(AN: In lieu of ripping on kirkbride [or my brother], i'm going to provide a little bit of background into one of the characters who is being presented in this story. Arcadia Valga is, indeed, a member of House Valga, that once ruled Chorrol. I gave a reason for why her paternal ancestor was "torn apart" by "wild Nord clansmen", because, as we saw in Skyrim, the clans of Skyrim are anything but wild [i can't see the Silver-Bloods, the Black-Briars or the Battle-Borns doing anything like that, and the other clans - Snow-Shods and Grey-Manes - only under provocation]. My reason is that her family, like everyone in Cyrodiil, are anti-Nords. And, like Crixus, they are vocal about their hatred, and have often antagonized the Nords of Bruma and Skyrim, resulting in said incidents falling to blows.)
The Tower
Crixus found himself in a strange land covered with black, igneous rocks. In the distance behind he could see something of man-shape striding, each footstep echoing like the very bones of the earth moving and stomping. It was a massive thing, so huge that it could easily have held a dragon in one of its hands. But his mind was driven away from the massive shining figure and towards a huge black mountain, rising so high that its head would touch the clouds. Swiftly he seemed to fly up towards the top of the mountain. But no sooner had he approached it when the scene changed and he found himself in a dark, smoky cavern. He saw a tall man fighting three shining elves, then suddenly one vanished and appeared near something shining in the rock wall nearby. Another broke off from the fight and stabbed the man in the back, then there was a flash and everything vanished once again.
Now Crixus found himself atop a tall, white tower, overlooking a wide, green land. He had only just taken all of this in when suddenly a winged, black thing swooped by, holding in its hands the decapitated body of an Altmer. Then the scene changed again, and he found himself atop a high, snow-capped peak bare of trees. Everything beyond was clouded in smoke, but near at hand he could see massive winged shapes circling the peak, shouting in a language which he could not hear. Above he saw tiny specks of light, like stars, shining in the sky. They seemed to be making out a shape, the same one which he had seen four times now: the Tower.
Once again he saw himself, but now in his own room, with candlelight held aloft in one hand while the other poured endlessly over the book Mysticism which he had stolen from the Synod office in Kvatch. The phrase 'the Tower' seared into his mind as though put there by dragon fire: yet nothing he saw in all of that book seemed to tell him what 'the Tower' could be. Angrily he tossed the book aside, then, to his surprise, ran to the window and opened it up. He saw that, beyond his control, he leaped out of the window.
"Wuld...Nah Kest!" a voice that was not his own shouted from his own lips. For a moment, Crixus felt as though he was flying through the open air as the Thu'um carried him through the sky. Then, to his surprise, and beyond his own knowledge, he saw a green flash and a tiny orb sail through the air and land on a roof. There was a bright green blast, then Crixus felt himself being crushed for a brief moment, then found himself on top of a roof. From the roof, he climbed down into the darkened streets, making his way towards the courtyard where the Nord had been lynched a day or two ago. He saw there, in the circle of what appeared to be some kind of dais, an old stump lying in the center thereof, and, beside it, a man in blue robes running his hands over it. In a flash, he had crossed the courtyard, leaped over the stump and pinned the man down to the ground. What he saw was an old Imperial with a short-cropped, gray beard, gagging through his hand and cowering beneath him.
"Who commands the school of Mysticism in the Synod offices in town?" the strange voice demanded.
"N-No one," coughed the old man. "That school was ended years ago. Please, let me go!"
"Gol...Hah Dov!" he shouted, flooding the man with golden light. "Now, tell me what you know."
"There..." sighed the old man, as his resolve faded and his voice became a dead drone. "There was one, an older man, one well learned in the esoteric complexities of the mystick, the shake-fast of the earth-lent, the wall-bounds of the thither-naught..."
"The name!" demanded the voice. "Give me a name!"
"Mercator," gasped the old man. "Mercator Signis."
"Where is he?"
"At the office building," the old man replied. "But you won't find him. The Synod have ways of finding..."
But without another word, Crixus' hand dragged the old man to the edge of the dais, placing his head upon the ledge of the stone, then stomping with all of his might upon the head until the face was bashed into the stone ledge. In that moment the bond between slave and master ended in Crixus' mind and he arose from the vision: his love of death had been denied him for too long, and the rush of having the power of someone's life in his hand and snuffing it out as easily as stomping a scrib was enough to momentarily pull him back into wakefulness.
