprised she was lucid. By now, most mortals were half mad, or half dead, or would have attempted some foolish escape attempt.
…In fact…
He narrowed his eyes at her, wondering why she hadn't tried to get out yet. She seemed the type.
"I'm watching you," He growled menacingly, continuing on His way before she could retort.
"An extra shift?" He said, staring at the warden.
The Dremora just stared at him. "Are you complaining?"
He winced. "No, just…curious…why?"
He hoped he didn't sound like a fool.
"Because, one of the other guards was sent on a special mission. We will need to transfer some new Dremora in to keep an eye around here."
"Why now?"
"Stop asking questions!" the warden hissed.
He flinched, realizing He probably shouldn't be asking things like that. It wasn't His place to know.
Besides, He heard they had some new prisoners, maybe that was why they needed extra guards?
"Report to your rounds," the warden commanded, turning to the next Dremora to have the same conversation over again.
He tried not to drag His feet as He wandered into the endless hallways of cells. This was His job, but why wasn't He picked for the "special" mission? He was just as good with a blade as any of the other guards, and doubly as clever.
It wasn't fair.
Even harassing the mortals wasn't going to cheer Him up. It never did. They were so boring…
Despite His lack of enthusiasm with tormenting mortals, some of the other Dremora forced to do extra rounds in the prison managed to egg Him into coming with them to do so. After all, Dremora loved to pick on humans, or so He always heard.
He couldn't be the only one that didn't think it was fun, though, right?
"Let's push mortals off that cliff up there!" one Catliff suggested, pointing eagerly at a jagged edge.
Another, this one with a long dent in her armor shook her head, "No, no, let's hide behind some rocks and jump out and scare them!"
The assembled group turned to look at Him, clearly waiting for another idea. "Oh…um…let's…do both?" He suggested, unsure. He'd done these things before, but wasn't creative enough to come up with any new ideas Himself.
They cheered and promptly ran off towards the tunnels; "Come on, come on!"
"I'm going to shout out; 'there you are mortals!' and swing my sword!"
"I'm going to throw some fireballs around!"
"I'm going to throw a Banekin at them!"
He had to admit, all of those sounded fun, but they took all the great ideas, what was He supposed to do now?
As they rounded the corner, they walked straight into a group of Soul Shriven sneaking through a gateway.
"What the…" one of the Dremora said.
The mortals saw them and panicked, drawing flimsy weapons and hastily trying to make a mad dash into the plains of Cold Harbor.
They were so fired if they got away.
"Quick! They are running!" the Dremora at the front of the group said, drawing his long swords.
"I'm still gonna throw a Banekin at them!" another shouted, shaking his fist in the air.
The mage of their group charged a fire spell, cloaking themselves first before launching flames at the retreating humans.
He drew his sword and readied a frightening battle cry, only to be beat out by one of the other sword wielders running by him, shouting; "There you are weakling!"
He sagged, annoyed, and followed at a slower pace.
Some of the Soul Shriven were defeated by the magic, another was cut down by a whirlwind of blades. There were only two left, and one was being chased down as the lizard man tried to flee by two Catliffs; he wouldn't make it far.
He paused to look around for the last member of the escaping party in time to see the man throw a dagger and strike the shoulder of the Dremora who was set on throwing banekins.
Surprised by the attack, he stumbled and was about to take a sword to the face. Stepping in, He parried the attack meant for the other Dremora and slashed downward with His great sword, cleaving the human nearly in half.
As the man crumpled to the ground in a bloodied mess, He muttered darkly; "There can be no other end…"
It was a great battle quote, but He didn't feel much excitement over killing the Soul Shriven. It was the first mortal he'd actually landed the killing blow on, and yet…
…It wasn't as awesome as He thought it would be.
Turning, He helped the other Dremora back to His feet after he had fallen. The Kyn looked disappointed. "I didn't get to throw a banekin,"
"Next battle, friend." He assured him, wanting to see that.
Perking up, His new friend nodded.
The two Catliffs returned, cresting the hill and looking despondent.
"What happened?" Another Dremora, the one with the dented armor, inquired.
They exchanged a glance. "He…got away."
"We are so fired…"
The warden was glaring at them. "What in all the realms of Oblivion happened that allowed some worthless, weak-willed Soul Shriven to somehow defeat five Dremora!"
"Well, we got most of them," one of the Catliff said.
Another nodded. "Yes, only one got away."
"One too many! You are all pathetic. I'm asking for new guards." He complained, throwing a tantrum and knocking some urns off his desk. "Seriously…" Turning back, he glared at them all. "Well?! What are you still doing here?! Go do you rounds!"
