Stendarr's Mercy, an elder scroll series fanfic

I do not own Oblivion or any other copyrighted materials of the Elder Scroll Series - these are owned by BethSoft (but you already knew that).

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ameer trudged along the Gold Road, lazily eyeing the surrounding countryside of Hammerfell. He had been travelling for near on a week, and was close enough to Cyrodiil now that he felt there wasn't any point to speeding up his journey.

He tried to admire the scenery around him, or at least find something here worth admiring, but everywhere he looked was a clash of whites and browns. The winter months had not been pleasant to this country, and the golden grass, once quite beautiful to look at, had died away, leaving the barren dirt of the Highlands in place.

As Ameer came around a turn in the road, bordered on one side by a sheer rock face, he was spotted by a legion guard. "Halt, citizen!" cried out the guardsman, and a pair of redguard legionnaires detached themselves from a bonfire built by the side of the road to assist their officer. Ameer noted with relief that, about a hundred yards away, lay the walls of the border crossing fort.

"What business do you have travelling to the Imperial Province?", called out the guard.

"I'm from Rihad, sir. I'm travelling to the city of Chorrol, to assume my duties in the Chapel there."

"It's pronounced Korrol, redguard." The two soldiers behind the Imperial officer smirked at each other. "And what duties do you have to assume in the chapel of Stendarr?"

"I'm a cleric of Stendarr, sir, and I was transferred by the Primate at Rihad into the care of the Chorrol chapel."

"Hmm..." said the Imperial, slowly stroking their chin. He regarded the redguard's simple brown robe and doeskin shoes. "I thought priests and the like were well-taken care of by the Chapel. And travelling in the winter..." One of the redguards behind him snorted. "No matter," said the guard, placing his hand on his sword-hilt, causing Ameer to blink and swallow nervously. "I'm sure the captain can vet you. Follow me."

With that, the soldier turned on his heel and proceeded towards the fort. He stopped briefly to turn around and said, "Oh, and please surrender your weapon to one of the guardsmen."

Ameer walked through the stockade wall, removing his mace and handing it with both hands to one of the redguard troops at the border. Both soldiers were smiling at him strangely. The other soldiers around the campfire, a mix of Redguards and Imperials, simply glanced at him before going back to roasting the spitted deer hanging over the fire. The redguard he had handed his weapon to followed him at a distance while his friend took up watch duty facing the west, towards Hammerfell.

As Ameer walked into the fort, rubbing his hands together, he looked around at the first town he'd ever seen outside Hammerfell, or, for that matter, Rihad county. Frankly, it was quite bare, given the conditions at this time of year. A single well lay in the courtyard, surrounded by a ring road that connected two segments of a road that travelled east-west. The fort itself was oriented along that line, with the keep lying along the north side and the stables, inn and smithy lying to the south. The smith and stable-hands looked up briefly from their duties at the newcomer, returning quickly to their work when nothing particularly interesting was noticed.

Ameer followed the Imperial guardsman into the keep, which, sadly, was just as cold and draughty inside as it had been outside. He noticed the green and white tapestries with an acorn in the middle, and tried to place the banner, but could not figure out what lord's symbol this was. This, he figured, indicated this not as a simple legion fort but rather as the home of the local lord, whoever that might be. His assumption was confirmed upon the sight of an Imperial wearing chainmail armor with just that arrangement of colors upon it.

Rather than proceeding straight through the keep to the great hall, Ameer was directed by the guardsman into a small room on the left of the entrance, one he would have barely noticed. As he went in, he noticed the change in banners, from green and white to the red dragon of the Imperial legion. This room, barely a box to the size of the great hall, was inhabited by a number of legionnaires in the dull, clanking armor of the legion. He was led through a series of rooms into an office of sorts. The largest piece of furniture in there was an old rickety desk - it easily took up about a quarter of the space in the room. Behind the desk sat a bear of a man, dressed in dull grey robes which seemed to ripple outwardly every time he shifted. He looked up the moment the three men walked in.

"Guardsman, can I help you?", he said, in a surprisingly quiet voice.