His first thought was to run, and that he did, directly south as fast as he could. He was so focused on leaving as soon as he could that he did not notice the arrow that came whistling past him until it was too late, and his leg caught on the rope that had been tied to it. He tripped and collapsed onto the cobblestone road, breaking his nose. Heedless of the hot blood welling up in his face, Crixus began to push himself up when, as swiftly as in the ruins of Skingrad, the Grey Fox leaped over to and landed in front of him.
"Out for a walk in the moons' light, Your Highness?" the Grey Fox asked.
"Agh!" groaned Crixus. "Let me go!"
"No," the Grey Fox retorted. "You refused me that request, now I refuse you the same." With great effort, due to his size, the Grey Fox dragged Crixus into the alley, keeping a knife at his throat in case he tried to run away. Once they were both out of sight, the Grey Fox turned to Crixus, cowl to face, and whispered.
"What were you doing out in the streets in the dead of night?" she asked.
"I don't know," Crixus replied. "The last thing I remember was...going to sleep, in the castle." He did not add the secret rendezvous he had, for he could not remember it.
"Then how did you end up here, killing a Synod wizard?" asked the Grey Fox.
"I don't know!" repeated Crixus. "This-This has been happening for a while." He searched his brain, realizing that it had only begun after he left Skyrim. But there were side-effects as well, headaches and strange images, going as far back as the night after his assassination of the Emperor.
In the darkness, the Grey Fox removed the cowl, and Aelina spoke in a hushed voice: "You need help, such that I cannot provide."
"What do you want me to do?" Crixus asked. "Go to the priests and beg them to cure me? Ha! A lot of good that'd do."
"Then at least seek out the Synod or the College of Whispers," Aelina replied. "Maybe they could find a way to help you."
Crixus said nothing. This was not the first time he had awoken with blood on his hands or strange wounds on his body. Clearly there was something wrong with him, and ignoring the fact was not making it any better. Furthermore, he recalled a name that had been placed to what had been happening to him every night. A wicked, Nordic name, one which he hated even to have linger on his tongue from speaking it.
Miraak.
That evening, Aelina brought Crixus back to the keep, secreting him up to his room before donning the mask and vanishing into the night and from all of his memories. In the morning, Crixus was roused from his sleep and sent back to the throne room to wait upon Count Fraseric. All that day they were busy in the court, hearing petitions, and Crixus had no time to make his own. At last, around six o'clock in the evening, dinner was served and Crixus joined Count Fraseric and Arcadia Valga at the dinner table, where they ate. Arcadia kept the conversation going, with all of her talk being about either the savagery of the Nords or the latest fashion rules of the Imperial City, which she found to be perverse. At length, after she had talked so long about how she felt dresses were an eyesore and needed a drink to quench her thirst, Crixus leaned over to the Count and spoke his petition.
"My lord," Crixus spoke. "I would like permission to be excused from courtly duties tomorrow and be permitted to roam the city at will."
Count Fraseric slowly turned to Crixus. "Is there something wrong?" he asked. "Have I not given you good food and a place to stay? Why do you wish to leave?"
"I don't want to leave you just yet," replied Crixus. "I just wanted to speak to someone knowledgeable about...certain things."
Count Fraseric scoffed. "What can you possibly have to learn that Lady Vilenis cannot teach you?"
"Something," Crixus vaguely replied. "I...I don't know everything about it myself, but I do know that Lady Vilenis herself told me that she had no knowledge in this subject. I would seek out someone who has greater knowledge."
"Very well," Fraseric stated. "You have my permission to go as you will. I will have Arcadia Valga go with you. As my ward, she is trained in all of the martial arts. She will insure that no harm befalls you while you are away."
Crixus looked across the table and the thin, lanky, yellow Colovian woman. She hardly seemed the warrior's type, certainly not someone with whom he would willingly entrust the safekeeping of his life. Therefore he tried to have her dismissed.
"I'm flattered that you think so much of me," Crixus replied. "But, my lord knows, that I, being a soldier formerly under the Red Legions, am fully capable of defending myself."
"Nonsense!" grinned Count Fraseric. "There is no need to defend oneself in my city. The weapons ban prevents anyone from getting hold of weapons. Lady Valga's presence will insure the people that you are my guest and, therefore, should not be touched. No more, I will say no more: she will go with you and remind the people who is their lord."