He raised a hand, "Um, but…you said you were finding new guards, so…are we fired?"
"No you idiot!" the warden shouted. "Out! Go back to work!"
They scattered from the room, muttering under their breath about "unfairness" and "grumpy".
After the already long day, He was not looking forward to a stroll through the prisons…
"Shut up!" He snapped, kicking at the door of the cell, trying to startle the wailing Soul Shriven inside enough that she shut up.
The crying only got louder at his demands for it to stop.
Typical.
With a groan, He resisted the urge to strangle the nearest thing.
"Bad day?" a familiar voice inquired from down the hall.
Normally, He would have been enraged at the voice, but He realized here was someone He could tell things too and she could do nothing with the information. Debating for a moment over His life decisions, He risked the possible ridicule and wandered over.
The still alive-looking mortal was sitting in her cell, back to the bars and watching Him from her spot on the floor, playing with what looking like metal pins.
She raised an eyebrow at Him as He stopped in front of her.
With a frown, He confessed; "Yes. A bad day."
"Want to talk about it?" she asked.
He hesitated, looked both ways up and down the hallway, and then awkwardly sat down, sitting with His back to her so we wouldn't have to see the ugly human. "Some prisoners decided to try and escape."
"Does that happen a lot?"
"Sometimes," He said. "And…one got away."
"Got away where?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Off into the plains, towards the Vile Laboratory. We still got in trouble by the warden, though…I always get in trouble. I can't seem to do anything right."
"Oh, come on. You're pretty scary,"
He glanced back to look at her, "You don't seem scared,"
"When you've been alive as long as I have, little scares you anymore," she replied with a smile He didn't quite understand.
She shrugged, "So, you got in trouble from the boss. He sounds like a jerk anyway."
He turned back to stare at the opposite cell where a pile of skeletons was. For a moment, He didn't say anything, but then He decided He'd come this far, and was clearly already going mad because He was talking to a mortal in the first place.
"I killed one of the humans."
When she didn't say anything, and He heard no gasps of horror, He turned again to cautiously look at her. She didn't seem fazed.
She blinked at him. "…Isn't that what Dremora do?"
"Well, yes, but…really we only get the…honor of it infrequently."
"Why do you sound so disappointed about it?" she asked, shifting so she could face Him.
He hesitated. "I've never killed one before. I haven't really been in a battle before. It wasn't as…exhilarating as I had hoped."
She frowned thoughtful, twirling the pins between her fingers. "Maybe…you're just not cut out to be the bad guy, Steve."
He cringed at the words and jumped to His feet, outraged. "How dare you mortal!"
She made a face at Him and also stood, "Hey, don't bite my head off, dreadful Dremora. It just sounds like you hate it here. So, either you need to find a different Daedra to serve or you should think about a career as a merchant or something."
Livid, He pointed an armored finger at her, "Foolish mortal, understand that I am a Dremora warrior, sworn to spill the blood of mortals and serve the Daedric Prince Molag Bal, Lord of Lies, Prince of Pain Lord of Domination and-"
She was rolling her eyes and knelt down to fiddle with the lock on her door, jamming and spinning the pins she'd been holding.
"Yeah, well it sounds like a crappy job where no one appreciates you. Humans switch sides all the time, even Elves do it. Maybe you should think about your options."
With a click the lock shook a little and she made a face, adjusting the pins. "Now, go walk the other way so I can get out of here, would you?"
Realizing she was picking the lock right in front of Him, He smacked her hands away from the lock and plucked the pins from her fingers.
"Hey!" she complained. "Rude, Steve…rude…"
"I will allow no more to escape on my watch, mortal," He vowed, ignoring the look she was giving Him. "If you attempt it again, I will strike you down!"
"Well, you can certainly try…" she muttered, sitting back down.
He narrowed His eyes and snarled; "Do not presume to know what it means to be a Dremora. Next we meet, it will be as prey and hunter."
"You going to Caldwell's party tonight?" His friend asked. They were waiting for the next shift of guards to arrive and were passing the time by trying to juggle daggers. So far, it wasn't going well.
He made a face, "No, Caldwell's parties are weird."
"Yeah, but there's always free food, and we can try to pick up Seducers, you know?" His friend commented, flinging a knife at a banekin that was walking by.
He frowned, "What is your obsession with banekins?"
"I once had one steal my lunch," he answered seriously. "Now I just hate them, little vermin…"
After a moment of silence, He sighed and checked out the door again. "Where is the next shift? This is ridiculous…"
"Maybe one of them got summoned."
