Dawn was rising over the desolate ash plains of southern Morrowind as the armies of the Dominion marched to battle.
Trailing across the grey landscape were countless High Elven troops marching in large formations, their green armour glittering in the pale sun and their shields and blades clattering as they walked. Here and there rode columns of cavalry with long spears and small formations of Bosmer archers and battlemages, ready to support the larger infantry blocks when needed. Alongside the humanoid Elves came lines of Khajiit skirmishers, supplementing their races weak bodies and poor magical ability with deadly light troops and close combat warriors.
The sky crackled with magical energy as the Dominion's troops marched, the effect of over fifty thousand magically attuned Elves being in such close proximity producing slight ripples in the air and brief flashes of impossibly bright light. Here and there a tiny spark of magicka rippled across the tightly packed Elven troops, bouncing off spear tips and armour plating like will-o'-the wisps.
Alongside the thousands of Elven troops came a smaller, but just as formidable, force of twenty thousand Argonian warriors from the heart of Black Marsh. In direct contrast to the elegant Elven forces, the Argonians moved in one long unbroken column across the plains. Outfitted in armour made from cotton soaked in the swamp waters of Black Marsh until it was as hard as iron and carved wooden helmets made from the bark of Hist trees and bedecked with plumes of bright flowers and reeds, the Argonians made for a strange match to their Elven allies. Their weapons were long iron clubs studded with blocks of ebony or long ebony tipped spears and hard wooden shields painted with incomprehensible symbols and markings. At the head of the column came a large block of scouts and light troops equipped with bows and ebony daggers, the scouts staying close to the ground in a half crouched state, their eyes and ears alert for anything. And at the rear of the Argonian column came a small group of hulking Naga, a hundred towering creatures that resembled reptilian giants, their faces like those of snakes and their broad bodies adorned with tribal war paint. Clad in crudely fashioned plates of iron and ebony the Naga slowly marched forward, in their clawed hands huge clubs studded with ebony.
Lord Naarfiin, commander of the 3rd Thalmor Expeditionary Force and overall High Commander of all Dominion invasion forces rode deep within the heart of the army alongside Bleeds-Men-Dry, the general of the Argonian contingent. The two warriors were almost complete opposites. Naarfiin was tall and elegant, his handsome features and flowing white hair giving him a regal edge, while his distinctive deep green glass armour, finished with a long black cloak, made him stand out amongst his plainly adorned retinue of bodyguards, aides, officers and standard bearers, all riding atop sleek armoured warhorses. The Argonian couldn't have been any more different. The general was stocky and broad, his powerful upper body seeming to be barely contained by the thick set of hard cotton armour he wore, a heavy ebony axe clutched in one clenched fist. His mount was a monstrous alligator, the beast unarmoured except for the natural green scales across its entire body. The Argonian general looked up at Naarfiin, his shovel shaped head, adorned with an impressive set of four curled horns, framing a face set in a grim smile.
"It feels good to chase down some more Dunmer scum." He said in his croaking voice, his laugh a rumbling cackle. "But my warriors grow restless Naarfiin. They are still unsure outside of Argonia. They miss the shade of the trees and the safe enclosed forests."
Naarfiin shook his head, his deep golden eyes gazing towards the north and beyond, his skin seeming to blister slightly in the bright sunlight.
"Patience, Bleeds-Men-Dry." He inwardly sighed as he said the general's name. It may have sounded formidable but it was a mouthful to pronounce the Argonian's full name. He had tried just referring to him as 'the general' to save time. "With the Dwemer's return we shall most likely run into some Dunmer refugees for your men to sate your bloodlust on."
"No," the Argonian said firmly. "Refugees are for bandits and raiders to try their luck on. My men and I fight with honour against worthy opponents."
"Didn't stop you during your invasion of Morrowind." Naarfiin shot back and Bleeds-Men-Dry paused.
"That was a different time. A different war," The general replied simply. "However I do look forward to testing our forces against those of the Dwemer. I heard your 'elite' troops were soundly decimated by the Legion even before the Dwarves arrived." He added with a slight smile and, surprisingly, the High Elf smiled also.
