22nd of Last Seed, 4E 214

Those fools back in Alinor thought this a foolish gamble. They believed the Nords would push us back if we tried to reestablish ourselves in Skyrim. Perhaps they would have, had they been better organized. As it stands, however, we not only succeeded in taking Skyrim, we have also successfully held it - even despite the very unexpected problem Skyrim now faces.

The Altmer writing in his journal paused and looked up when he heard knocking on his door. He sighed wearily, set his quill down, and shut his journal; no sense making others aware of his thoughts. "What is it?"

"M'lord, a report came in. Falkreath." Another Altmer was the one who answered his inquiry, her voice familiar. She opened the door and stepped inside - then froze in place as she realized he wasn't wearing a shirt. "I-I'm so sorry-" she stammered.

"Bah," he said, waving it off. If he was being honest, he didn't mind this particular lady see him in such a way. "Nothing to apologize or worry over. What's this report, then?"

"Er... yes." She coughed nervously, then approached him, her gaze averted to one corner of his spacious stone room.

It was once the bedchamber of Jarl Elisif the Fair. That had been before he had taken over the position of leadership in Solitude - and, in fact, all Skyrim. Much of the decor remained the same, as he was not particularly picky; the only change he had made to the chamber was to drape a few banners of the Aldmeri Dominion about the room's walls.

"M'lord?" She wasn't looking at him, but she did have the report extended toward him - and he hadn't taken it. His mind had been elsewhere. "Is something-"

"Nothing is wrong, so to speak," he commented, "but if there's news from Falkreath, I'm assuming not all is right, either." He reached out and took the report, then looked back at her. "Sit and rest."

"I... if you insist." She looked for a seat somewhere and away from him, then sat facing away from him and looking out a window, watching the Sea of Ghosts to the north.

"I'm not that difficult to look at, am I?" he mused. She glanced back at him after he spoke, then looked away again, her cheeks faintly red. He knew he was far from perfect: his body was muscular, a sign of his martial prowess. Scars marred his chest, making it clear exactly how much combat he had actually seen. Many thought him too young to know how to fight such battles and survive, while those who saw the scars knew he was tougher and wiser than anyone else truly knew. His short brown hair was usually slicked back, but he let it hang loosely about his face for the time being. The only clothing he wore was a pair of dark brown leather leggings; in his chambers as he'd been, he felt comfortable this way.

"Er... no, m'lord," she murmured, "but it's... well..."

He sighed and strode to the tall wardrobe, threw its doors open, and picked a shirt at random. He took a moment to throw it on, then sniffed lightly. "Better?" He hoped it was; this black woolen shirt was already making some of his scars itch.

She looked back at him and nodded lightly. She was no longer looking intently out the window.

"Falkreath." He had the missive in his hand once more, and was opening it to read. "Did it finally fall to-"

"No, m'lord," she began.

"Call me Orindil," he sighed, rubbing his temples briefly. Sometimes, he didn't like being the acting High King... the True King, as his subordinates had taken to calling him. Oh, he enjoyed flaunting it over the Nords, but when his fellow mer - this woman in particular, at that - gave him the respectful titles, he felt... odd. "For that matter, I'm afraid I don't know you as well as I'd like. What's your name?" The more he thought about it, he realized this was his first time actually talking with her. They'd seen each other before, exchanged pleasantries when passing each other... but never actually spoken.

"Er... I'm Sevarie, m'lord Orindil," she said. "Scout, runner..."

"Drop the 'm'lord' and you're fine." His eyes went back down to the missive. Falkreath had come under attack again. Daedra, as he'd expected.

It had been a very nasty surprise for the Dominion shortly after they'd begun assaulting Windhelm. They had seen the columns of light, of course, and had seen them move, seen them intersect. They had seen the sphere form between them, swell to an uncomfortably large size. They had even seen another column of light appear, this one descending to the ground directly beneath the sphere.