"By the warden?"
"No," the other Dremora said, shaking his head. "I mean, summoned. To Nirn."
Confused, He tilted His head and His friend blinked. "Wait, did you not hear about that?"
"About what?"
He dropped the daggers he was playing with and stood up straight, "There was totally a general that got summoned to Nirn by some mage guy. He just got pulled from here and summoned there and he didn't have any say in it."
"That's not true, that can't happen! Sure, to lesser Daedra, but…" He said, only to be cut off.
"No, Kyn, it's true. My friend heard it from his sister's neighbor who works with this guy who heard it from his cousin's best friend who lives next to the guy who it happened too. It's got to be true!"
He felt a rush of panic. "Wait, if mortals can summon us…"
"Yeah, it could happen…to anyone." His friend agreed, shuddering. "Can you imagine how awful that must be?"
"I can't fathom it at all," He admitted.
A frightening thought that called in question so much of His life. What if that happened to Him? What if He could never get back to Oblivion? No mortal should ever have that kind of power.
"So, all the more reason to come to Caldwell's party! Between that and probably getting called into the Anchor Moorings to go fight, you never know when you'll get to have fun again."
Feeling a burst of hope, He tried not to sound unsure as He asked; "You really think we'll get called to go to Nirn and fight?"
"With how many anchors Molag Bal is thinking of dropping, they say everyone will get called." His friend said. "Just think! A real battle. A chance to prove ourselves and get named and honored and kill some mortals! This is our chance. It's going to be amazing."
He hoped His friend was right.
This was it. He had been called along with hundreds of other Dremora to go with the next set of anchors. He was finally going to be in a real battle!
They were being rallied by a speech from Molag Bal himself, towering over them in all his glory.
For excitement over the upcoming battles was so much that he almost forgot to listen to their master.
"Dreadful Dremora of Cold Harbor, sharpen your armor and fasten your blades, for today we drop Dark Anchors from above, into the heart of Tamriel! All shall kneel before me!"
He made a face and leaned over to His friend. "Do you think he meant…sharpen our blades and fasten our armor? The other way doesn't make much sense…"
"I'm…not sure. Do you think we should just assume that?" His friend asked.
"No way. I'm going what I'm told." He said, nodding.
Securing His sword to His back was harder then He thought it would be. To truly fasten it, He needed His friend's help. They both paused and looked at their armor.
"How sharp do you think he meant?" He asked, puzzled.
His friend shrugged. "I don't know, let's ask the general, he's headed this way."
They flagged down the general, an unhappy looking Dremora with bright red facial markers that would have been amusing if he didn't outrank them. They had heard he was named Velek, and something about a pirate, but he couldn't remember the context now.
Velehk was glaring at them, waiting for a question.
"So, um…" he began. "How…sharp?"
The general looked at them like they were fools. "Sharp enough to decapitate each other!" he declared before stalking away.
They both looked at each other. "…How are we going to test that?"
Glancing back to the armor, they both sighed.
"Alright, let's find some banekins…"
"Shouldn't be hard, I think one is on my leg right now, actually."
"See? Vermin."
Armor sharpened to the point where they could decapitate a banekin with a single finger, and showing many gashes along their bodies from the failed attempts, and swords strapped to their backs with so many belts and cords they would never get them off, they proudly reported to the general, just outside the anchor mooring.
Velehk gave them a once over, "…What is wrong with your armor?"
They both exchanged a glance, and then looked back to him.
"Um…we…sharpened our armor and fastened our blades,"
"As we were told," He added, nodding.
The pirate Dremora let out a long suffering sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sharpened your armor…Goodness you are stupid!"
He dropped his hand and glared at them, "I don't understand what is wrong with you two!"
"But…we were following directions!" He said, opening His hands wide.
The general made a face, "Where are your swords?"
"Er…strapped to our backs? Fastened, actually…"
"Out,"
"Could you maybe help-"
"Out!" Velehk shouted, pointing at the door.
Unable to go with this round of Dremora, they were forced to turn back and return to the prisons, accepting their old rounds until they were called again. Walking through the front of the gates, He kicked some pebbles out of his way, dejected.
His friend pat His back and promptly pulled his hand back with an "ouch".
"Hey Kyn, we'll get our chance. Just you wait. We'll be bathing in mortal blood this time next phase."
He nodded, "Your right, now is not the time to get discouraged."
"At least we killed Banekins," His friend said, chuckling.
He joined in, sharing a laugh at the misfortune of lesser creatures before the alarm bell interrupted them.
