29.

"One Noble Flea of Mighty Assertion"

Torin had decided to go check on his homes scattered throughout Cyrodiil as Alessia had suggested. He felt a strange mix of enthusiasm and guilt as he passionately kissed her goodbye and headed south to Cheydinhal. She had, Gods bless her, assured him she would be fine…that she had much to do, and would be glad of him getting out in the world again. And he believed her. But he knew, in his heart, she longed to go with him…to travel freely and live spontaneously again. Alessia craved the life they had left behind as much as he did. But she was not free to pursue this whimsical adventure. He was sad for her, and recognized the sacrifice she was making so that at least he could taste it again, if only briefly. What a wonderful woman she was! He was only a few hours ride out of Imperial City and he laughed to think he had not stopped thinking about her. She truly has me wrapped around her exquisite finger, that I can miss her so after such a short time apart, he chuckled to himself.


He was at Battlehorn when he heard. Torin had honed his combat skills over the last three weeks on bandits, wandering Daedra, and the occasional lair of necromancers that had the great misfortune to be in his path. Now, he was in Chorrol getting supplies. The town was abuzz and aghast at the terrible news. The Chapel of Dibella in Anvil had been attacked…its interior wrecked and its inhabitants slaughtered. Who would do such a thing!? Who would have the audacity? Knowing they would be hunted endlessly? It was not only heinous and blasphemous, it was stupid. And it hurt his heart most that it was the Chapel of Dibella, the Goddess of Love and Beauty who had given his Alessia back to him. He could not abide by this.

He jotted off a letter to Alessia explaining the situation. Torin had planned to go back to Imperial City in the next couple of days. Now, he had made up his mind to head to Anvil and try to avenge this sacrilege…to find those responsible and see them punished. Alessia would understand and approve, he was certain.

Torin sighed at the thought of putting off returning to her. He had missed her greatly. And who knew how long this would take? But it could not be helped. An incident like this could conceivably upset the social balance in all of Tamriel…perhaps becoming a flashpoint for rioting and religious extremism. The Empire could not afford this now, when it was just getting back on its feet. Torin's modesty had not allowed him to give his honorary title much credence. But if ever the Empire needed a Champion, it was now. He felt he had to resolve this quickly to avoid further bloodshed. But most of all, he owed Dibella justice. They both did. Alessia would understand.


Torin arrived in Anvil and headed straight for the Chapel. The first sound that greeted his ears was the ranting of a man in robes across from the chapel, spouting dire warnings. Damn, he thought, it's begun already. He was afraid of this…the incident had triggered the appearance of the doomsayers and zealots who seized on such tragedies to further their agendas.

"Hear me, o people of Cyrodiil! Look well upon the Chapel of Dibella. Look at the faces of the dead. This is your future. Evil has returned, and the Nine need a champion! Is there no one who would stand for the Nine? Now, Dibella's children cry out from beyond the grave for vengeance! How many more must die at Umaril's hand? I AM CYRODIIL COME, he said, Old Reman, born from the earth that IS Al-Esh, and yet he would scorn this country now! Repent! I say again, REPENT! The blood of Dibella's slaughtered acolytes cries out for vengeance. Vengeance! Who will take up this holy crusade? Love and Mercy! Do you still think me mad? Who shall next fall to Umaril's bloody revenge?" the prophet raged.

Torin shook his head at the ramblings and approached the guard outside the once-great chapel.

"I wouldn't go in there unless you have a strong stomach, Champion. We have orders to leave everything just the way it was until the investigation is finished," the guard warned.

"Tell me about the attack on the Chapel," Torin said.

"It was terrible. I've fought in many battles, seen many things...but this..." the man shook his head in disgust, "... the priests and priestesses of Dibella, slaughtered within the very walls of her Chapel. The Altar itself desecrated! No one saw who did it. No one yet living, that is. Although many heard the screams. Speak to the Prophet, there. He preaches most of the day across the street from the Chapel. He knows what this portends. He says it is only the beginning. I used to think he was crazy, but now he seems to be making some kind of sense…I hope that doesn't mean I'm going crazy now," said the guard, pondering his own words.

Torin glanced back at the man railing across the street and dismissed him, moving instead into the Chapel.

An hour later, Torin exited the house of worship sick to his stomach, but not from the death he had witnessed. He had seen much in his day. But the seeming carnage for the sake of carnage …the savagery perpetrated against innocents…devotees of love and beauty…it sickened him that such an atrocity could even take place. He was more determined now than ever that these monsters be brought to justice. He looked again at the sack-clothed man across the way and sighed. He was not anxious to listen to the old codger's ravings, but he knew he should find out if this "prophet" knew anything about the attack on the Chapel.