"Captain Vorenius, a lone traveller from the city of Hammerfell wishes passage into the Imperial Province, sir.", replied the front trooper, standing at attention.

"I see.", said Vorenius, looking up and down at Ameer. About 5'10, maybe 170 pounds, mid-to-late 30s. There was nothing particularly imposing about him, which caused the Captain to wonder at why the guardsman thought this ought to be brought to his attention. He sighed, and said, "Well, sit down, traveller. Dismissed, guardsmen. Oh, and did he have a weapon?"

The redguard soldier was already in the process of stretching out the mace to hand to Vorenius. The Captain whistled upon seeing the mace, an old dwemer mace, with a lustrous bronze sheen and slim profile. Not something you'd expect to see on a beggar.

With another sigh, the captain leaned back in his chair, forming his hands into a pyramid in his lap, and asked in a bored tone, "So, what, traveller, is it about you that seems to have aroused the suspicions of the glorious border guards of Cyrodiil?"

Ameer stuttered a little. He hadn't realized anything was amiss about his approach to the fort, except perhaps for how the redguard troops had behaved to him. This exchange was doing worlds for his anxiety...

"I-I am simply a devotee of Stendarr, my lord. I am travelling from Rihad to the city of Chorrol", he made sure to enunciate the hard C, "to take up my duties in the Chapel."

"There's no need to address me as such, you may call me captain Vorenius. Now, do you have any documentation proving your claim?"

"Y-yes, my transfer orders." Ameer fumbled with his travelling pouch before extracting a small parchment roll, which he quickly handed over to Vorenius. The captain unrolled the parchment, reading the orders.

***

By Order of Primate Rizan,

Of Zenithar's Chapel of Rihad,

All hail to the Divines,

The bearer of this document, one Ameer of Rihad, born 13 Rains Hand, 3E411, is being transferred at the direction of the Primate to the Chapel of Stendarr in the City of Chorrol, Imperial Province.

All hail to the Divines!

***

There followed under this a cipher, a jumble of unintelligible words. Beneath this was a seal of the Chapel. The captain reached for his drawer, to get his mechanical decoder, but then decided that the seal looked authentic enough. No point in wasting time on someone like this.

"This is alright. On behalf of my guardsmen, father, I apologize for any disrespect you may have been subjected to outside the gate. Also, you may call me Delian." The captain smiled tiredly at Ameer, who relaxed in his chair.

"Thank you, Captai- Delian." Ameer returned the smile. "There is no need to call me father, I have not passed the Temple initiation rites. I am merely a cleric of Stendarr."

"You carry some impressive weaponry for a cleric then, Ameer. This mace," Delian said, removing it from it's holding place and carefully sliding it across the table to prevent scratching the surface, "It's excellent craftsmanship. Nothing you'd find easily, or legally, in any market, considering that it is, in fact, a legion weapon." He pointed out the red-diamond seal, evident along the middle of the shaft.

"It's a keepsake from my sire, he used to be a member of the Legion."

"Hmm... interesting. Well, I won't keep you. You may come and go as you please, Ameer."

"Thank you, Delian." He rose to leave, but Delian stopped him.

"Oh, there is also something else, which we would be very grateful for if you could perform." Ameer looked at Delian quizzically, his arms still on the seat of the chair. "One of our guardsmen squads just returned from a patrol of the Black Road up to Chorrol. They encountered a bandit crew and were forced into combat. We fortunately succeeded, but one of our men, a fresh rookie, suffered slash wounds to his midsection and a shattered rib, as well as a broken rib. We don't frequently get healers passing through here, so if you have the opportunity, can you perhaps see if you can provide any assistance to this guardsman?"

Ameer thought for a moment before answering. "I am obliged to, sir. I will seek him out right away."

"Excellent. The healing quarters are out my door, at the third door on the left around the corner."

Ameer nodded at Delian, before strapping his mace to the belt on his robe and tightening it.

He proceeded down the corridor, bypassing the odd legion guardsman who would come shuffling down in full armor to the captain's office. He reached the healing quarters, and opened it to find that it was, mercifully, empty, save for 2 people clustered in one corner around an occupied bed.