The next day, being the nineteenth day of Frostfall, Crixus rose early, hoping to be rid of Arcadia Valga before he left the castle. Aside from seeking out this Mercator, he also had to find Aelina again and tell her about his plan to steal the first charter of the Mages Guild. After dressing himself and taking a brief moment to wash his face in the basin by his bed, he opened the door to find, to his surprise and annoyance, Lady Valga standing there, clad in a blue riding dress. It was called such because, unlike a normal dress, the skirt was cut along the thighs, allowing for greater movement, and she wore leather riding pants beneath it.
"Are you ready, sir?" Valga asked.
"Oh, right," Crixus groaned.
"Cheer up, now," Valga replied. "I'm here, and I won't let anyone hurt you."
"Really?" Crixus asked, making his way down the hall. "So tell me, what service have you seen?"
"Well, none," she returned. "The Legion frowns upon women joining, especially noblewomen."
"Noble?" Crixus asked. "You are a noble?"
"Of course I am!" she retorted. "Did you think I bear the name and crest of House Valga because I married into that family? I am the youngest of the last family of that house. We once ruled Chorrol as counts and countesses."
"Then what happened?" Crixus asked.
"Nords happened," Valga replied. "My family have only sought to educate the ignorant populace, to bring them culture and civilized thought: but they are obstinate in their barbaric ways. They tore my father and brothers to pieces, and I was not permitted to take the throne."
"Why not?" Crixus asked. "As far as I've seen, the laws allow natural-born children of the counts to rule, whether they be male or female."
"I cannot say any further," grumbled Valga. "Count Fraseric is my lord and I am a guest in his court. I must respect him in all things."
"Indeed," Crixus replied. "And I respect you for what you did. Those Nords need to be taught a lesson."
"I know, right?" Valga returned. "And have you even been to Bruma? Might as well call it 'little Skyrim' for all the straw-headed barbarians rolling about in the filth over there!"
"Have you had the chance to speak to Marius Imbrex?"
"The chancellor of Bruma?" asked Valga. "Yes, many times. He has often been a guest at my lord's banquets. He has spoken of reducing the Nord population in Bruma to about...a tithe of what it currently is. I say that such measures are too soft."
"Too soft?" Crixus asked, turning around. Already he found her disdain for Nords to be intriguing. But what had she to offer that Marius Imbrex didn't have?
"It's not enough merely to kill the Nords," Valga stated. "They believe that dying gives them their heathen version of Aetherius, some riotous hall of brawling, drinking and sexual degradation called 'sovereign-guard.' Bah! That wouldn't be a rest for anyone, especially not for women! Therefore, we cannot merely kill them: they must be forced to submit. And even then, not all must die."
"Not all?" Crixus asked. From her language, she knew enough about Nords to punish them properly; why, then, was she suggesting that not all of them must die?
"Not all at once, mind you," she returned. "Men and children, of course, but the women must be spared for a time. I would see them all be coupled with the lowest of the low, the dregs of Tamrielic society: beast-folk, you understand. Orcs, cats and lizards. Their offspring will help to water down the Nordic blood."
"I see," Crixus mused, stroking his chin. "But I don't think all Nord women would accept being coupled with a Khajiit or an Argonian, or even an Orc."
"Then they should be made to couple," Valga retorted. She then sighed. "If only Elsweyr and Black Marsh had not left the Empire. Wherever can we find enough base creatures to breed the Nord race out of existence?"
Crixus then grinned. "I think I know where to find such...strong ones."
They left the castle and made their way to the Synod office in the northern half of the town, near the Tree Square. As they approached the stump, Valga halted and gazed sorrowfully at the stump.
"What's wrong?" asked Crixus.
"This was the Great Oak of Chorrol," Valga stated. "It's said that this was the only oak to grow this far into the Highlands. It has always been a sign of the hardiness of the people of Chorrol, that we could survive anything. But now..."
"What happened to it?" Crixus asked.
"The Great War," Valga returned. "My father had the tree cut down to provide wood for bows and timbers to defend the gate. The Dominion still broke through our defenses and took the city. It's ironic, that my father was willing to sacrifice anything just to hold a city that would fall in the end, even the spirit of our nation."
"Your father was count, so you say," Crixus stated. "He was a great man, by virtue of his station: a great man thrown into war. And great men are sometimes forced to make sacrifices...for the greater good."
"I wish that were so," Valga replied, then went on her way towards the Synod office. Crixus, meanwhile, lingered behind, gazing at the tree stump. Speaking those very same words, echoing what Titus had told him in his final hours, felt as though he had, at last, betrayed the memory of General Claxitus and the 9th Legion.