"Ondolemar was a fool. The poor wretch couldn't command an army to save his life."
"And yet you sent him against Tullius' Fifth Legion? And the Dragonborn?"
Naarfiin smiled slightly. "Sometimes fathers have to be hard on their children to truly see them prosper. If he dies, he died fighting for the Dominion. If my idiot of a son survived, well, we will soon find out when we hunt down Tullius' forces."
The Argonian general frowned and gave Naarfiin a quizzical look.
"You mean we aren't fighting against the Dwemer?"
For the past few days groups of Dominion soldiers, battered and defeated, had been trickling out from Morrowind. When Naarfinn's scouts had tried to get any kind of information from them most had just babbled about 'the Golden Horde' and how the Dwemer were wiping out any army that stood against them. Naarfiin had hanged most of them as an example to the troops for what happened to deserters.
"No," Naarfiin replied shortly, and the Argonian gave him a puzzled look.
"Why not?!" he shot back. "Do you not believe your own troops?"
The Altmer nodded solemnly. "Of course I do. But I am not willing to throw my soldiers' lives away against a peoples who have already caused us so much pain…"
"What do you mean you melodramatic fool?" The Argonian was not one to mince his words. "My scholars have informed me that the only ones who would have any kind of memory of the Dwemer, from their ancestors, would be the Nords, Bretons and Redguards of Hammerfell. And of course…" he added with a dark look. "The Dunmer."
Naarfiin smirked. "The Altmer are a much longer lived race than those pitiful creatures. We never faced the Dwemer themselves, that is true. But there are, or at least were until a few years back, still survivors of Tiber Septim's fifteen minute siege of Summerset Isle. I have spoken to those ancient Mer and heard their tales of the Numidium, the one hundred foot high golem, what some of our more scholarly comrades call 'Walk-Brass' and of how it destroyed our greatest armies in mere minutes. If what they say was correct, it was able to warp time and space around itself, creating a barrier that no arrow or spell could pierce, and use it as a weapon even our strongest warriors could not withstand."
The Altmer general turned to look out over the vast army beyond.
"That is why I will not face the Dwemer in open combat. Who knows what vile machines and weapons of war they possess? No. We will wait until the Dwemer and the Empire have broken each other. Then…then the Third Aldmeri Dominion will take what is rightfully ours."
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As night fell the vast Dominion and Argonian armies set up camp, erecting in barely an hour a small city of green silk tents, open stables and a ring of watchtowers and defensive palisades. Outside the thick palisades of the main Altmer camp were those of the Bosmer and Khajiit, the Wood Elves setting up their own camp using magically altered trees and the Khajiit making do with a rough camp of animal skin tents and paper lanterns at the very fringes of the campsite. The entire camp was filled with the sounds of patrolling sentries and glow of countless cook fires and forges, the baleful glow of Magelights giving much of the camp an eerie tint as it reflected off stacks of weaponry and razor sharp glass.
At the very centre of the camp rose a low hill of grey rock and even greyer ash, the tents and pavilions of the Altmer officers ringed by stout palisade walls standing at the summit. Around the torch fires patrolled dozens of elite Dominion battlemages and the Chosen of Trinimac, the veteran bodyguards of the various officers and commanders of the huge army.
Lord Naarfiin's huge pavilion dominated the very top of the ash strewn hill, a towering green tower of silk and fabric, covered in campaign ribbons, pennants and the fluttering forms of dozens of green and black flags.
And yet inside, compared to the bright exterior, was almost tomb-like, lit only by a few small Magelights floating above bowls of magical fluid, the shadows seeming to ensnare the Altmer general as he walked inside. Breathing a deep sigh of relief Lord Naarfiin removed his armour, setting the glass breastplate, gauntlets and greaves on a mannequin in the corner, unbuckling his sword belt and leaving the blade within easy reach as he settled down into his chair. It was only now, in the cool solitude of his tent, knowing that the nearest company was the squad of Chosen of Trinimac patrolling outside, that he was finally able to be himself.