They both raced into the deepest part of the prison, following more Dremora who were headed that way. He realized they were heading for the warden's chambers and began to wonder what had happened.
Then he spotted some Dremora locked in combat with Soul Shriven. Lots of Soul Shriven.
A prison break.
He spotted the same lizard that had gotten away from before fighting some other Churls, shouting about how some plan was in progress, and how the prophet was going to be freed.
A Catliff shoved Him towards one of the tunnels, ordering; "Go! To the warden, aid him in defending the lower levels!"
He nodded and raced off, concerned He wouldn't be much help if He couldn't draw his sword. Still, He was given an order and He would follow it.
The path was lined with smaller skirmishes, but nothing they couldn't handle. Finally He reached the final staircase and quickly descended it, hearing the clash of steel up ahead.
He reached the chamber and saw the warden locked in combat with a tall, blonde human who had an axe. He and two other Dremora attempted to enter the chamber and assist, but just as they stepped forward, the gate crashed into place, blocking them.
A familiar mortal darted from the gate controls, snagging a fallen Dremora's sword and sliding between the other woman and the warden. With the element of surprise and a frightening speed, she managed to get her blade between his armor plates and silt his throat.
In ten seconds, the battle was over. The warden swayed, dropped his sword, and collapsed at the mortal's feet.
The watching Dremora shouted insults, gasp in surprise and rattled the gate, trying to get through.
"I will say this, you are handy in fight, friend," the tall woman said, rushing for the opposite end of the room. "Come on!"
She nodded and bent down to collect another, smaller sword, giving the two a twirl in her hands before turning back to the gate.
Her eyes locked on His and she smirked.
The look said it all; "Told you I'd get out."
She raised a blade in farewell before hurrying after her ally, out of sight.
She had actually killed the warden. He supposed He should be angry more Soul Shriven had escaped, but He was still in shock from what had happened.
Most of the prisoners were found and killed, only a handful had in fact escaped, and overall, the prison break was deemed a failure. Still, He had a feeling that the strange mortal's escape was going to be more important than anyone realized.
Or, maybe He was just slightly disappointed because He wouldn't be able to see her eventually go crazy and die in this place.
Either way, He was having a bad day.
Luckily, they didn't receive any harsh punishments for the prison break. He wasn't the only one having a bad day.
Molag Bal's forces at one of the anchor points met resistance from the locales, some town in some snowy place. Buma? Bummer? Broom?
Something like that.
General Pirate Guy Velehk had reportedly died from decapitation from one of the other Dremora. An accident, inflicted by armor spikes.
"We weren't the only ones!" He whispered to His friend, who nodded, looking relieved.
The destruction of the anchor prompted days of intense training, since clearly they were too weak to overwhelm the mortals.
The training coupled with His usual shifts at the prison made Him cranky and tired. But the promise of a real battle kept Him going.
After weeks of preparation, the call finally came; Molag Bal was going to drop dark anchors into all of Tamriel. There would be dozens, perhaps hundreds of anchors! Surely now He would be chosen to go into glorious battle.
It was a long time before He was summoned back to the mooring, so long, in fact, that He began to wonder if they wouldn't call Him! But surely they were nearing the full scale invasion of the mortal world, and surely they needed more Dremora to throw at the futile resistance, and surely He would get His chance.
He hoped.
Finally He and several others were summoned, prodded into a circular room within the mooring, and filed into a line headed for the drop zone.
This was it! He was going to taste real battle.
His skin tingled with anticipation and His fingers fidgeted, ready to grab His sword at a moment's notice.
He leaned around the large Xivali in front of Him so He could see.
The swirling mass of magicka in the center of the room pulsed with each creature that stepped through it, heading down to kill mortals. One after the other.
A Clanfear.
Winged Twilight.
Another Clanfear.
A Dremora.
Another Dremora.
Closer and closer to His turn. He wanted to cut the line, but He assumed that would get Him in trouble, so He forced Himself to remain calm and in place.
The Xivali in front of Him hopped down, and any moment He would get the signal to go Himself and would-
"They've pulled the last pinion! Drop the general!" Molag Bal's voice echoed around the room.
He looked around. "Wait, wha-"
But He was pushed back, out of the way, as a large, obviously over-fed Dread Clanfear waddled up to the vortex and hopped down, followed by some of those weird rotting Dragur. He made a face at the smell as they dropped down as well and then slumped once the vortex closed.
"So…did we win?" He asked the Dremora next to him. She shrugged. "I doubt the mortals could have stopped all the creatures we dropped."