Ameer sniffed distastefully at the condition of the room - splintered, unwashed wooden floors, peeling walls, and dirty beds. This was no place to bring the sick and injured. Still, he supposed, better somewhere than out in the cold. He walked over to the corner bed, at which the two visitors looked around at him. One was a young Imperial guardsman with a clean-shaven face, dressed in the legion armor save for his helmet. The other was an older Breton woman, dressed in a commoner's blouse and skirt, holding a healing potion.

The standing legionnaire addressed him first. "What are you doing back here, civilian."

"I'm a cleric of Stendarr. Captain... Vorenius sent me back here to help heal one of the soldiers."

The legionnaire visibly relaxed. "Not many other soldiers needing bedrest round here, 'neh cleric?" He said with a smile, looking around the empty room. The Breton tutted.

Ameer smiled, lowering his head briefly. He approached the bed as the Breton glared briefly at the guardsman. She looked over apologetically at Ameer.

"Sorry 'bout 'im father, not many legion boys learn to respect the Church, you see it in the type of idiots they take on, hmm?"

"Oh, off with you, you old biddy, away with you!" exclaimed the legionnaire, pretending to shoo away the Breton.

The Breton tut-ted, walking towards the door. "No respec', see father?".

Ameer smiled briefly, and then resumed his serious poise as he knelt down and began examining the wounds on the guardsman. The patient himself was young, likely no older than 18 years, and he seemed to be restraining laughter. Ameer understood, it must have felt excruciating to laugh in his condition.

The other legionnaire sighed, and shook his head in a good-natured fashion, than turned over to his friend. "Poor Andrea, she just can't resist a good snipe fight, eh Platty?" he planted his hand firmly on the patient's shoulder, who coughed a little with pain, but was still smiling.

"Alright, well, I have to get back to polishing my armor, before the old cunt-in-charge -oh, sorry, cleric- captain, decides to come in here and bite my head off for malingering. And Platty," he looked hard at the man on the bed, "When you get out, me and the boys is takin' you out for drinks. It's the least we could do."

Smiling, the legionnaire nodded at the cleric, and walked out.

As Ameer unwound the bandages tied around 'Platty's' midsection, he ventured to ask what had happened.

"Well, before we get into that, let's get some introductions, Cleric. My name's Platius Cosidius, Platty, to the informally-inclined. Honestly, I much prefer my original name, if it pleases you."

"I have no problem with that, Platty does sound somewhat ridiculous."

"Don't I know it. Anyhow, how about yourself? Unless, of course, Cleric, or Father, suits you?"

"You can just call me Ameer."

"Hmm, alright Ameer. Well, I'll jump right into it, then."

"Platius! Maronius! You scumbags have been selected for patrol duty today. I will see you outside assembled with the rest of the men within 5 minutes, clad IN your armor and armed. If I so much as see an un-helmeted head exiting the keep door, than you may expect to LOSE IT!"

Sergeant Doran was particularly hot-headed today, Platius decided. This was the second week of his posting at Fort Rayles, and, while he didn't expect it to be exciting in any way, he also didn't think he'd have to live out the boot camp experience again.

Then again, Fort Rayles was pretty much the go-to spot for all fresh troops. The legion complement here was at 80, an understrength century, and maybe two thirds of the people stationed here had never been outside of a bootcamp their careers till now. Fort Rayles, granted, was not a difficult posting. The hardest part of their patrols and duties here was the terrain - trouble between Hammerfell and Cyrodiil was nonexistent, pretty much relegated to the desperately poor bandits that terrorized travellers on both sides.

This patrol, of course, was connected to the antics of one group of bandits just a week ago. An Imperial tax shipment travelling from Bergama in the Alik'r had finally crossed into Cyrodiil, thus receiving new guards while the old ones rested up. They had proceeded along the Black Road, fresh and alert, when a group of 4 bandits made the stupid decision to assail the caravan. A tax shipment is, typically, a lucrative haul for any enterprising ne'er-do-wells, but the trick is to get at the shipment, and when it's guarded by half a dozen crack legionnaires in heavy armor, the how of the plan falls into jeopardy.