"Come on, then," Valga called back. "Weren't you the one who wanted to come here?"
Crixus nodded, then turned away from the stump, having at last forsaken the memory of those with whom he had fought and bled. He then followed Valga toward the office building. It was built like any other Colovian structure in Cyrodiil: gray-white stones upon the walls and tiles of similar color upon the floors, covered over with rich tapestries. In the foyer of the office was a blue and gold tapestry, with an eye woven thereon. This hung behind a desk, at which an Altmer in blue robes sat.
"Welcome to the Synod offices in County Chorrol," she greeted to the guests. "I am Eldarie, First Adjunct of this establishment. If you have something to report, I can have an Attendant here to fill out your report."
"I would like to see Mercator Signis," Crixus replied.
"Of course," Eldarie replied. "Do you have an appointment?"
"Well, no..."
"Very well, then," Eldarie curtly answered. "Since you are not a member of the Synod, this is not a priority meeting. Good day to you, sir."
"What, just like that?" Crixus asked. "You don't even know who I am!"
"You are not a member of the Synod," Eldarie replied. "Nor do you bear the amulet of the Elder Council, therefore any business you may have with us will have to go through the usual channels. This will require a waiting period of three days, an appointment made and then another four days to see if Mage-Scholar Signis is available."
"I don't have a week!" Crixus retorted.
"Then good day to you, sir," Eldarie grinned smugly, turning from Crixus and Valga to gaze upon the stack of reports at her desk.
"It's about the Tower!" Crixus blurted out.
At this, Eldarie paused and looked up at Crixus with wary eyes. Without another word, she gestured for Crixus to follow her as she opened a door near the Synod banner and began to walk slowly up a flight of stairs. Crixus and Valga ascended the stairs behind the elf, who led the way to a door at the far end of a shorter hallway at the top of the stairs. Here she turned around and shook her head.
"Your woman must remain behind," Eldarie returned.
"His woman?" Arcadia retorted angrily. "I'll have you know that I am no man's woman! Do you want me to..."
"It's alright," Crixus interjected. "I'll go in alone."
Arcadia took a step back as Eldarie opened the door and led Crixus inside. The room seemed to be a little libray, with every wall covered with book-shelves heavy with many books and scrolls of various size, shape, color and antiquity. At a table sat an old bald man in grey robes with a short, bushy beard, who seemed to be pouring over an old scroll.
"Who's there?" the old man sourly asked. "Eldarie, I told you I didn't want any visitors!"
"My apologies, good sire," Crixus greeted. "I am Servius Crixus, a veteran of the Imperial Legion."
"Oh, you didn't tell me the Legion was here to visit!" exclaimed the old man, his sour tone changing to one of warmth and amiability. "This is highly unexpected, but most welcome. Leave us, dear: I will talk with this man in private, if you don't mind."
"Of course," Eldarie nodded, closing the door behind them.
"Come come, noble sir," Mercator said to Crixus. "Have a seat. I don't have visitors very often, so it's always good to have someone want to visit. May I offer you a dumpling? I haven't the appetite for pastries these days, but they keep sending them to my room."
"No thank you," Crixus replied, taking a seat. "Though a glass of wine would be most appreciated."
"I find that wine, when drunk too early," Mercator mumbled. "Spoils the palette. Oh, but you are my guest, who am I to argue?" With this he flicked his wrist and a bottle of port came floating through the air from a chest in the corner of the room. This came to rest on the table before Crixus.
"Thank you, thank you very much," Crixus grinned. "I knew I was missing something, and now I see what it is."
"I hope you'll not be offended by my little display of magic," Mercator replied. "I am old and my joints are stiff: I don't do a lot of traveling, and the ban of levitation makes moving through other means...shall we say, difficult?"
"Not at all," Crixus returned. "I've known many good mages in my time."
"Oh?" Mercator asked. "This is good, very good. Keeping company with wizards can be profitable, especially for the soldiers of the Imperial Legion. Are the Battle-Mage divisions still active?"
"Yes, they are," Crixus replied.
"Good, good," nodded Mercator. "Now, then, if I may ask, what business do you seek from me?"
"I heard," Crixus began. "That you were an expert in the field of Mysticism. Though what I see here is a library. Perhaps I am mistaken?"
"No, no, you heard right," Mercator returned. "I am a master of the school of Mysticism, one of the last masters, that is. The Third Rumaran Council discontinued the practice of Mysticism, delegating the spells of its school to the other branches of magical learning. As such, the ancient spells, those which were discontinued, are almost forgotten. Since I am not teaching anyone anymore, I spend my time writing books on the subject, in hopes that that ancient knowledge not be forgotten."
