The pair of new Daedric Princes separated across Cyrodiil to convert followers. Lord Hrakt-Elebrach to the Anvil side, Lord Dunval Ervano to the Cheydinhal.
Breathing in the fresh air of the Gold Coast was very refreshing to the former Dremora. Before, this kind of climate would have pained him, but since his ascension, he had been more peaceful. Violence and domination were no longer necessary to maintain a sense of safety anymore, and so his mentality had relaxed.
A bandit tried to surprise him, but failed horribly.
"Hand over your gold, freak! I'll gut ya!" threatened the bandit. He only wore leather pants and shoes, and carried a rusty iron dagger.
"Fool, do you have any idea who I am? I will crush you!"
"You won't give it up? I'll spill your blood!" The bandit charged with his dagger, and Lord Hrakt-Elebrach caught it with his hand. He then twisted the dagger out the bandit's hand, and stabbed him with it. The dagger went all the way through the man's body, and sliced his spinal cord on the way out, effectively paralyzing him forever. Then, he took the man's puny head into his massive hand, and crushed it. Brains spilled out, and the bandit ceased to resist. Pathetic.
Travelling on to Anvil, he otherwise encountered no resistance.
Walking up to the gate, he strode through with only minor stares from the City Watchman eyeing his gigantic frame.
The city was bustling. The few people outside were hard at work, practicing weaponry should a threat of violence occur.
Hrakt-Elebrach entered The Count's Arms, and looked around for potential followers. But he could not help but think of the animosity against Lord Dunval that dissipated upon ascension.
He rested his eyes on a fluctuation in the air but a few feet away. It appeared as if something was invisible, or trying to be. Hrakt-Elebrach touched it, and he was immediately transported to a mysterious, ash-blackened plane of existence. Red-skinned warriors in golden armor and blue-skinned warriors in purple armor made war, but stopped when Hrakt-Elebrach entered. They turned to him, and bowed, all of them.
Lord Hrakt-Elebrach had no time to react, when a portal to Oblivion opened in this plane, and Dremora poured out. He recognized them as the Dremora he used to command. The Dremora drew their weapons and begun to slaughter the bowing warriors.
"Do not remain idle! Fight them!" He commanded the bowing warriors. They stood, drew their weapons, and begun to fight back. Hrakt-Elebrach joined in the combat, and his own red Daedric armor had flashed purple to match those of his servants.
Hrakt-Elebrach had no problem fighting his former comrades, he was no longer one of them. They fell like cattle.
The Eivoni, as Hrakt-Elebrach called his purple warriors, were all that were left after the battle. They were tall, like him, and they rather resembled the Dark Seducers of Sheogorath. They had noble faces of stone, with naught but discipline to show in the way of emotion.
"Build." he commanded them, and so they did. They brought great stone structures into existence, and shaped the rock with their minds. Before long, a royal city was made, and the only left to do was to bring more Eivoni in to solidify his plane of Oblivion. But how would he do that?...
He decided to let Dunval have Cyrodiil for now, and Hrakt-Elebrach turned his attention towards Morrowind, specifically the island of Vvardenfell, as that was where Dagoth Ur had resided, and where the Nerevarine lived. If he could gain the fealty of the Nerevarine, his influence would increase exponentially, bringing him that much closer to being the Lord of Daedra.
He willed himself to be on Vvardenfell, and so he was.
It appeared as he was in a Daedric Ruin, based on the angles of the architecture. He turned, and saw a statue of himself. He was standing erect, his sword drawn, following his arm, which was extended. No worshipers were present, but that was to be expected. He summoned two Eivoni to guard it from intruders.
He left his shrine, which he called Oxnimaul, in search of mortals without faith. They radiated waves of contempt, each convinced that he/she was the biggest thing in the world. He felt a large gathering of these people coming from Sadrith Mora, the House Telvanni Council Seat. Hrakt-Elebrach guessed that the lack of faith came from the wizards' belief that their powers could overcome any adversary. He would show them different.
"Hey, no walking around in Sadrith Mora without your hospitality papers!" yelled a Telvanni Guard to Hrakt-Elebrach.
"If you want to live, mortal, you would hold your tongue."
"Threatening a guard? I could arrest you for that." He was testing the Daedric Prince's patience oh so dearly.
"Worship me or run away. This is your last chance."
"Why would I worship you? You're just some-"
He did not finish his words. Hrakt-Elebrach had already cleaved the Dunmer's head from his body with his sword. A passerby commoner yelled in alarm, "Help, someone's killed a guard!"
Some Telvanni guards had taken Hrakt-Elebrach's side, and fought their Telvanni brethren, most probably for the sake of their own lives. They could hold their own against each other. Against a Daedric Prince, common man had no defense.