"But…aren't the pinions the things that keep the anchors…you know…anchored?" He asked, scratching His head. "So, if those get pulled, then….wouldn't that mean we lost?"
The Dremora looked at him with contempt. "How should I know?" she snapped.
He winced, not sure why she was so prickly. He was just curious!
And suddenly He was being ushered to another room, where another vortex was, and He couldn't get anyone to explain to him what was going on. He figured this must be another anchor, but why in the world would they need another if they had overrun the mortals at the last one?
He was so confused.
Once again, He was nearing His turn towards the portal when it was abruptly shaken and someone called out for the final enemies to be dropped.
As He was steered to another room, He figure that didn't mean Him.
This time He slipped behind a pair of taller Xivali to avoid the hustle of the room altogether, and finally got a look at what was going on. An anchor was just dropping; He could make out the shapes of the Worm Cultist below, worshipping.
Slowly, the humans were sucked up, vanishing as they reached the threshold of the vortex. He wasn't entirely sure what happened to them then, but He figured they must end up somewhere in Cold Harbor.
One was sucked up. Two…
Suddenly, He saw a cultist go down, face first. He wasn't sure what hit him, since He didn't see any bursts of magic. Perhaps an arrow?
A horde of mortals was upon the remaining cultist, and within moments, they were all dead.
His eyes widened, surprised by the ferocity of the humans in battle. They were just as fierce as Dremora, but they used unfamiliar tactics.
He was distracted from them cutting down some Clanfears by Molag Bal himself walking in, barking orders at Velehk, the general standing nearby.
"Well, they just-"
"I know! They just killed a bunch of my creatures!" Molag Bal cut him off, angrily stomping around. "How?"
Velehk shrugged. "They are really strong?"
Molag glared at him.
Velehk winced.
"Milord, the final pinion was pulled!" a winged twilight screeched out. "What should we do?!"
"Drop Ogrims, three of them!" Molag commanded, pointing off to the other side of the room.
He watched in morbid fascination as the mortals destroyed the monster sent and the last pinion, the last link of Cold Harbor to Nirn, was broken.
Animus went up in smoke around the anchor and the vortex wobbled, becoming unstable.
"Pointless!" Molag Bal's voice echoed. "Ten anchors drop a week!"
The humans below exchanged a series of glances.
"Ten a week?" a familiar blonde questioned. "Totally doable! I've destroyed four already, let's go find the other six!"
The other mortals present all nodded.
"Yeah!"
"Ten is easy,"
"We'll make it a weekly tradition, then!"
Molag Bal made a face, "Er…I mean…ten billion drop a week!"
He leaned over to Velehk. "Is that a lot? I can't remember how mortals number things."
"Um. Yeah. It's a lot." Velehk replied hesitantly.
"Too many?" Molag Bal asked.
"Dial it back, dial it back…"
Clearing his throat, Molag Bal spoke again; "I mean…ten dozen hundred!"
The mortals below all exchanged confused looks.
"May your soul burn," Molag Bal said in closing, quickly, before cutting off the connection and sitting back. He sighed.
"I didn't know sound could transmit through these portals…" The Daedric lord complained. "No one told me about that in the design meetings."
Velehk shrugged. "They're mortals. We'll get them at the next one, or they'll grow tired and fatigued like all mortals do. Ten or…um..ten dozen hundred. Either way, we'll win."
Molag Bal didn't appear to be listening. "Hmm…I'll need to come up with more threats if they can hear me…"
After what felt like a dozen phases, He had decided he was sick of reporting to anchors only to be ignored. He was always the last one in line, or the humans cheated and pulled all the pinions and Molag Bal dropped a general, or someone cut Him in line and He missed his chance.
It didn't help that the anchors were rapidly being destroyed. As soon as they dropped, a horde of mortals was upon them, cutting down the creatures that fell like tissue paper.
It had been going on so long, that He had personally seen Velehk get killed five times.
It was…depressing.
Despite these displays, Molag Bal assured them all the plan was in place, and that this Planemeld was on schedule and would happen.
He wondered if He was the only one that was starting to have doubts.
Another anchor, another chance to be dropped into combat but He didn't see it happening, and so sat down on a nearby ledge, next to His Churl friend.
"Sup?" His friend asked, munching on some raw pork. "You look glum."
"This is so stupid," He complained. "I'm just as good as any of these other Kyn! Why do I never get picked?"
"You should feel lucky," his friend said, dropping his voice. "I mean, you've seen what those savage humans do, right? I saw Velehk get burned to ash before his feet even hit the ground. And sometimes, they play music while we're getting slaughtered, or dance once the anchor is destroyed. Monsters…"
His friend gestured to the vortex as a Clanfear hopped down and was promptly impaled by a beam of light.