Word had reached Orindil but a week later to tell him that daedra, unlike any they'd seen before, had destroyed the city of Whiterun. Many of its residents had evacuated under the leadership of the former Jarl, Balgruuf the Greater, so civilian casualties were remarkably low. For the Dominion forces that had remained behind, however, there was no such fortune; the report had said that for every daedra that fell, three more seemed to take their place. Every last mer who opposed the infernal force had perished trying to repel the daedra from Whiterun. The city itself was as ashes and dust within an hour of the daedra's victory. From its charred corpse had risen a peculiar structure: a citadel of what looked to be white marble with rounded edges. The daedra swarmed about it, affirming all belief that the citadel was theirs.

Whiterun Hold had since belonged to the daedra, and the residents of Skyrim gave it a wide berth. Travel from one side of the province to the other either took people through Morthal and the Pale, or through the Reach and Falkreath. The daedra were seemingly aware of this, for they made regular targets of Falkreath with small raiding parties. So far, the Dominion had managed to repel every last raid... but their own numbers were rapidly dwindling. Dominion reinforcements were a month and a half away in Alinor, while the daedra got their reinforcements directly from the column of light that descended upon Whiterun Hold.

Thus, Orindil had been surprised to hear Falkreath still stood. The last report he'd received had suggested they wouldn't survive another raid. He had sent a handful of reinforcements, not to fight the daedra off - he wasn't going to condemn perfectly good mer to a grisly and pointless death - but to see the city evacuated once the daedra were spotted advancing once more. To learn they'd instead stood against the daedra, and with minimal casualties... most certainly a surprise.

He was surprised further as he continued to read the report. The raiding party had been much smaller than the past several attacks, which was likely the reason the soldiers had stood their ground; in addition, the raiding party had been flanked by... he laughed as he read the next part of the report.

"Orindil?" Sevarie was looking at him in concern.

"I'm to believe bandits helped thwart this attack?" he mused, waving the report around lightly. "That the scum of the province actually did some good for a change?"

"I was there, sir, and saw the bandits flank the daedra myself," she murmured. "Once the last of the daedra fell, the bandits withdrew before any of the other soldiers could stop them and speak with them. I know not why the bandits made such a bold move, but they did. They probably saved Falkreath in the process."

He scratched his chin thoughtfully, eyes scanning the report once more. This was the first instance in which bandits helped the Dominion defend against an attack anywhere. Did that mean they finally saw the dangers the daedra posed to Skyrim - to them, as well? Were they just acting to save their own skins?

"You, Sevarie, will remain here in Solitude for a time. Another will bear my orders for Falkreath." He sat at the desk upon which his journal still sat, opened the top drawer, and withdrew a blank roll of paper.

"Orders?" she echoed.

"For Falkreath," he repeated. "You've had a long and hard journey. You've earned some rest." He began to write after some thought. "I'd have one or two of these bandits detained so we can ascertain their exact purpose-"

"Er... about that," Sevarie said slowly. He paused and turned in his seat to regard her as she rummaged through the small satchel hanging over her side. He had been smitten with her at first sight: long blonde hair, oftentimes pulled into a ponytail - this was such a case - but otherwise hanging loosely, bright amber eyes that now searched the inside of her satchel, a rather lovely figure, typically complimented by her clothes - her armor tended to hide it, as it now was... And that had been before he had first seen her smile, had first heard her soft and kind voice. She was kind, so very kind... to her fellow mer, that was. His admiration of her had spiked considerably when she had used one of the sharpest and toughest voices he'd ever heard when she reprimanded a Nordic youth for bumping into her by accident. The fact that she was apparently a very talented scout and runner, as evidenced by the fact that she'd made it to Solitude in one piece, made her all the more attractive in his eyes.

Of course, she was now blushing profusely, tinting her golden cheeks a rather lovely shade of red. "Er... why are you staring at...?"

He hadn't realized he had been staring for so long, but as he blinked a couple of times, he realized she was now standing very near him and had a rough letter outstretched toward him, her satchel closed once more. He reached out and took the letter, then set it upon the desk. "I was admiring you," he said. It was true, of course; it was hard not to admire efficiency in this present-day incarnation of Skyrim.

She apparently took it another way, for she looked away, her blush intensifying a bit. "Y-You shouldn't say such things to a lowly scout such as me," she stammered.

"A 'lowly scout' does not return to Solitude several times in one piece, as you have," he replied with a chuckle. "A 'lowly scout' usually loses something: a finger, a hand, a foot, an arm, a leg, their life, their mind..." He had seen it all by now. He was fairly sure there would one day be scouts returning with injuries he hadn't thought it possible to survive.