"And what can you tell me about Mysticism?" asked Crixus.
"Anything you like," shrugged Mercator. "The school is, of course, difficult to understand and harder yet to explain to the novice: even in the days when it was recognized, few could understand it properly. As far as we know now, the school came to us from the place where everything else Imperial came: the elves. The Psijic Monks of the Isle of Artaeum were the ones who founded it, calling it 'the old way.' Though if that is in any way connected to their own religious practices remains to be seen. Due to its paradoxical nature, most Mystics who used the power of old were focused not on discovering its secrets and unraveling its existential semantics, but on learning the dependable paths and patterns of magicka in this school and focusing all their energies upon mastering what little they knew."
"I see," Crixus nodded.
"Why do you ask?" Mercator returned. "Do you wish to become a Mystic?"
"It is a noble goal, to be sure," Crixus stated. "But I have another reason to be here. For the past several nights, I have had...dreams. And in each dream, I saw a Tower."
At this, Mercator seemed to straighten up, and look upon Crixus with a gaze less relaxed but not less friendly. "Then I suggest you seek an astrologer, not a Mystic. The Tower is a birth-sign."
"Yes, I know," Crixus returned. "But then, earlier..." He hesitated. If he mentioned that he read the book Mysticism, perhaps Mercator's superiors would deduce that it had been him who stole the book from the Synod office in Kvatch. He corrected himself: "...a friend, one of the mages I spoke of before. He was reading in an old book about Mysticism, and the Tower was mentioned in it."
Mercator sighed, furrowed his brow and stroked his thick, bushy beard. "I see. Well, I'm afraid that your friend was mistaken. There is no connection between the birthsign of the Tower and the school of Mysticism. We peddle magicka, not money." Mercator turned his attention back to the scroll he had been reading.
"What about the Red Mountain?" Crixus asked.
At this, Mercator let the scroll fall down into his lap. "What?"
"The Red Mountain?" Crixus asked. "Anumidium. The-The Throat of the World, the highest mountain in the north. Are any of these of any significance in this matter?"
Mercator rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Crixus, I cannot help you. I am truly sorry: I wish that I could be of more use to you, but there is nothing that I can say. The Red Mountain is no business of mine, and the Walk-Brass have all been destroyed. I'm terribly sorry to waste your time for nothing..."
"Oh, my fault," Crixus, overwhelmed by Mercator's kindness and apologies, returned. "I-I didn't mean to bother you."
"The quest for knowledge is never bothersome, my dear Crixus," Mercator replied. "Farewell. I hope that you will, in time, find the answers you seek."
With this, Crixus walked over to the chest and removed a cup. From this he poured himself a sip of port and drank therefrom: he had been offered it and had accepted it. Only an uncouth and un-mannered Nord would, in his belief, refuse now. After drinking, he placed the cup and bottle on the chest, then inclined his head to Mercator. Then he walked back out and found Eldarie and Valga waiting for him.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Arcadia Valga asked.
"No," Crixus returned, without a single look at either Arcadia or Eldarie. "Let's go back to the castle."
Once again, Crixus found his head growing heavy. Only that tiny sip of port reminded him of just how long it had been since he drank something stronger than mere wine. He also realized that he hadn't slept with a woman in a much longer time. He was growing irritable and heady. Once they had left the Synod office, Crixus took one look back at Valga. While her bosom was certainly small enough for his preference, her wiry frame and angular face structure put him off to the idea. Besides, she seemed as though she was an all-around unpleasant woman to spend too much time with, notwithstanding her hatred for the Nords.
Suddenly, a familiar sound shook skies above. A great shadow passed overhead, stirring up the cold wind into a great, biting gale. Cries rose up from the streets of Chorrol: some in amazement, others in terror. Above in the morning sky, a tiny dot was circling in the air.
"What is that?" Arcadia asked.
"No," Crixus said. It was the only thing he could say. "Not again, not this time, not here."
The tiny dot slowly began to grow larger and larger, taking the shape of some great thing of bird-form, but much larger. There was a loud, earth-shattering roar and fire rained down from the sky, setting afire the buildings in the Great Oak Place.
"No!" Crixus shouted as the beast went sailing overheard.