"See? Game over, Kyn. Game over."
"Yeah, but…" He sighed. "I guess you're right."
"And watch what they do after they've won," he continued, pointing once more. "They loot our corpses. Who does that?"
"Mortals," they both chimed, shaking their heads.
"The last pinion has been pulled!" Molag Bal bellowed. "Again! Velehk, get down there."
"What?!" Velehk said, "Nah uh, I just got recast from the animus. I'm not going back! Besides, that's not even my zone!"
Molag Bal glared at him and nodded to the Xivali behind him, who shoved him into the vortex.
"Anyone else want to say anything?" he growled, looking around the room.
The Churl raised his hand. He gave him a wide-eyed look and scooted over, wondering if His friend had lost it.
"Um…I think you should throw some banekins at them,"
"Good idea!" Molag Bal said, kicking some Banekins from his feet into the vortex.
"I'm not stupid," His friend whispered. "He always sends someone with the general, and it's not going to be me, you know? Not with a push over like Velehk."
"True,"
They heard a voice come back through the magicka channels; "Boo!"
He leaned over the portal to get a good look as a woman used her foot to slid Velehk's body off of one of her swords.
Her again.
Apparently she was still alive.
"Boo!" she shouted again, making a thumbs down sign. "We want the seducer sisters!"
"Yeah!" some other gathered mortals shouted.
"They're the only general I haven't killed yet! Give me the seducer sisters!" the woman shouted.
It began a chant among the gathered humans;
"Seducer Sisters!"
"Seducer Sisters!"
"Seducer Sisters!"
Molag Bal growled, talons breaking off bits of his chair arms. "I can't, because I can't find them! Where in Oblivion are they? I want them here, now! I've lost dozens of anchors in the Alik'r desert because this little band of mortal misfits is camping out, waiting for them!"
"We don't know where the seducers are," a Xivali explained. "We've been looking, but can't find them."
"How hard can it be? They hang out at the brothels!" Molag complained, slamming a hand on his chair and breaking what was left of it.
"We checked all of them! And by all, I mean the only one there is in Cold Harbor," the Xivali said.
A Dremora Fearkyn looked around hesitantly. "Did you…check the other one?"
"What 'other' one?" Molag demanded.
The Fearkyn looked uncomfortable. "It's…a secret brothel, one where the worst kind of immorality takes place."
There was a pause, and then he spoke in a hushed, horrified voice.
"Cuddling."
Everyone present shuddered at the concept.
"Not, that, I mean, not like I've ever been there," The Fearkyn laughed nervously, fixing his hood that was already fine. "I just…like, I heard this other Dremora mention it, so…"
"Find it, and find out if that's where the seducers are. I want them dropped so at least my anchors don't keep getting destroyed!" Molag Bal complained. "I'm running low on Worm Cultist. Despite what I originally thought, they don't grow on trees. I think Mannimarco was being facetious when he said that. And these anchors take a long time to make! Stupid mortals…"
"Er, yeah, about that…" A Xavali said, gesturing to a nearby anchor mooring. "You just lost another one in Alik'r."
Molag Bal groaned and face palmed.
He couldn't believe He had let His friend talk Him into this. Sneaking into one of the anchor rooms and using the voice transmitter to impersonate Molag Bal.
Apparently, no matter who used the transmitter, their voice always sounded deep and threatening like the Daedric Lord. His friend and some other Dremora were sneaking into a room where they could transmit to multiple anchors.
Molag Bal had had it constructed after the humans made good on their promise to make anchor destroying a weekly tradition. They had lost hundreds of anchors in that time, and Molag was growing more and more enraged over the defeats.
As they slipped into the room, He looked around warily. "What if we get caught?"
"We won't," a female Dremora hissed. "We'll do a few and leave. No one will ever find out."
The others in their group of five nodded. He swallowed down his unease and followed them forward. They stood around a weird looking crystalline column where they could view different anchors being dropped, attacked, and destroyed around Nirn. Each anchor displayed in a facet of the crystal.
One Dremora, a bulky looking male with lopsided facial markings, proved to be the bravest and touched one of the facets first. His voice boomed over an anchor that had just been destroyed.
"The skins of those you love will fly as my banners."
Afterwards, they all hollered.
"Good one!"
"That was so scary!"
The female hopped up and down, "My turn! My turn!"
"When oath bounds are weak, there is pain, and shame, and darkness…."
Again, they all clapped and congratulated her on the terrifying saying.