She glanced back at him and offered a small smile... that kind, lovely smile. "I... thank you," she replied. She was quiet a moment, but unmoving. As he began to read the letter she'd presented him with, she spoke up again. "If I may be so bold... they were wrong, back home. You... you do know what you're doing, and you've done it very well. It was risky to come here, but it's risky to go anywhere lately."

He flashed a smile of his own at her. So she was not one of those who thought him a reckless fool that had condemned the Dominion forces he'd taken to Skyrim. That was even better in his eyes. "Why... don't you join me for dinner this evening?" he ventured after a moment's pause. "That we may speak some more?"

Her eyes widened and she gasped softly, but she also nodded lightly. "I... I wouldn't mind that," she said, voice quiet and mildly disbelieving. The ghost of a smile, however, showed she approved of the invitation.

"Excellent. I'll send for you, then. For now, go on and rest. You've most certainly earned it." He watched as she bowed her head to him, nodded at her in turn, and watched her leave his room. Once he heard the door close, he sighed in content.

Things were going his way. His superiors back in Alinor were upset that a Vindicator had, entirely of his own volition and without filing the necessary forms, taken on countless volunteers and commandeered a fleet of ships to sail for Skyrim. They had said he was a fool, that he was only leading the volunteering soldiers to their deaths, that Skyrim would be his grave. And yet, here that Vindicator now sat, the acting High King of Skyrim, receiving occasional reports as to one problem or another - always daedra related, given how craven the Nords had become - and to top everything off, he had just secured a dinner date with, in his opinion, the loveliest Altmer he'd ever had the privilege of laying eyes upon. He had even received reluctant praise from those back home for his success, and they had seen fit to send reinforcements a few times now... though that was more of a petty victory for him. Everything was just right for him, and he was content.

As he went to stand up and reached down to grab the bottom of his woolen shirt, the letter upon the desk caught his eye once more. He paused a moment, then decided to pull the shirt off once more; it still aggravated his scars a little. With that removed, he snatched the letter up off the desk once more and began reading it anew. As he did, however, his eyes narrowed slightly and a small growl escaped his throat. In irritation, he tossed it aside carelessly, not caring that it fluttered too close to the candle upon his desk.

So perhaps there was one thing not going his way. It was a minor trifle compared to everything else he had to deal with. Even so, he shot the letter one last look before stepping away from his desk. The words upon the letter were still fresh in his mind, and try as he might to dismiss them, they would not fade.

False King Orindil,

On the 22nd of Last Seed, 4E 214, I shall be joining you for dinner. There is much to discuss, things you are oblivious to but must know. Make your lackeys aware; I will kill any who dare stand between me and the Blue Palace. Refuse me, and you will not live to see the 23rd.

Ignore me at your own peril,

Larian Ravell

Bandit Queen of Skyrim

For most of her life, she had looked upon kings and queens as pompous fools with not a clue as to what was best for their people or lands, only themselves and their castle homes. 'A king is only interested in fattening his treasury and his waist,' her late chief had said when she was fourteen.

Larian had since grown up to realize it was not always true. Ulfric Stormcloak, for example, had done his best to ensure the well-being of all the proud Nordic citizens of Skyrim. He had treated the other races as an afterthought, and rarely fulfilled their requests in a timely manner; he never fulfilled them if they ran counter to what the Nords desired.

Then there were the bandits. The outlaws, the thugs, the highwaymen, the fugitives, the rebellious... all eventually came into their own as bandits. They were the hardy survivors of an otherwise hostile realm, forced to pillage, steal and kill to survive. Of course it made them enemies of the upstanding citizens of Skyrim and the pompous High King, but such was their lot in life, and they had learned to accept it. Even so, the bandits had long been splintered, doing things their own way. One clan would take prisoners and torture for fun; another took no prisoners, only killed everyone. One clan would harass cities for resources, such as food, leather, armor and weapons; another would attack cities simply to remind the citizens within that they existed.