Needless to say, the tax shipment finished off the bandits with no casualties, but saw fit to send back word to Fort Rayles of what was perceived as a 'reinvigorated' bandit presence along the stretch west of Battlehorn Castle. Clearly some self-styled father-type bastards who thought the new boys needed to get their ears wet. Whatever the series of events, it just led to here, with Platius, his friend Maronius, and three other new troops standing abreast outside the keep, while the sergeant chewed into them.

"You will pursue this stretch of the Black Road in three rounds, soldiers. This patrol will take you the better part of the day, though I can't imagine how fresh bootlicks like you can conceive of a 'better' part to any day."

Platius was getting fed up. There was good-natured, character-building breaking down, like what the drill sergeant back at boot did, and then there was spitefulness. He seriously wondered how a man like this ended up in a position of leadership above any soldier.

Platius' eyes had begun to wander, so Doran picked up on that. "Private! Are my words boring you, whelp? Do you think you can get away without hearing your objective? Let me tell you something, private. I've met slaves in Morrowind with more backbone than you. I've had slaves in Morrowind with more backbone than you."

"For the private's insubordination," Doran announced, looking at the other four guardsmen, "You will have to do another circuit from here to Battlehorn and back. Get to it!"

The troops kept a straight face all the way to the east gate, but once outside and in formation, fell afoul, cursing Doran. It wasn't Platius' fault, they knew, that ass was just looking for an excuse to extend the patrol.

"Easy, Platty," said Maronius, looking over at Platius, "It's not so bad. It's cold out here, sure, but after 3 rounds we won't even feel the 4th."

"Thank you, Maronius, that consoles me greatly." replied Platius dryly.

"Ahh, it's nothing. This patrol will just fly by, trust me. Before you know it, you'll be back in the barracks, spit-shining Doran's boots and swooning over that Breton harpy."

The rest of the men chuckled, and Platius smirked.

"See? she's already making the time pass quicker. Must be a witch of some sort, I reckon."

Platius laughed at that. It wouldn't be inconceivable... "Maronius, I just like to talk to her. She reminds me of my sister, for Mara's sake! besides, it's not proper to consort with older women."

"Proper, he says," said Maronius, mimicking Platius' holier-than-thou tone. "We're legion, boys, we don't give a rat's ass about proper!"

And with that, Maronius struck up the ever popular A Less Rude Song:

They say,
The Iliac Bay,
Is the place to barrel around,
Without a bit of apparel on,
A tune that's advertised in that carol song,
A tune that's sung as the west wind blows,
About it's lovely not wearing any clothes!

All the men had taken up the song, including Platius, who may have felt ashamed if not for the fact that it was his favorite song.

And so the legion patrol merrily made it's way down the road to Battlehorn, plainly oblivious to any signs of trouble.

---

After a few hours of travel, the legion patrol was tired. They'd just completed the first circuit, and were on their way towards Battlehorn again. The inconsistent terrain on this stretch of the road was proving murder on legs encumbered by legion armor. They were passing through a thicket of trees to bypass a bend in the road, and were spread out as a result.

"You know," said Maronius, looking about him at the snow and dead trees, "I feel like it's been long enough for us out here in this miserable nowhere without anything to do."

"Maronius, this doesn't sound like a good idea." replied Platius, deadpan.

"What, what doesn't sound like a good idea? I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"I know what you're going to suggest, and it is not a good idea."

"Well, Sir smart-arse, what was I going to suggest?"

Platius sighed. "You were going to suggest we stop at Battlehorn castle for some wine and women. You suggested that the last 3 times we were on patrol."

Maronius looked shiftily at his feet. "Yeah, well... It's not a bad idea!"

"I just said it was not a good one. That would make it a bad one."

One of the other troops, Halitte, spoke up. "Look gents, that cunt Doran's already put us on shit-duty for the next 6 hours. We all know this patrol is useless. We might as well get somethin' out of going out to Battlehorn."

All the legion troops save Platius agreed, so he was forced to concede.

"That's the spirit Platty!" exclaimed Maronius.

With that, the squad let out a hearty cheer. They threw up a second one, and Platius, already warming to the idea, led the third.

Then things fell apart.