His friend was up next. He excitedly waited as the humans finished off the Dread Harvester below and pulled the last pinion.
"Um….uh…" he stuttered. "Pineapples to your enemies!"
They looked at him.
"What?"
"I panicked!" he exclaimed, looking flustered.
They rolled their eyes. "He's not allowed to go again."
"Oh, come on! Give me another chance!"
As they teased him and he pleaded to go again, they were interrupted by a familiar voice; "What are you doing in here?!"
They turned and saw Velehk standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a scowl on his face.
"Er…." The female said, chuckling nervously. "Velehk. I see you've been recast from the animus."
"Yes, and I asked you a question, Catliff!" he hissed.
They all exchanged a worried glance, only to be startled when the bulky male rushed forward, pushed Velehk out of the room and over the side of a vortex, down into Nirn where an anchor was.
He turned and shrugged. "He'll get killed and recast and loose some memories, probably the ones of us in here. Let's split."
They all chuckled and ran off in different directions.
Molag Bal was throwing a tantrum.
Well, no one would say that to his face, but his own daughter Molag Grunda had scoffed about it and rolled her eyes, saying as much.
Apparently his planemeld plan failed, all because of some mortals, one of whom was an unknown soulless shell that the Worm Cult had sacrificed.
He was pretty sure He knew exactly who that was, assuming the mortal in question had blonde hair and a sly smirk.
The news of the failed planemeld was brought to the general Dremora public byt Molag's son, Ozzozachar. The Titan had given a grabbled message about the plan, and new plans, and old plans. The Titan had never been good at speaking, especially under pressure.
He was also sporting a new scar across his eye that he refused to talk about.
Rumors began swirling that it was the mortals who had done it too him.
The speech did little to calm an already twitchy army, ready to fight with no way to go into battle.
Molag's temper and constant tossing of objects into the skies of Cold Harbor didn't help, although no one had actually seen him since the failed plan. Rumors were swirling about that, too. Something about him being too weak to appear.
But that just couldn't be true. He was a Daedra lord, after all.
"So, some Kyn left the other day,"
He turned to his Dremora friend. "Left?"
"Yeah, rumor has it a bunch of Kyn and some others left Cold Harbor. They say some other Daedra are planning something now that Molag Bal's plan failed." His friend said, nodding smartly.
"You…aren't thinking of leaving, are you?" He asked, unsure.
His friend scratched his head, "Well…no…yeah?"
"Yeah?"
His friend shrugged. "I wanted to fight. You feel it too, right? The way your blood boils at the thought of combat? We were promised that much, promised glory and blood and we ended up getting nothing."
He shook his head. "I want to experience the thrill of battle, it's what we all want. Nothing is happening here, and who knows how long it will be until Molag Bal is even…you know….seen."
He thought about it long and head.
Leave?
It sound easy enough, but he'd never been outside of Cold Harbor. Where would he go? What would he do?
"You should come with me," his friend said, speaking up again. "Come on, what do you say? We'll make a name for ourselves, a real name! Just the two of us."
"But…" he stammered. "Where would we go?"
"I don't know yet, but that's half the fun. Think of the adventures we'd have!"
He wasn't so sure.
To cross to another realm of Oblivion, they would have to wander through unknown and uncharted territories. What if they got lost in the formless, confusing maze of the void? What if the next Daedra had a plan that failed too?
"I don't know…" He said, hesitating. "I've always been here, in Cold Harbor…I'm sure Molag Bal will come up with a new plan."
His friend frowned, "I thought you might stay…I'll miss you, but I feel like I need to go and find my glory, find…a new master."
"I understand," He said, nodding. He would miss his friend, the first real one he'd ever had, but he just couldn't leave.
They clasped hands and said farewell.
"Kill some banekins for me?"
"Always."
"We're going to have to let you go," an impressive looking Xivali told him.
He stared for a moment, shocked.
"What?"
"We're going to have to let you go," the Xivali repeated slowly.
He glared at him. "I heard you, I just don't understand! I've worked in the Wailing Prison for…for…well, my whole existence!"
"I know," the other Daedra said patiently. "But as you are aware, things have changed around here. A lot of projects are under new management, and you are just on the wrong side of the clan battles, Churl."
He groaned. "I don't even remember which clan is which! They are basically the same, and so big…How do you even know what clan I'm in? And how come I'm being fired now? This new management change happened phases ago!"
The Xivali smiled a disarming yet infuriating grin. "You aren't being fired," he assured him. "You're being let go. And the change is happening now because it simply is."
"What mushroom did you snort to sound so…" He hesitated, grasping for a word. "…Calm."
