CHAPTER 4

Location: Coldharbour, Oblivion

Weather: Cold, dark

Date: Ah, who am I kidding? Time has no meaning in Oblivion.

The mighty statue of Molag Bal, god of schemes, towered over the throng of worshippers below. But these worshippers were covered in bloody axe wounds, bound in heavy cords, and being tormented by storm atronachs, so they were in no position to worship Molag Bal.

The real Molag Bal closed the door to the cave and began to stalk across Oblivion. Why he had ever chosen Coldharbour as his personal plane eluded him nowadays. The place looked almost exactly like Tamriel, only the entire place was cold, dark and ruined. "Ah well," he said to himself. "At least it's better than the rest of the House of Troubles." Indeed, of the four Daedric princes, Molag Bal did seem to have the best plane. Mehrunes Dagon's was a hellish world of black earth, red sky, flesh-eating plants, and rivers of lava. Malacath lived in an expansive realm of dust, vapor, and nothingness that even he had difficulty traversing at times. And Sheogorath…well, there wasn't much you could say about Sheogorath. Sheogorath's Madhouse was a colorful land with talking animals, giant living chess sets and playing cards, and men with giant hats that drank tea with rabbits and mice.

Molag Bal arrived at the Coldharbour version of the Temple of the One in the Imperial City. Aside from the fact that the entire place was cracked, covered in ivy, and completely devoid of human life, the most obvious difference between this place and the real Temple of the One was the statues that supported the legendary Dragonifres. On Tamriel, these were in the image of the dragon god Akatosh; here, they had been twisted to look more like Molag Bal, and weren't lit. Molag Bal shrunk himself so he could walk through the door. Inside, a Dunmer woman in a red and gold robe was being prodded in the back with a spear by a Clannfear. She looked up at the sound of the door opening. "My lord!" she cried. "I…"

Molag Bal shot a fireball from his nostril at the woman. "Enough! I gave you a simple task. Kill some Legion members, cut out their hearts, and sacrifice them to me so I can use their souls for my army! But you couldn't even complete the first sacrifice!" He looked down at the woman, who had been consumed by the fireball, along with the Clannfear. She was already dead, however, so there wasn't much the fireball could do to her. "I have given you three chances, Noren. Every time, you have failed to even begin to complete even the simplest task!" With a snap of his massive clawed fingers, a gigantic fissure opened up in the floor and swallowed Relthasa Noren.

The god then left the Temple and headed north, into the Coldharbour Morrowind. He stopped at Red Mountain, which looked exactly like its real-world counterpart, only colder. In the center of the volcano's crater, numerous souls were being stored in the lava. Molag Bal reached a gigantic hand into the lava and scooped out what looked like a small, green version of himself, only without horns or a tail.

The Daedroth looked up dejectedly at his master. "What more could you possibly do to me, master?"

Molag Bal grinned, which looked very creepy, given his reptilian head. "Menta Na. I assume you know why I had you sent back."

"You mean 'hired a random traveler to whack me?'"

"Indeed. But the important part is that you are here because you failed to do my bidding. I sent you to Tamriel to cause strife and chaos. Instead, you retreated to a cave and decided to study. You may have realized that your fellow souls in that crater had done similar things."

Menta Na bowed his head. There was no point in arguing his case before Molag Bal. "Yes, my lord."

"But you may have also noticed that I believe in second chances. You may not have heard, but I have some rather big plans, and I have decided that you get to be part of them. I don't suppose you've ever heard of the Nchunzdehark?"

Menta Na's head shot up.

"Apparently you have. Well I found it. And I want you to retrieve it for me. Do this, and I will reward you greatly, and may even be willing to forgive your latest transgression."

X X X

Anterriel regained consciousness almost as quickly as she had lost it. She turned to see three Golden Saints, no longer in disguise, pointing their rings at her, as well as Kjarl and the Khajiit, only now they were firing blue beams instead of red ones.

The Khajiit rubbed his head. "Ow. Where are we? What happened?"

Anterriel looked around the room. It appeared to be a makeshift Daedric shrine built in the basement of someone's house. In the center of the room, a balding man was kneeling before another giant granite statue. This one, however, didn't look anything like Molag Bal; rather, it had a distinctly Elven look to it. The figure was even balder than the man kneeling before it, leaning on a cane, and grinning broadly.

One of the Golden Saints walked over to the man and began speaking in its strange metallic way. Apparently, the man understood it perfectly, as he simply looked up, nodded, and got to his feet. He was an aging Breton man wearing a loud pink robe and no shoes. He walked over to his guests and nodded a greeting.

"It's about time you got here. What took you so long?"

The Khajiit rubbed his head again. "It is difficult to get somewhere when S'Ravha knows not where he is going or why. Or when S'Ravha is unconscious."

"First, you're gonna tell us what the hell's going on here," Kjarl snapped, still a bit groggy.

"Lord Sheogorath has called you here on very important business."

Anterriel exchanged a worried look with Kjarl. "We do not serve the god of madness."

The man smiled and walked over to what appeared to be three umbrella stands in the corner. "That's all right," he said cheerfully, taking the handles of two things protruding from the umbrella stands. "Then I guess you'll just have to die." The three Golden Saints produced long green halberds, seemingly from nowhere. The man pulled on the things he was holding, revealing them to be the handles of two massive katanas.

Kjarl gave a nervous chuckle and put his hand on Anterriel's shoulder. "Let…let's not be too hasty, Anterriel. I mean, I'm sure there's no harm in at least finding out what he wants."

"Splendid!" the man said, putting the katanas back in their holders. "Lord Sheogorath will speak to you now."

Anterriel, Kjarl and S'Ravha looked at each other, before slowly advancing towards the statue.

"Oh," the man said, "you can't speak to him now."

S'Ravha turned towards the man. "But you just said…"

"It's not raining," the man said, still smiling. "He only talks when it rains. He likes the rain."

There was a long, awkward silence. "Okay…" Kjarl finally said, turning towards the door. "Then I guess we'll just come back when it's raining."

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Outside," Anterriel said. "So we can tell when it rains."

"No you're not." The man's perpetually cheerful disposition was starting to become rather disturbing. "You're not going anywhere until Sheogorath commands it."

Kjarl wrung his hands. "Then just how the hell are we supposed to know if it's raining or not?"

"Anyone up for a game of charades?"

Anterriel put her hand over her eyes. This was going to be a very long day.