Blinking his golden eyes in the gloom, Naarfiin breathed deeply, allowing the various charms and illusions around his body to dissipate, leaving his skin deathly pale and his face growing more drawn and corpse-like as the glamours faded away.
Finally, once his appearance had taken on that of a long dead corpse, did he remove the strip of fabric around his neck to reveal the horrific red wound that crossed his throat from ear to ear. The wound from the week long hanging that had been his punishment after his defeat during the Great War-when Emperor Titus Mede the 2nd retook the Imperial City.
He closed his eyes, feeling a slight sense of pleasure as two needle sharp fangs sprang from his gums, the charms that hid them no longer needed.
It was only when the vampiric High Commander of all the Dominion's invasion forces closed his eyes, his super enhanced hearing telling him he was very much alone, that he dropped his guard and allowed his thoughts to wander as he began to think back to that fateful day. The day when the Great War ended. The day he died.
Naarfiin opened his eyes. His entire body felt as if it was on fire, felt like every muscle and bone was being ripped apart. It was only as his vision began to clear and he looked out at the view that his brain finally brought back the memory of why he was here, a hundred metres above the ground, with a rope around his neck.
When the Imperial Legions led by General Tullius and Titus Mede the 2nd had broken his armies in the Battle of the Red Ring, they had stormed the gates of the Imperial City. The weak defences of the Elves had easily broken. They had barely cleared out the bodies of the destroyed Imperial 8th Legion before Titus Mede had led the Firstborn cavalry straight through the gates, the Emperor wielding the glittering sword Goldbrand as they cut a bloody swathe through the defenders. When the Imperials had found Naarfiin, fighting a doomed defence of the Arcane University alongside a hundred battlemages and a mere dozen bodyguards, they had dragged his beaten body up every step of the recaptured White Gold Tower and hung him from the very top level.
Below him sprawled the faded majesty of the Imperial City- seat of countless dynasties of both Human and Elven kings and emperors. The ancient Ayelid walls were just visible in the distance, the ordered sprawl of countless square miles of commercial buildings, government offices and houses far below him and visible in all directions. Columns of black smoke and tongues of flame rippled out from countless destroyed buildings, while armoured columns of Legionnaires and the remnants of the Dominion's armies battled it out in the streets below. The clash of blades and screams of the dead and dying filled the air.
It would have been almost beautiful for Naarfiin, had there not been the constant sensation of being about to fall, and the rope still digging into the flesh on his neck. It was taking every ounce of his prodigious magical ability to stop his neck from snapping, diverting every single shred of his magicka reserves to levitate himself mere millimetres from the coarse rope. It kept him alive, but the rough hemp still tore into his pale throat regardless.
Thirty four days later and his last drops of magicka were slipping away, every last tiny bit of energy coaxed out of his emaciated and near frozen frame. The Altmer's once fine robes were streaked with blood and his own vomit and waste, his glass armour beginning to crack from a combination of the intense cold and the strain.
He blinked his pale gold eyes one last time, knowing that his view of the Imperial City below, with black and red banners fluttering from every rooftop and victory celebrations still ongoing, would be the last thing he saw before his soul departed into Aetherius.
Suddenly he felt a presence besides his own, and, before his rapidly closing eyes, a figure began to appear and suddenly everything seemed to stop. Down below the fires were frozen in place, the hordes of people celebrating as still as statues, and the clouds overhead had ceased their endless march across the sky. Time itself had stopped.
Hovering in thin air with all the ease of someone standing upon solid ground, the figure was a shifting mass of tattered grey robes, at least five metres tall. Its arms were grey skinned and ended in long black claws, and even beneath the thick robes it was obviously very muscular and broad. The figures face however was the most monstrous part of it. Two white horns sprung from where its ears would have been and the figure's mouth was a mass of sharp white teeth, many cracked or broken off, giving its smile an eerie edge. But its eyes were the most horrific part of it. Twin pools of inky blackness, Naarfiin could see no emotion in them beyond hate and a will to dominate all life.