The Telvanni that turned against their house were immediately rewarded by a dark blue suit of armor, an array of spells, and a black sword that would steal souls. When their brethren saw this, they either turned tail and ran, or they turned against House Telvanni for promises of greater power.
"Sir Divayth Fyr! There is a situation in Sadrith Mora!" said Beyte Fyr, one of Divayth Fyr's clones.
"Well, let's hear it, dear daughter. I haven't all day. Wait, as a matter of fact, I DO!" He erupted into laughter, not understanding or caring about Beyte's tone.
"Well...this is serious. A new Daedric Prince has taken up residence in Vvardenfell. And he's converting Sadrith Mora into his followers, more every minute. He might be coming hear next!" Beyte was panicking.
"Hmm..can't have that, now can we? I'll have to do something about this. No common guard can take care of this. Nerevarine, can you hear me?"
The Nerevarine appeared to him almost immediately.
"Well, Indoril Nerevar, it appears as if we have a situation. We've got a rising Daedric Prince, and he's converting people like mad. Right now, he's in Sadrith Mora, the city with no faith. We COULD wait it out, since followers made by promises of power will eventually betray the giver in an attempt for more power, but we don't have that kind of time before he comes here to kill me. Which I have no doubt he could. But YOU, however, are a whole other story. You've got the strength to fight him off, and my magic can support you so he doesn't kill you outright. And we're gonna need some other help, like Vivec or something. He got the strength of gods, corrupt or not." Divayth explained. His color and personality came out clear in his words.
"Again, Divayth, would you please call me by my name? Vanien Nerevar. That's been my name since the day I was born, and I'd prefer to remain by that name. So, we have to go get Vivec? I can't fly that fast, but you can. Combat is my specialty. I'll hold off the enemy until you retrieve Vivec."
"All right, INDOOOORIL, I'll go get him. Don't destroy my tower, if you can help it." With that, Divayth Fyr flew away with blinding speed to get Vivec.
Vanien stepped out then, to wait for the enemy to approach the tower where he stood guard.
Hrakt-Elebrach found huge success with followers in Sadrith Mora, but he felt a stronger force pulling him south-southwest. He guessed it was a powerful wizard, as warriors did not radiate waves of arcane force. Arcane force had a distinct metallic, resonant vibe to it, whereas physical prowess just had power and intensity to it. He gave into this instinct pulling him, and found himself at the tower of Tel Fyr.
When he arrived, he found the Nerevarine in Perfect Madness armor and a matching claymore, and he was locking eyes with the Daedra, Nerevar looking to a spot about 10 feet off the ground. It was a high look, given Vanien Nerevar was only 5'6" in height.
"So, you are the Nerevarine..."
"And you are the Daedric Prince causing all of this trouble. We knew you were coming this way."
"We? So there's more of you? Oh, this is simply fantastic! I will surely ascend to Daedric King now, instead of a Prince!"
"Unless we're going to kill you." Vanien's tone was deadly calm.
"You wouldn't do that! I didn't even kill anyone...important, that is. A few pawns is nothing! You are nothing! You're just a man, a man who has better fortunes than most, and has figured out how to benefit from the chaos. It could have just as easily been a slave lizard!"
"But it wasn't. So I'm here, now."
"Wait, wait, wait...You don't intend to fight off a DAEDRIC PRINCE on your own, do you? Are you begging to die?"
Vanien answered with a stroke of his blade. It went right through Hrakt-Elebrach, but it appeared to harm him. Lord Hrakt-Elebrach was outraged, and in response he drew his own sword. With one swing, he sent Nerevar flying to the tower wall. Groaning in pain, he stood up, a stalwart guard against Hrakt-Elebrach's fury.
Hrakt-Elebrach picked up Vanien by the throat with one hand, and prepared to squash the life out of him. Just then, Divayth Fyr came back, with Lord Vivec at his side.
They blasted him simultaneously with magic of a disrupting kind, and he was paralyzed for a second, giving Nerevar enough time to escape. Then, Divayth Fyr did a dismissal spell, and Hrakt-Elebrach was sent back to his own plane of Oblivion for a hundred years.
"Damn him! I will slaughter him first!" he said to himself when he sat down in his dark throne. He had his Eivoni companion as an advisor, bodyguard, and general social contact for the Prince.
"Well, you are only stuck here as long as the person who cast the spell remains alive, until the hundred years runs out, or until a follower summons you. We can only hope your scene in Sadrith Mora was sufficient to bring you a crowd." He said in his solid, harsh voice. All Eivoni spoke in a manner that the metal music of today often called 'screaming'.