"The Eight And One require a champion, a Divine Crusader reborn. Pelinal Whitestrake once struck down the enemies of man and god. Who will now reclaim his Relics and fight again for the true faith? There are loremasters among you, heads so heavy with learning that you cannot raise your eyes to the heavens to see the truth there written! Cut eight-wise he was, Pelinal the Blamer, champion of Men, and though dispersed, he left us a warning! Heed it! Umaril is returned, as was foretold by the head of Pelinal to the Bull of Kyne in those days of old Cyrodiil. Who will walk the Pilgrim's Way, as did the questing knights of old? The blood tide rises! Will no one take up this holy crusade? Will no one walk the ancient Pilgrim's Way? Oh unhappy Tamriel! Where is your Divine Crusader, in these latter days of petty strife and lesser men? Umaril - yes, your children know that name if you do not. The Dread Castellan of fearful legend. Did you think him a myth? Or dead? Have you not heard the Abadal-a? Spoke Pelinal: 'Beware, Morihaus, beware! With the foresight of death I know now that my foe yet lives, bitter knowledge to take to my grave...' 'Better that I had died believing myself the victor. Although cast beyond the doors of night, he will return.' 'Be vigilant! I can no longer shield the host of Men from Umaril's retribution.' Thus spake Pelinal in the hour of his death. The Unfeathered has come during the Breaking of Gates! His golden-wickedness will hold fast against all arms except those of his ancient foe, the Whitestrake! The Gate, once open, cares not who passeth through. Our ancient enemy has returned, from the deeps of time, to exact his revenge upon the Gods. The Gods, the Eight Attendants of Saint Pelinal when he smote down Umaril the Unfeathered...but the Eight and One favor only the righteous! And too few of you remain! The Thief has found the lock that he cannot break! The Warrior, the foe that cannot fall! The Wizard, an incantation that takes not to his tongue! Truly this is the Age of the Serpent and the Void that follows! The Guardians have fallen and no one remains to watch their charges, and all the heavens are now banquet for the Princes of Misrule! And Talos said to the Arctus, 'Let us join as one to fortify this throne, this land, these people, each one glorious under heaven!' Would you not do the same, children of Cyrodiil? No, you would not! This is plain! You looked away when the fires flickered! Only death remains for Tamriel! Death and oblivion! 'That all the Interplay is one flea of assertion on a wolf of naught.' It is by these heresies that you fall from grace! Shame on you, people of Cyrodiil, and more shame for the children that you give freely to the mouth of Destruction! My Empress, you must act! Take your Consort's hand and together strike at the heart of the evil here! Do not let Umaril re-establish his tyranny! Citizens, take to your knives! Are there no ears to hear the warnings? Are there no eyes to witness the Wheel's breaking? You pore over your dusty tomes of lore. You study ancient genealogies and bloodlines. Look you to blood for truth? There is truth in blood, but it is not the truth that you seek! The truth is written in the blood of the innocent, there in the Chapel of Love! Can you not read the ancient runes? 'As oiobala Umarile, Ehlnada racuvar!' A curse and a threat to those who have eyes to see and ears to hear! Are there are any among you who still understand the ancient tongue? 'By the eternal power of Umaril, the mortal gods shall be cast down.' Who will match the deeds of Ser Amiel and his companions when they smote the Wyrm of Elenglynn to recover the Cuirass of the Crusader? Think on this - what happened here is only the beginning," the Prophet warned, to close his speech, suddenly exhausted.

The crowd dispersed and he sat wearily on the step. Such animated oratory took a great toll on his old and feeble body. He glanced up when he saw the shadow Torin cast over his resting form. The prophet could tell by the look on Torin's face that he was skeptical. "So, another one who has come to listen to the madman's rantings, eh?" he mused.

Torin remained implacable. "So, what do you know about what happened here?" he asked solemnly.

"This is only the beginning. Umaril has returned, as foretold by Pelinal Whitestrake in his dying breath!" the Prophet exclaimed wildly.

Torin was losing patience. "The chapel, man! Focus! What do you know about the attack?!" he barked.

"Do you understand nothing?! Bah! Does no one remember the old tales? The blood speaks! Umaril the Unfeathered, the sorceror-king of the Ayleids who ruled over this land for long ages before the rise of Men was cast down by Pelinal Whitestrake. Saint Pelinal, the Divine Crusader of legend - Alessia's companion when she overthrew the rule of the Ayleids 3,000 years ago. Pelinal, with the aid of the gods, fought the Ayleid sorceror-king Umaril and slew him. But Umaril's spirit survived, and now he has returned to seek vengeance upon the Gods," the Prophet declared, his eyes alight with religious fervor.