"I am Molog Bal, Prince of Domination and Enslavement and the God of Brutality." the figure declared in a voice so loud it seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, spreading its two huge arms wide in a gesture of mock courtesy. "And you, Lord Naarfiin, are a second away from death." The Daedric Prince added.
If the Altmer could have gone any paler from the shock of being in the presence of a Daedric Prince, he would have. Although the Altmer of Summerset Isle were, like their Ayelid cousins, worshipers of both Aedra and Daedra, the general was still deathly afraid of the Daedra, and knew not to believe anything they said or accept any bargains they made.
"What do you wish from me, my lord?" Naarfiin spluttered. He could no longer feel the rope swaying in the wind, or the rough feel of it on his neck, but even so he was still nearly dead.
The Daedric Prince laughed. "Much as I would wish to watch you expire on this noose like a fish gutted on a line, I have need of your loyalty."
"What do you want from me, my lord?"
The monstrous figure gritted his teeth in a grotesque parody of a smile.
"Finally. Someone who understands his need to submit to my will and doesn't try to feebly resists my dominion. I demand your services. Pledge yourself to me and I will take you from this place."
"And if I refuse?" Naarfiin said defiantly.
The Prince's smile grew even wider, and suddenly Naarfiin heard the snapping of rope from above him.
"I have severed the rope above your head, mortal. When I release you from this time lock in the next five seconds, you will plunge to the earth. But I will make it so that to you it feels like you are falling for eternity. And when you submit to the grounds hard embrace, all the tortures of Coldharbour will be unleashed upon your broken body."
Naarfiin's eyes widened even more and he quickly spluttered out an apology.
"I submit my lord. I submit!"
"They all do in the end." The Prince replied darkly. "I will bestow on you the power of the night. You will be like a god to the weak masses of mortals. You will no longer fear death, and all the prayers of the unbelievers will not save them from your claws and teeth. Submit to me, and lesser undead will look upon you as a king. You will lead my armies and further my interests in Tamriel. Submit to me and you will aid in the search for my champion amongst the races of Men and Mer."
The Altmer nodded, ignoring the coarse rope on his throat. The thought of having such power, of being able to wreak vengeance on those who had strung him up as a trophy, was too much to pass up.
"I submit."
"They always do." Molog Bal said and laughed as he shimmered out of existence.
Next thing Naarfiin knew, the rope above his head had snapped and he was freefalling towards the city far below. The last thing he remembered was the firm embrace of a winged creature that bore him away from the Imperial City, and the cold feeling of teeth biting into his neck.
Lord Naarfiin awoke with a jolt as he heard the footfalls of a messenger approaching the door of his tent.
Instantly he stood up, pulling his undershirt around him as he quickly recast all the glamours he had taken off, feeling a warm glow as colour returned to his cheeks and the sharp pain of his fangs sliding back into place.
By the time the messenger pushed through the tent flaps, two Chosen of Trinimac in glittering glass plate armour at his side, Naarfiin was ready to face them. A long black cloak wrapped around himself, the general stared at the messenger, a small Bosmer woman clad in leather armour and a thin green cape.
"My lord." She stuttered, bowing low. "Commander Daerthil asked me to inform you our scouts have captured some enemy outriders. What do you wish to be done with them?"
"Hang them all." Naarfiin replied bluntly. "Put their bodies on the carts with the other dead. When we assault Mournhold I think the Imperials will appreciate us returning their comrades to them…" he added with a grim smile.
The messenger nodded and bowed again but, just as the Bosmer and the two guards went to leave, Naarfiin raised a hand.
"Send their commander to me though. I wish to interrogate him myself."
"It will be done my lord. We will fetch him from the prison immediately."
Naarfiin smiled as they left. He left the glamours in place this time, just in case they returned ahead of schedule.
He was just about to settle into his chair once again when he felt a familiar presence begin to slip into the confines of the tent, and saw dark tendrils of blackest shadow creeping out from every corner.