"I did make a shrine to myself near the Ghostgate shrine. I can only hope my followers can make it there alive, and then attempt to summon me."
"You could send them dreams that revealed the location of the shrine."
"I shall do that. Grand suggestion, Galvatir."
"Thank you, sir."
And so that Nirnish night, Hrakt-Elebrach sent a dream to all of his faithful telling them to go to his shrine, and to summon him with a gift of a silver longsword.
The Dunmer commoner went to sleep that night uneasily, as the day had been hectic, what with the attack from a Daedric Prince on the city, but the sheer power it radiated had also shaken his view on what was real, what was powerful, and on who really was in charge.
He was in a field of wheat, and the flames raging around was consuming it. A tall figure had its hand extended, it's face stern. He vaguely recognized it as the Daedric Prince that attacked that day.
I must return, said the figure. My work is not done, and you are my chosen instrument. Come to Ghostgate, and look for the shrine where you feel me strongest. Enter, and find my statue. Leave a silver sword, and I will return to reward you. Do so, and you shall be saved from doom, death, and pain forever. Do not do so, and my agents will hunt you down, and kill everyone in your entire city.
He woke up screaming from the horror, and knew what he must do. He must find a silver longsword. But where?
One blink later, and he felt his hand was a good deal heavier. He looked at his hand, and saw where was empty space before was replaced by a silver longsword.
He then set off for Ghostgate by first using the Guild Guide transport to Balmora, and walked from there. He trekked green fields, fought off alits, kagouti, and cliff racers, and crossed violent storms across mountain ranges until he finally came upon Oxnimaul, the Daedric Ruins of his dreams. It was more magnificent than the dreams gave it credit, with towering spires, fortified battlements, and patrolling beings watching against threats. He dared to enter, and found the entrance open at his approach.
Just up ahead was the great statue of his lord, draped by blue smoke, flames, and a strong aura of strength that gave him courage to continue.
He walked up to the feet of the great caricature, and place the longsword as an offering, and bade his lord to live again.
In front of the Dunmer commoner was his lord rising up from the ground brought again by smoke condensing to form his body. The great frame was far stronger than the commoner thought possible.
"My prophet, my instrument of revival, what is your desire? I find it within myself the need to reward who brought me to Nirn once more."
"I only wish to aid you, my lord. To make me strong like you, and to bring word of you to the nonbelievers, that is my wish."
A flash later, and the commoner found himself transformed to something greater. His skin was bluer, he was bigger with armor that was purple, and a great black sword to defend himself with. But in his off-hand he found a book, emblazoned with various symbols, and with pages that reflected his master's will. The words told what he wanted, what he stood for, what his followers would recieve, and what he expected of his followers.
"You wish to service me? You will go to temples, and recite my words to the gathering masses."
"So I am to be your priest? Thank you my lord."
"Your previous life was of no consequence. You shall now be known as Eivon Kaul. The name Eivon signifies you as my highest ranking follower, Kaul shall be what is uttered in fear by the nonbelievers."
"Thank you my lord."
"Go now, my child! Go to the homes and the temples of the blasphemers, and make them yours! Tell them to come here, and use this spell to send them here. Use this spell to summon my Eivoni to defend you when you are outnumbered. Use this spell to teleport here yourself. And when all else fails, use this spell to summon me. It must be only done in the most dire emergencies, for I have much to contend with."
"Thank you my lord! I shall not fail you!"
And with that, Eivon Kaul set off for Balmora, the head of the Great House Hlaalu. The House Hlaalu was corrupt, with no faith but in the coin handed to them, and the book he held in his mailed hand was pulling him to the Dunmer.
Hrakt-Elebrach had his priest. His banishment from Nirn had not lasted a week. Weak humans, but they served their purpose.
"Nerevar, I don't think my tower can handle that again. We need more manpower." said Divayth Fyr.
"Well, I have heard of this powerful vampire that singlehandedly slaughtered every Orc and Dunmer in Hlormaren. He hasn't been heard from since, but this'll be our best bet." suggested Vanien Nerevar.
"Well then, looks like you're heading to Balmora, and flying over the mountians. Beware of the vampire of Hlormaren, as I have read he is of the Quarra Bloodline."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Vanein Nerevar had no experience with vampires other than killing them.
"There are three clans of vampires. The Quarra Bloodline, in particular, is the strongest, at least physically. I would not be surprised if this vampire was the strongest of the entire clan."
"I'll be ready."
"I hope so, he slaughtered Umbra, and is the only one besides me to have a full suit of Daedric armor, and he has had much time to enchant it, so you will face a man greater than man."