Over the din of cheering troops, an arrow whistled out from behind a tree 20 yards to the left of the squad. Halitte had the presence of mind to crouch and raise his shield, so the flimsy iron thing bounced harmlessly off it. At the same instant, Maronius yelled out, "Ambush!", prompting the rest of the squad to unsheath their swords. Three more arrows flew out, this time from both the front and their left. Two of them missed, but one of them found their mark.

"Felen's been hit! Arrow formation!", the arrow had struck dead-center in Felen's swordhand, causing him to gasp in pain and surprise and to drop his sword. Fortunately, the arrow's momentum was reduced through it's impact with the armor, so Felen's hand was still fight-capable, but just barely, what with the torn armor pointing into his wound. The others assembled aroud Felen in a 3-2 pyramid facing the east, with Felen in the middle of the second row. They were all crouched, with their shield's pointing in different directions. In this formation, they slowly shuffled to a a small outcropping of rocks to provide them with some shelter from the east. Fortunately, this position blocked off assault from their former front-line, so they simply had to contend with arrows assaulting them from the north. They could now see their opponents - two khajiiti dressed in leather armor, with an argonian and a nord in fur. They were all assailing the men with arrows, but to little effect, as the well-crafted legion shields held up to the barrage.

The bandits began creeping closer and closer, all the while shooting off their arrows, a number of which slipped through the gaps of the shield-wall and grazed the armor of the troops.

When Maronius spied the khajiiti at 20 yards, he called out, "Right-wing formation!". Immediately, him, Felen, and Durikin ran out with their shields held out and their swords held in the attack position towards the khajiiti. The two cats recognized what an impossible position they would be in, and immediately ran back up the slope. Platius and Halitte ambled sideways behind their squadmates with their shields facing the Argonian and the Nord.

With Halitte leading the sideways cover charge, both the Argonian and the Nord concentrated their fire on him, much to his anger. He broke formation and charged along the relatively flat ground to the Argonian and Nord.

"Halitte! Formation!", called Platius, desperately trying to get him back.

"Halitte! FORMATION!", he called out again, uselessly.

The other three guardsmen were tied up harrying the khajiiti, so Platius decided to chase down Halitte and help him. Halitte was running ahead, screaming at the top of his lungs with his shield arm pressed forward and his sword held above his head, ready to strike down the argonian. The Nord dropped his bow and pulled out a warhammer strapped to his back, getting it into the ready position. As Halitte came upon the Argonian, who had removed a shortsword from his side, he struck forward and down with longsword. The Argonian deftly avoided the cleaving strike, by rolling to the left, and jumped straight for Halitte's exposed flank with his outstretched shortsword. Before he could hit him, however, Halitte deflected away the blade with his elbow and brought his shield down on the Argonian's forehead, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from the lizard.

The Nord, meanwhile, decided to make his presence felt, and struck Halitte's other side with the full extent of his warhammer. Halitte went flying away, and by that point, Platius had finally reached the melee. Seeing his comrade fly such a distance was unnerving. The fur-clad Nord grinned at him, his wicked yellow teeth gleaming in the fading sunlight. He started hammering away at Platius, who kept his shield arm up to deflect the hammer's blows. Meanwhile, the Argonian had regained his bearings, and was approaching the figure of Halitte, who was still struggling to get up from the rock he had landed on. Platius saw his chance, and, ducking the blows of the hammer, scurried towards the argonian and sunk his steel blade right through the lizard's calf. The bandit screamed out in pain, and fell swiftly to his feet. Platius was about to bring down the shield on the Argonian's neck, but the Nord had surprisingly managed to get to them quickly enough. He swung his warhammer in a wide arc, thrashing it right into the right side of Platius' cuirass. Platius expelled breath sharply from the force of the impact, and fell rapidly against a rock.

His left leg hit the rock hard, and he felt the pain of it breaking. He cried out, and collapsed. The Nord stood above him, grinning, and brought his hammer down on Platius' armor again, on the same spot he had been hit before. Clearly, he was going for pain. The Nord struck lighter strokes, again, and again, causing the armor to warp and buckle, breaking at that section.