Again the beast swooped down, a sea of crimson red, roaring with a loud Voice, and fire burst from its mouth. Another section of the city burst into flames. Now the voices were cries of panic, of fear and pandemonium. Crixus turned back, but saw that Arcadia was gone, a distant figure running as fast as her 'riding dress' could permit towards the castle. Someone struck him as he stood there and he saw many others running towards the keep, several city guards among them. Immediately he took one by the arm.
"You! Stop!" he said. "What are you doing? You must defend your city!"
"Against that thing?" the guard returned. "You must be out of your mind, citizen!"
"It's your duty!" Crixus retorted.
"Fuck that, I wanna live!" the guard shouted, struggling to free himself. "I'm not getting paid enough to die here, now let me go!" At last he gave a desperate struggle and went flying back, tripping on the cobblestones and falling down. In fear and trembling, he rose to his feet.
"You wanna face that thing?" he asked, gesturing up to the sky. "Go right ahead. I'll be sure to mourn you at your funeral, if there's any pieces left to bury!" He then turned and, cupping his hands to his mouth, shouting: "Every man for himself! Run for your lives!"
Crixus stood as he saw repeated before his eyes the scenes at Nimalten. Chaos and pandemonium gripped the hearts of the people of Chorrol: many of whom knew nothing worse than the Dominion. Almost no one living could recall when the hordes of Oblivion came rushing through the gates whose blackened ruins dotted the landscape of Cyrodiil. Now they were faced with something of the same kind again, only this time, unlike the armies of the Dominion, swords and arrows were useless against it. People were thrown down, trampled to death, children pushed aside or left behind by fleeing parents. Some bold looters ran back to take what they could from the northern half of the Great Oak Place, now in flames. Then, to his horror, he saw the Fighters Guild hall.
The building was in flames, and from its smoking doorway came many fighters in leather armor with their weapons, many crowded around a bald, fat Dunmer in rich robes. Among them he saw his knights, Viator, Casmar, Boderic, Alcedonia and Quintus, gaze up in horror at the crimson monstrosity, then, like the others of the Fighters Guild, turn and flee.
"Stop!" Crixus shouted, coming to meet his knights.
"Back!" cried Viator.
"No!" Crixus shouted. "No, you must stand and fight! This is what you're supposed to do!"
"Fuck that," Viator stated. "There ain't no fucking sense in being burned alive fighting that thing!" Without another word, he and Casmar ran as fast as they could towards the keep.
"You are the Fighters Guild!" Crixus shouted to the others. "This is your task, to defend the Empire from beasts! Surely you won't let one weak little wyrm send you running away!"
"Don't let it get me!" the Dunmer wailed to his followers, who gathered about him, shields raised and bows aimed upward, but no arrow or sword challenging the beast.
"But it's just a big lizard!" Crixus returned. "I've swatted dozens of them back in Skyrim! There's nothing to fear from it!"
"Are you insane?" Alcedonia panted, out of breath at Crixus' side. "No weapon can kill it! There's nothing we can do!" The roar was heard again, and the dragon passed overhead, setting fire to dozens of other buildings. Then, to Crixus' alarm, he saw it fly towards the castle and, with its scaly back, ram into a tower, smashing it and sending it crumbling down onto the wall below.
"I should never have left home!" Alcedonia bemoaned, upon seeing the tall, strong northwest tower of Castle Chorrol shattered like sand. With that, she and Quintus ran with the others.
Crixus now stood alone in the Great Oak Place, flames on all sides and a fury within him as hot as any fire.
"Is there no one left to defend Chorrol?" he roared angrily. "No one with the balls to fuck this b*tch in its scaly arse?"
"I would have thought you ran with the others," Boderic stated.
"You!" Crixus retorted, turning about. Boderic was there, his armor covered in soot as he tried to save those who had fallen in the attempt to flee. "I thought you'd be in the Chapel of Stendarr, on your knees, as usual, praying."
"There is a time for prayers, my friend, yes," Boderic replied. "Then there is a time to step forward in faith and act upon those prayers. That time is now!"
"Good," Crixus retorted. "Are you going to come with me and kill this big b*tch or are you too busy praying?"
"I must save the people," Boderic retorted. "Too many have been left behind! They will all burn if I don't save them!" He then ran off into the Synod office, which was already ablaze.
"Coward!" Crixus shouted without a hint of irony, as he turned and joined the others running towards the keep. The rage in his heart burned furiously: these were Imperials, the master race. More loyal than Redguards, more civilized than Nords and of greater lineage than Bretons. Yet here they were, running and cowering in fear from something he esteemed to be less than the fabled cliff racers of Morrowind. How the Nords, even the weakest among them, had charged against dragons in his time, from Nimalten to Riften and beyond, put his beloved people to shame. And it angered him.