Larian had always been discontent with the fragmented lifestyles of the bandits, and so almost three years ago, she had - at the urging of an accursed bastard, admittedly - united every last bandit clan under her. Bandits of Skyrim answered to her, and she answered to none but herself. Under her, bandits had become an even more dangerous threat to contend with; not even the High King's Stormcloaks had been able to stand against them. Under Larian's guidance, the bandits became as dangerous a threat by day as vampires and werewolves were by night... sometimes, bandits were even more dangerous still.

Then the daedra had come and started to ravage everything. Citizen, vampire, werewolf, dragon, bandit... nothing was spared their nihilistic glee. They destroyed and destroyed, all for the fun of it, never for anything such as resources. Skyrim bled, and that was enough for the daedra.

Larian, of course, knew more about the daedric threat than most others did. She knew how to put an end to it... if not the path to that point. She knew from whence the daedra came, knew who their self-centered bastard of a Lord was.

She also knew that if there was truly to be any hope for Skyrim, she had to stop operating from the shadows of Mzinchaleft and make her presence known. Optimally, she would have approached Ulfric Stormcloak, the High King who probably knew just as much about the daedra as she did... if not a little less.

Ulfric, however, had vanished from Skyrim the day Windhelm had come under siege by the Thalmor. He had turned craven and run away from the elves, a point the Thalmor were all too pleased to tell the despairing Nords of Skyrim. Many had lost their faith in Ulfric, and very few citizens resisted the Thalmor when Orindil called himself High King - True King, rather. Under his guidance, Skyrim remained stable... bleeding out to the daedra, but stable. Larian had to admit he was doing a good enough job keeping Skyrim from collapsing... but he couldn't do it forever. He would die one day, as would she, and those which would succeed both of them would inherit a Skyrim far worse than it presently was.

That was what brought her out of Mzinchaleft, which Larian had chosen to live in since the Daedric Invasion of Skyrim had begun, and to find herself seated directly across from a scowling high elf, whose arms were crossed over his clothed chest.

Larian had forgone simple clothing. She had entered Solitude wearing her trusty scaled armor, as well as her crimson cloak. The presence of her greatsword put many on edge, but apparently, Orindil had received her warning in time; none drew weapons on the woman clearly in defiance of Orindil's 'no weapons in public' law. It marked her as a breaker of rules, an outlaw... a bandit. They were expecting but one bandit, and but one bandit had entered Solitude, weapon strapped to her back.

The Bandit Queen had come to Solitude, and was even shown to the Blue Palace by a few high elven guardsmen.

She knew it was a fact that did not please Orindil, nor the young eleven woman sitting at his right. The three were the only ones seated at the table, a feast sitting before them. Larian was of a mind to dismiss the female mer, but decided it didn't really matter.

"You realize," Orindil finally said, after several long minutes of utter silence, "that were it not for this... information you claim to have, I'd have had you killed that second you entered Solitude."

"You'd have tried," Larian replied with a small smirk, "and you'd have failed. All you would have succeeded in doing is sending elves to their easily avoidable deaths. I did not become Bandit Queen on my good looks alone, you know."

He scoffed at this, but offered no retort. "Tell me what you know, then, and be gone from my sight," he snapped. "And so help me if you think to insult-"

"As tempting as that is, my lord," she interrupted, laying the sarcasm as thick as she could on the last two words, "you needn't worry about that. I come to speak of the daedra that threaten citizen, elf and bandit alike."

His brow was raised as she spoke, and the female mer's eyes widened a little. It was at his gesture, however, that Larian continued.

"Obviously you know they plague Skyrim at very chance they get, notably Falkreath and Morthal."

"I have received no reports that Morthal suffers attacks from the daedra," he sniffed.

"That's because someone else intercepts their raiding parties as they march north through Labyrinthian," Larian replied. She hoped the small grin at her lips would convey the 'who'.

It did, for he laughed. "I'm to believe your scum stop daedra at every turn?" he mocked.

"Not every turn," she agreed, "and in fact, if the daedra didn't march toward Morthal so frequently, it may not be the case even there. However, it is the case, and because the bulk of my bandits are situated in the north near Morthal, we have an easy time thwarting their small raiding parties, long before they reach the city. You're welcome for that, by the way."