Platius knew he was about to die. He was staring up at the Nord with fear and rage in his eyes, when he remembered something from boot camp.

"All the races of Tamriel have strengths, and weaknesses.", said the drill instructor. "Dunmer, for example, must fuck everything that moves." All the recruits laughed, except, of course, for the dunmer ones.

"An easy one to remember, is that nords have a weakness to fire. Easy, how? They live up in the cold. They like the cold. They hate the heat. Allow me to demonstrate..."

Remembering that, Platius, using his right, formerly shield, arm, to grab the Nord's foot. The Nord, confused for a second, looked down at his foot. Platius looked up, with a rage-filled grin at the Nord, and exclaimed, "All nords... they hate the heat." With that, he imaged his strongest flame spell in his head. He visualized the flame, creeping in soft, slow tendrils, outwards, from the core of his body, towards all his extremities. He visualized his right arm, fiery orange lines, coursing through it, reaching out to touch his fingertops, exploding upon contact. At that instant of visualization, the Nord yelped in pain, and Platius opened his eyes to see the Nord's leg on fire, which quickly travelled up it's fur garments, progressively burning the Nord.

Platius sighed with relief, he was safe, for the mo-

The Argonian yelled. He had crawled up to Platius, having retrieved his short blade.

"Imperial legion pig bastard!", hissed the argonian, while the green and red patterns on his face dancing in and out of resolution. He struck at the broken armor segment in Platius' armor, gaining hits against Platius' exposed flesh. The instant steel made contact with flesh, Platius began to feel dizzy. Have I already lost a lot of blood..? The Argonian was about to strike a 4th time, when Halitte came barrelling out of nowhere and crashed into the lizard, tackling him to the ground. Before the lizard could get his bearings, Halitte plunged his longsword into the bandit's chest. The Argonian gave a terrible death rattle, and died.

Platius looked over sickly at Halitte, who came running over. He was dying, he knew it. He was so tired, he might as well closes his eyes and...

Ameer looked at Platius wide-eyed, resting his hands on his knees. The healing had taken an hour, the duration of Platius' tale. He had fortunately managed to use his restorative skill to extract and magically boil off the poison from the slash wounds. He used telekinesis spells to gently set the broken ribs and leg aright, although it had still caused some pain to Platius.

"Well, Ameer, you done healing?"

"That was... an exceptionally long story."

Platius looked out the window sheepishly. It was already night-time.

"Sorry about that... figured I could talk to a healer."

Ameer collected himself. "Oh, don't worry about it. Um, I suppose I needed to ask, how are your friends doing? Halitte and... Feren?"

"Felen. They're fine, I understand. Andrea knows how to fix bones and cuts alright, but when it comes to the trickier stuff like poisons, well, with all respect, she's quite clueless."

"Mm.. I've seen that kind of poison before, in Hammerfell. It's a strong Damage Fatigue poison. I noticed you were gaining your energy in the time you were talking."

"Ah, well. I do love to talk, I suppose. My sister always said it was a problem of mine."

Ameer nodded slowly. He got up, and checked to make sure everything with Platius was in order.

"Well, thank you for the service, Cleric. Where would you be off to, now?"

"Well, it's too dark to travel, at any rate. I think I'll stay at the inn across from the keep. Tomorrow, my travels will take me to Chorrol, to the chapel of Stendarr. I'm assuming my duties there after I arrive."

"Chorrol... my family's from there. If I ever get leave, I'll be sure to visit the chapel."

"I would welcome you, then, Platius. Have a pleasant sleep."

"And you too, Ameer. Oh, and, I believe Maronius is at the Inn. The Highland Stable, they call it, not the classiest name, but it has some respectable points to it. Regardless, if you're looking for a drink or maybe some company, Maronius would want no less than to introduce you to the local wench."

Ameer chuckled. "If I feel the need to, I'll be sure to speak to him."

With that, Ameer headed out of the healing quarters, leaving Platius to stare out of the tiny window, up at Secunda waxing.

***

Well, that's my first chapter. I feel like I'm still missing some general elements that would help the story, so if you'd like to see anything or believe some changes would improve the story, I'd love to hear and implement them.