But he wasn't running from the fight, he told himself. He was going to the one place he knew he could find someone loyal. Someone who had been with him in Skyrim and wouldn't be perturbed by this monster. True he had never faced one down before, but if he had the balls to stand before the Dragonborn in single combat, then surely he could face one of these, couldn't he?"
Up to the keep he ran, and saw that the doors thither were blocked by a great press of people trying eagerly to enter the keep. The guards at the gate had their swords and their pikes drawn to keep the people back while those behind them lowered the portcullis to keep the people out. Furiously, Crixus circled around to the northern side of the castle, hoping to climb in the same way Aelina had helped him re-enter the previous knight. Coming around, he saw the northwestern tower: one whole side had been torn off by the dragon's scales. Ripped open were each level inside the tower, including, to his horror, the room that belonged to Petruvius and Lethia. He could not see his squire, but he did see a white-clad figure dangling from the broken ledge of what had once been the floor of their room.
The sound of boards breaking suddenly alerted him to the fact that the boards to which the white-clad figure was clinging were starting to snap. Quickly Crixus looked left and right, but, to his dismay, the stairs leading up to the next level were broken and the broken walls provided no place to climb up thither. He stepped forward and looked directly up to judge the distance between them: at least another level lay between Crixus and the figure in white, but he could see nothing else.
"Hey!" he shouted up. "I'm right below you. Jump down and I'll catch you."
What he heard next chilled him to the bone. The words were those of Lethia, but they were not such words that came out of her mouth with which he was familiar. Often she spoke in a haughty, authoritative voice, as a queen among slaves. Now she spoke as one on the edge between life and death. Even more poignant was the fact that she had not heard the voice of the Divines in a long time, and so her predicament at that point was no different than his which he felt on a daily basis: of one lost man often-times a step away from the dark, endless abyss of death.
"I can't!" bemoaned Lethia. "It's too far!"
"Look, I'm right down here, I'll catch you," Crixus replied. In that moment, her rescue became the most important thing to him. All other thoughts vanished save for one: Lethia must not be allowed to die. "Just trust me."
"I...I'm slipping!" she cried, sweat forming around her fingers, clenched tightly onto the wooden floor-boards.
"You have to trust me!" Crixus replied. "I'm your only hope! Come on, now, jump!"
There was a loud crack, then in the distance another roar from the beast. Suddenly the Snow Elf let go and came falling down into Crixus' arms. At the very last minute he caught her, but the weight brought him down onto his back. Panic and the fear that she hadn't been caught caused Lethia to faint the moment Crixus collapsed beneath her. Crixus was bruised, but said nothing as he crawled out from under her and did his best to hide her face and pale-blue skin. They would have to return to the castle, and there was only one way therein: the one surrounded with people.
Through the crowds Crixus pushed, carrying Lethia in his arms. Behind Chorrol burned in the fury of the dragon's fire. The closer he came to the keep, the thicker the crowds grew, until he was shoving them aside one by one just to move even a single step forward. As he went, he saw Arcadia Valga pushing her way through the crowds, who, despite the much-touted rank of which Count Fraseric spoke, did not part before her. With a final push, he made his way to the guards who rose to block his path.
"No one gets in without the Count's permission!" one guard shouted.
"I am the guest of the Count!" Crixus replied. "Let me pass!"
"Not one step, scum!" threatened another guard. "Or we'll be forced to run you through."
"Scum?" Crixus retorted. "You can't talk that way to me! I'm a soldier of the Red Legions."
"I don't care if you're a member of the Elder Council," taunted the guard. "No one gets in, and that's that...unless you'd like to test your luck against the Chorrol city guard?"
"Let me...pass!" came a shout from below. Turning around, Crixus saw Arcadia Valga finally break free from the crowds, then turn to the guards. "Guards, the Count demands my presence at once. Let me pass!"
"Madame Valga!" the guards saluted. "Of course."
"Crixus, come," Valga said, gesturing to Crixus to follow her toward the portcullis. Inside the little gatehouse, she took Crixus aside into a room that was guarded by the city guards. Inside there was a trap-door upon the ceiling; the guards outside gave the order and the trap-door was opened and a ladder was extended. Up the ladder Valga climbed, then, moments later, sent ropes down from the guards at the next story, with which they lifted Lethia up. Afterwards Crixus climbed up and the ladder was removed.
