Next Deadline: October 26

Spottedfyre: Thank you! Actually, I was planning to reveal the name I picked out for our Hero in the next chapter, because yes, he has earned it. Beyond that, you pretty much learn as much of his backstory as you do your own character's. But it's something, right?

(PS, love your profile picture. Remy is absolutely adorable.)

"I've been thinking," were the words that came out of Martin's mouth, and the Breton prepared himself for the worst.

It was early dawn, just as Azura's light was reaching Tamriel's skies. Him and the heir sat out on the steps in front of Cloud Ruler Temple, gazing at the thin imprints of slowly fading stars. It had been mere moments after Jauffre had given him his newest mission to travel to Miscarcand, and his friend had made him promise not to leave until saying goodbye.

"I'm sure you have," he responded, but there was a joking tone to his words. In truth, Martin had been an amazing friend. He was fortunate to have made it this far, even managing to close all the Oblivion gates that surrounded the cities of Cyrodiil, and still have the former priest to talk to.

Martin swatted him lightly on the arm, and even though he didn't feel it behind his armor's protection, he laughed. "I'm serious," Martin said, but the goofy smile that had spread across his face only made him laugh harder.

It was a while until he stopped, the stars now gone from the heavens above. "As I was trying to say," Martin pressed on. "I was thinking about the first days that we met. Remember when you had been escorting me to Weynon Priory?"

If he couldn't remember the Emperor's dying wish the day after he had promised to fulfill it he probably couldn't remember that far back, but he nodded nonetheless. "Kind of. What about it?"

"You told me you didn't have a name," Martin said. "But I wondered, until we figure out more about your past, if you would still like one?"

The Breton considered it for a moment, shrugging. "Yeah, I guess," he answered. It wouldn't make much of a difference; he knew who he was, and he didn't need a name to prove that. But if it was important to Martin, then it was important to him.

He suddenly sprang up, the taller coming up after him. "But don't tell me yet!" He ordered. "Let me return with the stone, first."

Matin hesitated. "Then I can tell you?" He nodded. "Why?"

The hero didn't want to say it, but it needed to be spoken aloud. "Because, Septim," he answered. "I might not be coming back."

The Alyeid temple wasn't much to look at outside, simply a structure of purest marble laid out as ruin against Cyrodiil's forest. Inside, where it branched underground, was a whole different story.

As soon as he pulled back the slab of stone that covered the entrance (thanks to the spell of strength that Martin had taught him) he was greeted by dimly lit halls. The architecture was beautifully placed but destroyed with time, cracks running along the walls and floors like the veins of the building. And if those were the veins, the ruins were the body of a god, drained of its blood and left abandoned to die.

He descended the row of stairs, going deeper down. It was only until he reached the base of the steps before the darkness became a problem, the sun's light from outside unable to reach this far.

The hero thought for a moment before reluctantly lighting a fire in his hands. Martin had discovered a few weeks back that his Magicka, for whatever reason, didn't regenerate like it was supposed to. The heir said it was most likely due to the fact that he might have been born under the sign of the Atronach- he said that it was definitely due to the fact that the Nine hated his guts.

It was a small flame but it would do for now, so he pressed on through the halls. There was a fairly simple path to follow, only the occasional rat and Goblin corpse to keep him company, but that was to be expected. There had been a mound of the creatures to deal with outside, so many that he had spent more time than he should have slaughtering them all. Jauffre had refused to give him any more weapons, still furious that he had managed to loose his katana, but Martin hadn't let him go off to close the last few gates at the other holds without a new dagger. It got him through the small army decently enough, sharp ebony blade making up for his extreme lack of muscle, and he couldn't be more thankful.

His thoughts were tucked back into the foremost part of his mind as the hall opened up into a much larger room. He stepped through, looking at its contents. Stairs stretched down to a second level below, bright blue torches held up by pedestals lighting the area. The ceiling was spread out far above his head, and it was probably one of the most impressive things he had seen in his travels.

He let the fire fall from his hands, stepping forward as quietly as he could. Luckily, all there was waiting for him below was corpses, and he allowed himself a moment of relief.

Approaching one of the pedestals, he considered the source of light. Upon closer inspection, it wasn't a torch but a stone, glimmering brightly and dispelling the shadows. A Welkynd stone, he realized, but not the one he was looking for.

He readied himself, jumping up and outstretching his hands in an attempt to grab the gem. It was no surprise when he didn't even come close, and the hero frowned. An idea popped into his head, and he reached out again, this time channeling his Magicks.