Torin's eyebrows rose. This man was dangerously close to being over the edge. He thought it best to humor him until he could gain the information he sought. "How did Umaril's spirit survive, then?" he continued, trying to appear interested in the prophets ravings.

The old man looked dejected. "You do not believe. I can see it in your eyes. But I must speak the truth, regardless of your faith in it. All must know what happened here. All must be prepared for what is to come! Umaril was struck down by Pelinal, but by his art and the manipulations of Meridia, he had bound himself to the realm of his mistress, whose sphere is obscured to mortals; who is associated with the energies of living things. So he was not slain, but simply cast adrift upon the waters of Oblivion. It is his Meridian Daedric minions, the Aurorans, clad in golden raiment, who tear at the fabric of our Chapels," the old Prophet said sadly.

At last, something useful. Aurorans. He had heard of the dread Aurorans, fierce warriors of Meridia clad in nearly impenetrable golden armor. But they kept to their Lord's sphere. They had not been seen in the mortal realm since the First Era. Why now would they come forth? Unless there was some kernel of truth to the old man's rants. Was it possible? He had seen many things he would not have thought possible these last years. And he remembered Dibella's words…unrest and turmoil in the planes of Oblivion. Perhaps he should hear the man out. "Aurorans…are you sure? Not mortals in golden armor?" Torin asked to clarify.

"These were no mortals…not in speech or action. They were evil Daedra in the three-blade golden helms of the Auroran, uttering foul grunts and epithets, speaking in the ancient tongue. A curse upon them and their hatred of the Gods!" he spat.

"And Umaril…there are none who can slay his spirit?" Torin asked, suddenly more interested than before.

"Alas. The Unfeathered cannot be stopped. Not without the aid of the Gods. Not without the Crusader's Relics…the weapons and armor of Pelinal Whitestrake, granted to him by the Eight Divines. He went alone into the White Gold Tower, challenged the Ayleid sorceror-king Umaril to single combat, and slew him. Alas, Umaril was not truly slain, but only cast beyond the bounds of Nirn. And now he has returned to wreak his vengeance upon the gods, as was prophesied by Pelinal himself with his dying breath. Only a true knight, wielding the holy Relics of the Divine Crusader, has a chance to defeat Umaril. But, alas for Tamriel, the Crusader's Relics have been lost for many an age. Who now can succeed in the quest for the Relics, where the greatest knights of legend all failed? Without a champion, the gods are powerless to act. But who among us is worthy to wield the Divine Crusader's weaponry?" the Prophet wailed.

"Champion!" the guard called behind him. "A word?"

Torin signaled him to wait a moment.

"Champion?! You are Torin Grayrider, the Champion of Cyrodiil?! Emperor-Consort?! Great Hero of Kvatch!? Praise the Gods! They have sent you to me! You are the One! You are the One who is meant to follow in his footsteps! You are the Pelinal reborn!" the Prophet shouted joyously.

"No…" Torin laughed, "I am no Pelinal. My deeds were not accomplished alone. I am hardly worthy of the praise lavished on me."

"Perhaps…perhaps not. What men value is not always what the Gods look for in a champion. The gods grant insight to those they deem worthy. Why and how they act is not predictable. You must quest for the holy panoply of Pelinal Whitestrake! The legendary Relics have been sought by mighty warriors throughout the ages unsuccessfully, but I know now that you have been sent to me by the Gods so that I may guide you…so that the Divine Crusader's armor may be worn once more…so that his sword and mace can be wielded against the dreaded Umaril again. Knights who wished to quest for the Relics walk the Pilgrim's Way. Travel to the Wayshrines of the Nine Divines. Pray to each of the gods in turn, and ask their favor upon your quest. If the Gods deem you worthy, you will be granted a sign. You are the One. I am certain of it! If I can be of any further assistance, do not hesitate, Champion! May the Eight Divines and the One Tiber Septim who ascended guide your steps," he finished.

"I cannot promise I will take up the mantle you desire, old man. But I will investigate your claims, you have my word," Torin said sincerely.

The old Prophet only smiled, as though he knew something Torin did not. His faith was unshakable. He was the One, this Champion of Cyrodiil. And there was hope for the Empire at last.

The guard had found something under a pew, wedged into the wood…something that had been overlooked. It was a small golden curved blade, perhaps three inches long…not a weapon, Torin thought. It was uneven and charred on the wide end as though it had broken off as the result of a struggle. It looked ornate, like part of some ornamental armor. Perhaps like the blade of a golden three-pronged Auroran helm he had only read of in books. Torin looked at the old man across the street, now smiling and humming to himself, his dire doomsayer mood evaporated. It seemed the old prophet might be just that. For he had correctly predicted the Champion of Cyrodiil was going to quest for the Divine Crusader's Relics.