He only scoffed at her words, but offered no rebuttal. After a moment longer, he spoke once again. "Yes, I know about the daedra plaguing Skyrim," he said coolly. "What is your point?"

"I know where they're coming from," she said calmly, picking up a goblet of wine and sipping it tentatively. The taste made her grimace slightly, and she silently wished he had the foresight to offer mead as well, which she greatly preferred. "And I know how to cut them off from their... 'cozy' realm of Oblivion."

"Then why haven't you?" he sneered.

"Ignoring the fact that my bandits are outnumbered by daedra four to one? I know the how... but I don't know how to get in."

He bristled lightly. "You mean to cross into their realm, is that it? To try and close their... gate into Skyrim?"

"It's the only way. It's how the Champion of Cyrodiil kept the daedra from flooding Cyrodiil during the Oblivion Crisis." She took another tentative sip of the wine, regarding Orindil closely for a time. Normally, she would have delighted in antagonizing him... but she recognized the need to stay in his good graces for now. Much as she disliked the idea, she would have to form an alliance with the Thalmor if the daedra were to be defeated. That was far easier said than done, of course... no one but the Thalmor liked the Thalmor.

"Isn't it as simple as just stepping through?" he asked. Gone was his mocking air; she smiled faintly, knowing he'd just reached a similar conclusion as she.

"One of my lieutenants has a burned finger that says no. He tried touching one of the columns of light, the one at Mount Anthor. It burned him, and did nothing more. I've been next to one of the columns, as well; they radiate unbelievable heat from up close." She sighed softly. "Unfortunately, Clavicus Vile is very selective as to who gets into his realm and who he keeps out. I know because I was carried into his realm by his... Champion." How she had longed to slander said Champion with a long string of curses instead, but she decided to maintain civility.

"Clavicus Vile. Why would he have any interest in invading Tamriel?" It was not Orindil who asked the question, but rather the female mer sitting to his right. Larian looked at her, noticed she was wide-eyed.

"Good question. I couldn't tell you."

"So to enter, we would have to be invited into his realm... that's what you're telling me?" Orindil was staring at Larian rather fiercely now.

"It's one way. My... my sister, she managed to enter of her own volition, and without Vile's consent." She took a moment to recollect herself. Talking about her younger sister was never easy, especially not when she considered what had likely happened to her.

Neria Ravell had somehow entered Vile's realm of Oblivion with the express purpose of rescuing Larian from his clutches. She may have succeeded in that, too... had she not chosen to wander Vile's realm, searching for Larian. Larian had escaped from Vile's prison and the sewers below, and had been told when it was too late to turn back that Neria was there, as well. Had she known sooner, she'd have waited until Neria found her next to that tree with the odd burning scar in its bark. Had she waited, the daedra would never have invaded Skyrim.

Had she waited, she'd know for a fact that Neria was safe and sound.

"How?" The single worded question was touched with disbelief and came from the female mer.

"Don't know. Both of my lieutenants told me she stuck her sword into the column of light, and was able to step in safely. It was odd to them, though, because Neria tried sticking Galar's war axe into the column, and it emerged burned off at the hilt."

"And this 'Neria' would be...?"

"My sister. Galar is one of my lieutenants."

Silence settled between them for a time. Larian suspected Orindil was slowly arriving at the same conclusion she had.

"Then it isn't your sister that was permitted entry, but her weapon. Something about her weapon was unique." Ah, Larian loved it when she was right. Orindil was staring at her expectantly.

"I believe so. The biggest problems, then, lie with trying to figure out what exactly set her weapon apart from Galar's... and reaching the portal to Vile's realm. Easier said than done, of course, given its location."

"True." They both knew, then, that the citadel had been constructed upon the ashes of Whiterun... but had been expanded to surround the western portal with tall and sturdy - not to mention heavily defended - walls. "So what do you propose, Bandit Queen?" Although he used the title, there was no mocking tone to it. He was taking Larian seriously, then, at least in regards to the daedra.

"We need to band together," she said after a moment's hesitation, "and learn all we can about Whiterun Hold and the citadel." She knew that, in any other situation, he would have likely just laughed at her and told her to get out. The fact that he didn't even scoff at the idea, though, meant he was giving consideration to it.