"None," the taller Daedra said, still smiling. "I'm simply enjoying my new position and looking to the future for all the opportunities it provides."
He cringed, swallowing back vomit. Denizens of Oblivion were not supposed to sound so cheery.
"Now, we don't want you to feel completely unsure of your future, so I've prepared some transfer papers to the Scathe-rings"
"The Scathe-rings!" He shouted, outraged. "I don't deserve that! I've worked hard here, I've done everything anyone's ever asked of me! I should be in the army, I should be ready for war!"
The Xivali held up a hand to stall His arguments. "And, in the future, we may have need of those services. For now, we need more Kynpower in the Scathe-rings."
He growled, angry and upset. He should have left with His friend all those phases ago.
"You know what, I'm never going to be called to service, because Molag Bal is stupid and lazy and doesn't have a new plan! He can't even get rid of a city in his own plane of Oblivion! A city Meridia stuck there! In fact, I think he got beat by a girl. A tiny, weak, mortal human girl."
The Xivali stared at him for a moment. "You might not want to say things like that."
"Oh, he isn't even paying attention to us," He snapped. "You know why? Because we're not important!"
"He can still hear you," the other Kyn whispered harshly. "So shut up!"
"No, you shut up! I'm a Dremora! I live for battle and blood and glory!"
"Well, live for that somewhere else." a voice said from behind him.
He turned and saw a group of Dremora behind him, all scowling and looking generally unhappy. It was a welcome sight after the overly friendly Xivali.
"We're here to….escort you out of Cold Harbor."
"Yeah, you're not even important enough to get tortured. Molag Bal just wants you gone." another said, snickering.
"Well, he's still stupid," He muttered, kicking at the ground.
The lead Dremora shook his head. "First Velehk, now you. What is Oblivion coming too these days?"
"Velehk?"
"He ranted and raved and left a little while ago. He was mad about something or other. Who cares? Never trust a pirate, I say!" the smallest of the Dremora said.
The leader flicked a hand. "Never mind that! Come on, we're kicking you out."
True to their word, they 'escorted' Him to what was the known edge of Cold Harbor; a sharp drop off on one side of the 'world'.
"Too bad you'll never see us again, you could tell us all about whatever is out…there." one Dremora taunted, grinning madly.
"He'll become vapor as soon as he leaves," another said, shaking his head.
He glared at all of them. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up! Someday I'll have a great and powerful name and even here, in this realm, you'll hear it, know it, and fear it!"
The group looked at each other, clearly disbelieving.
"It's true!" He screeched.
"Whatever," the leader said, reaching out to shove Him.
He ducked and spun around, running towards the edge a little ways off. He wasn't about to give them the pleasure of dumping Him off Cold Harbor, and He wasn't about to give Himself time to second guess the idea of jumping.
As He fell, He began to wonder if this feeling that made his skin tingle was something mortals felt. That strange, visceral sensation.
Fear.
Author's Note: So, this is a project I've been working on for a good long while...part 1 of 3! It turned out to have a serious element too it, even though it's a comedy. I hope you all enjoy ;)
There are a ton of references to Elder Scrolls Online in this part of the story, but I hope even if you haven't played it, it's fun to read. Before the Tamriel One update I played a ton of ESO and the Dark Anchors, Molag Bal's main weapon, were my favorite thing to destroy. My brother and I used to try for 100 every week. I'm not even kidding. I really did kill Velehk at least once a week, and I'm very proud to this day of my "Daedric Lord Slayer" title (you get it for killing every named general at the dark anchors...even those Seducers who I had to grind to find...lol)
When my brother and I first started playing ESO, Molag Bal said "ten anchors drop a week" which we always laughed about because we destroyed so many. But then when one of the update patches went into effect, suddenly he said "ten drop for each that is destroyed". Clearly that was because of us.
Also, for those wondering, yes, the blonde mortal is my character. I imagine that since she is Dragonborn, she has the soul of a dragon, meaning she is technically immortal, at least in terms of time. She can die if killed, but mere time has no effect on a second-born of Akatosh. Hence why she wasn't as effected by her time in Cold Harbor; she doesn't have just a mortal soul. In my head, she's been alive since the Direnni Hegemony (Circa 1E 355ish), born on the island of Balferia, since she IS a Breton...
...I'm such a nerd.
ANYWAY, I had a ton of fun researching even more then I already knew about the Dremora, which are indeed interesting, and this story is a little different from my others.
Parts 2 and 3 are in the works, but I'm not sure when they will appear.
Until then, enjoy!