Telekinesis had been amongst the spells Martin had brushed up on while tutoring him on the fields of a Mage. Between Baurus' sword training and the aid of the former follower of Sanguine (as he had revealed a mere few days ago), the Breton felt a lot more confident and infinitely stronger. And this, he could do.

He had stopped wearing gauntlets long ago in order to cast better spells, as it was always an extra pain to make sure that he wasn't burning through the armor. Therefore, he didn't know what to expect when the stone came down after a few long minutes of concentration. It didn't roast his skin as expected, instead cool to the touch. He smiled, feeling pride amongst the slight confusion, and the Breton pushed onwards.

There was an entrance at the bottom level that lacked a door, and he walked the long, winding halls once more. He stumbled across his first Goblin along the way, the creature badly wounded, but it didn't seem to want to attack. Blood poured from indigo skin, body kneeling over the corpses of fallen brethren, and his heart lurched in a sort of remorse.

It wasn't looking for death but it needed it, and he didn't feel a shred of guilt as he plunged the dagger into its skull.

The journey had lost some of its merit by the time he felt like he had actually made progress through the ruins. It seemed that hours had passed by until a loud moan froze him in his tracks, a few steps away from another set of stairs.

The groan sounded again, full of agony and pain, and he called out against better judgement. "Hello?"

There wasn't a response, the Welkynd stone's glow unable to reach below the steps. "Are you alright?" He repeated, beginning to walk down. The Breton eventually made it to the bottom, only emptiness to greet him, still alone.

He was about to be sincerely worried about his impending madness when the noise came again, sounding shriller, and he panicked as he realized it was from behind. The Breton swerved around as the owner of the scream jumped him, the scent of mold and decay overcoming his senses. The stone dropped from his hands as teeth found his neck, causing a strange ripple of pleasure to spread across his body before it was engulfed by pain.

He blasted it back with a surge of electricity, watching as the beast was flung against the opposite wall. The Breton picked up his stone, reaching behind his back to make sure his greatsword hadn't been damaged under his weight. Surely enough, it was still intact, which was more that he could say about the naked form that lay dead before him.

Zombies.

He stumbled away from the body, moving on along his path. His neck throbbed with pain, energy seeming to suffer with each step he took. Was he sick? Was the bite infected? The hero sighed, shoulders sagging, but he was forever alert for more of the monsters.

The path to the next level was devoid of more zombies, a door engraved with glowing ruins marking his progress. It slid open at the touch of the Welkynd stone, rumbling as it sank into the floor. He flinched at the noise but didn't allow himself to stop, weary as ever.

There was another large room waiting for him at the other side, path breaking off without more stairs to guide him down. He allowed himself a smile before jumping down, the small distance and heavy boots protecting him from any damage. There were a large amount of skeletons waiting below but their bones fell apart at one hit, and it wasn't long until he reached the next passage.

He had only traveled for a small while until the path was blocked by more zombies, three in his way instead of the one. He took a deep breath, aiming a large ball of fire at one of them and catching them by surprise. It died at the single hit but he knew he wouldn't be that lucky for the next, both making their way to him.

The Blade quickly ran forward, digging his dagger into one of the monster's stomach. It twitched as it fell, not completely gone but not in any condition to get back up. He wasn't able to react in time before its friend grabbed him, grip stronger than steel as it bit hard into his cheek.

The spike of ice that erupted from his palm was more instinct than anything, fueled by a surge of fear. It fell back, but not before taking a chunk of flesh with it, and he screamed.

His fingers came back bloody when he brushed them against his cheek, and the warm liquid prevented him from pushing forward to check the gap in his face. He shuddered, getting shakily to his feet, and this time he tucked away the dagger and brought out his greatsword.

He held it in one hand and brandished his stone in the other, forcing himself to go on. The Breton's face and neck ached with pain, blood pouring down his cheek like tears, and he felt as if his face had swelled up twice its size. It was too long until he made it into the final chamber, unguarded and too empty, but he didn't care enough to stop.

He walked along the raised platform that served as a hallway to the chamber's central area, catching a glimpse of a large pedestal through the cracks in the walls. It circled around the perimeter of the room before coming out just before the said pedestal, and he strode cautiously towards it, alert.

Whatever object it displayed was hidden behind a cover of gold, the protection lifting at the push of a button across the room. He watched as it revealed the brightest gem he had ever seen, making his own Welkynd stone look dim in comparison. The Breton glanced around before reaching out, snatching it off its stand and holding it close to his chest.

The Breton let only a few seconds pass before he was running, running away with the intention to never look back.