"I need to speak with the Count at once," Crixus spoke. He then picked up Lethia and carried her across the courtyard and to the entrance to the main hall. To his surprise, he found that the doors to the main hall were not guarded and not locked. He was able to push the wooden doors open with his shoulder and walk into the hall without any accosting him. Moments later, there came the sound of feet running hurriedly down the stairs above the throne. Looking thither, he saw Petruvius racing down the stairs.
"There you are!" he cried out. "I feared you had been slain."
"Ah, Petruvius," Crixus shook his head. "It would take more than a b*tch lizard to take me down! Where is the Count?"
"I don't know," Petruvius replied, now half-way across the hall. He came to a halt before Crixus, panting. "I was...on the upper levels. Trying to save..." He noticed the white-clad figure lying in Crixus' arms. "By the Eight! Say not that..."
"She's alive," Crixus returned. "She fainted after I caught her, but she is alive. Here, take her. I need to speak to the Count."
"What for?"
"To get our weapons back," Crixus replied. "I refuse to let sacred Cyrodiil be overrun by Skyrim's problem!"
Just then the doors opened again and Valga came running into the throne room. Crixus, guessing that she, having lived here a long time, would know about where the Count may have gone, turned about and called out to her: "Where is the Count?"
"The East Tower," she replied. "Come, I'll show you the way."
Crixus gave Lethia into Petruvius' arms, then followed Valga as she jogged up the stairs, turned left, then passed through a small, unadorned wooden door and came onto the wall around the castle. Hot on her trail, Crixus followed her along the outer wall of the castle, which doubled as the eastern wall of the city: for in Cyrodiil, all the cities were surrounded with high walls, built during the Reman Dynasty after the Akaviri raped and rampaged their way through Tamriel, and rebuilt after wars with Mehrunes Dagon and the Dominion.
After a healthy jog, Crixus and Valga arrived at the eastern tower of Castle Chorrol. Down a stair that wound about the inner wall of the tower they went, coming down to the bottom floor that was built upon the bones of the highland hills. Valga removed a key from around her neck and placed it into the lock of a trap-door, then opened it and went down the stairs. Crixus followed her, coming to a dimly-lit room built recently at the bottom of the tower. Inside were several city guards with torches in their hand and, in the midst of them, huddled together in his fine clothes, was Count Fraseric.
"My lord," Valga stated. "There has been an attack. Some kind of monster..."
"A dragon," Crixus returned.
"That was a dragon?" Valga asked, turning to Crixus. "I thought they were just another baseless rumor from the ignorant north-lands: you know, like ice-tribes, Falmer or that one particularly treasonous one about a warrior with a dragon's soul or something?"
"The legend of the Dragonborn?" Crixus asked.
"Treasonous!" Valga retorted. "To think that an Emperor would come from Skyrim, of all places! Even Tiber Septim was from High Rock."
"Is it gone?" the Count interjected. "Please tell me this dragon's gone."
"I'm not sure, my lord," Valga retorted. "The last I saw, it was flying northwest, towards Cloud Top."
"My lord," Crixus said, turning to the Count. "Let me and my squire have our weapons back, so that we may go and hunt down this dragon and avenge ourselves upon it for the sake of the city."
"Are you mad?" Valga asked. "I was there in the thick of the attack. Our arrows bounced off it, the spells of the Synod mages could do nothing. How are we supposed to fight it?"
"Just walk up to it and kill it?" Crixus asked. "It's not as hard as it looks."
"Do you presume to know more than the city guard?" Valga asked. "Or more than the Synod mages?"
"I know that I've slain dragons before, in the north," Crixus replied. "There's nothing to it. Just let me and my squire hunt this dragon down and I'll return with its head as proof."
"Alright, alright!" stammered Count Fraseric. "Anything! A-Anything, just so long as you save my city!"
Crixus nodded, then made his way back to the trap-door stairway. He had to go find Petruvius and then repair to the Fountain Gate. Other goals and purposes had to wait, for now there were dragons coming to Cyrodiil and he would not let that happen.
(AN: Yes, i did just bring dragons back. I had planned this since The Dragonborn and the Lioness, as far as Du'ulnahvith, but there is a greater story going on here, one that is older even than Morrowind [a hint for what you may see].)
(After reading some of the reviews i've had thus far, i realized that i've come from hammering into my readers heads that "Nords aren't racist" to hammering into my readers heads that "I don't share Crixus' opinions".)