"This is not an easy decision you are forcing me to make," he growled. "On the one hand, you and your bandits apparently know more about this daedric invasion than we first realized... but on the other hand, you would have the Dominion work alongside criminals."

"You know what they say," she said with a small chuckle. "Desperate times..."

"There's one last thing we'd need," the female piped up. Both Orindil and Larian turned their attention to her, even if the elf's eyes were on Orindil alone. "Knowledge of how exactly the portal was opened, and thus how it can be closed. After all, following up on her mention of the Oblivion Crisis, we know now that..."

As she spoke of sigil stones, Larian thought to herself. It was true that greater understanding of the portal could help them understand how to close it, and she hoped another means of sealing it forever existed. She knew, however, that there was one surefire way to start all the portal already - she knew, because once, Larian herself had been intended to hold it open. The part she didn't want to say, then, was that Neria likely held it open, completely against her will.

"The problem, Sevarie, with referencing the older Gates," Orindil began, "is that they were opened before the statue of Akatosh appeared in the Imperial City. The statue allegedly seals the boundaries between our realm and Oblivion completely, which is why it still remains standing even now." His gaze turned to Larian again. "But you have some idea as to how to shut it already, don't you?"

She sighed softly and closed her eyes. Sometimes, she hated the gods for forcing her into such saddening situations. "We... remove the portal's anchor," she whispered. Her eyes opened to regard his dubious expression. "We rescue my sister from Vile's realm, and hope we can undo the magics he has wrought upon her."

"And if we can't?" he pressed.

She certainly hated the gods right now. "...Then we'd have to kill her."

A.N. - It's here! It's here! It's here it's here it's here it's-

Sorry.

So yes, in case you hadn't realized it quite yet, Invasion is the sequel to Eventide.

Why am I releasing this already, and just when I started getting back into All In? Because frankly, ideas for Invasion have been mulling around a bit longer than my renewed inspiration for All In. That said, I haven't run out of inspiration for All In; I have the next... three jobs planned for Vex and Co., and it's just a matter of writing them out. Invasion has a rough storyline, but isn't quite as concrete just yet. So there will be a focus on All In over Invasion, at least for the foreseeable future.

Anyway!

I figured the best way to start Invasion was with an idea of just what Skyrim's become - in effect, a province subjugated by the Thalmor and... well, you read it, I hope. Why have they seized it and held it in the first place? You'll learn that as the story progresses. Now, Orindil is going to have a rather large part in all of this, so I figured introducing him first would be best. Sevarie will also have quite a role - and there is much more to her than even Orindil realizes!

My initial plan had been to reintroduce Elsera in the first chapter of Invasion. My second plan had been to write the story solely from Elsera's perspective, but I found that slightly harder to accomplish, given developments everywhere else. My third plan had been to jump to Elsera after introducing Orindil.

And then I was seized by the desire to suddenly write out Orindil's meeting with Larian Ravell, Queen of Skyrim's Bandits, and went with that. It was more emotional, to a degree, than Elsera's reintroduction will be.

That said, Orindil us not entering this cooperative effort blind. Thalmor and bandit have a common enemy, and they both realize it's a foe they need to conquer together... ah, but not just them, for they have other allies they'll want/need... Anyway, writing Larian again just made me feel so... I missed it. She's no longer the brash woman who hit first and talked later. She's been humbled by her own unwitting involvement in all this, and desires nothing more than to thwart the forces of Clavicus Vile. She's not completely humbled, though; later, she'll show she's still quite a firebrand.

So that pushed Elsera's reintroduction to next chapter. I'm busy mulling over the finer details right now, so it's not nearly as close to completion as yet.

But anyway, hope you enjoyed the first chapter of Invasion! As hinted in Eventide, this story is going to be... tragic in places. OCs will die, some of whom you may have become fond of over the course of the... series? I already know who's surviving to this story's bittersweet ending, and who's gone forever. The only hint I'll give is that of my OC roster, only two - TWO - will survive. The rest, one way or another, are going to die over the course of this tale.

Just figured I'd give a slight warning in that regard.

For now, though, leave a review if you feel so inclined! I respond to each and every one, even if it's simply to thank you. ^^

-Spiritslayer