"My lord-"he began, but was suddenly forced to the floor by an unbearable pain in very part of his body.
"Submit, mortal." A familiar voice said in his head, seeming to echo in every part of his mind.
"Molog Bal. My lord. What do you…wish of me?" Naarfiin said despite the agony he felt in every last part of his body.
"I have need of you, mortal." The Daedric Prince said, and Naarfiin slowly got to his feet, his limbs shaking as the last of the pain began it subside.
"Did I instruct you to rise?" Molog Bal shouted in Naarfiin's head, and the Altmer felt a supernatural force throw him to his knees.
"Mortal. Now is the time for you to deliver on your side of our agreement. I have still not found myself a worthy champion, so this task must fall on you."
Naarfiin's heart would have leapt if it was not a necrotic lump of useless flesh.
"Am I to be your champion?" he asked, and instantly was thrown across the room, his head slamming into the hard ground beneath the expensive silk carpets.
"You are unworthy to be my champion, mortal." The Daedric Prince replied with a callous laugh. "But I do indeed have a task for you to perform until I have found myself a true champion."
"What would you have me do?"
If the Daedric Prince appreciated Naarfiin's humility, he didn't show it as he began to speak, but the pain coursing through the Altmer began to fade away.
"The Dwemer have returned to Tamriel, as you know. I and the other Daedric Princes, barring a few cowards amongst our ranks, stand ready to wipe them from the face of existence for good. Their heresy against us cannot go unpunished. We are assembling an army as we speak. But my own vampiric legions are much depleted ever since the Dawnguard and Vigilance of Stendaar began their recent crusade against them. If I am to maintain my dominance over the lesser Princes, I need an army to aid in the assault on the Dwemer, and of course, to crush my rival's forces once they are defeated."
Naarfiin kept a subservient face, but inside he was tingling with barely held excitement and awe. He had been entrusted by Molog Bal himself to lead his army into battle against the Dwemer!
"It will be done my lord." He said.
"Don't disappoint me." The Daedra replied simply, before the shadows around the tent, and the presence in Naarfiin's mind, all disappeared as quickly as they had arrived.
The Altmer had only just got to his feet when two Chosen of Trinimac entered the tent, dragging a battered looking Imperial officer between them. Throwing the small man to the hard floor, the two guards bowed low.
"Leave us." Naarfiin commanded and the two Elven warriors instantly left, leaving him and the prisoner alone.
"I will tell you nothing, Elven filth!" the Imperial spat, and Naarfiin only shook his head.
"As if I would be so uncouth as to torture you, my friend."
"I am not your friend!" the officer shot back, his tanned face set in a frown, sweat beading on his forehead as Naarfiin turned away.
"Come." He said genially. "Sit with me and we'll talk. I have a crate of Argonian Redwine that needs drinking before we set off tomorrow. Care to join me?"
The Imperial looked more confused than angry, but obediently followed the Altmer as the general motioned for him to sit down in an elegant wooden chair opposite his own.
"Let me just get the wine." Naarfiin said with a smile, moving behind the Imperial, who absently looked down at his feet, as if ashamed of turning up to such an opulent tent in nothing but a ragged red uniform.
The Imperial began humming a tune as Naarfiin stood by the small drinks cabinet.
"I recognise that tune." The Elf said with a smile. "'Dusk on Anvil Harbour', right?"
The Imperial laughed, seeming to begin to rsut the Altmer a bit more. "I'm surprised someone like you would know it. It's a favourite of my children. Right now I would be singing them the full song as I put them to bed. When I get back home I'll definitely sing it again. I would never forget the words…" he added with a soft laugh.
"Oh don't worry." Naarfiin said as he turned away from the drinks cabinet. "I'm sure you'll see your children soon enough…"
As he said this his fangs slid into place and a small set of claws sprang out on his hands as he placed them on the Imperial's shoulders.
The Imperial was still humming the song for his children as Naarfiin sank his fangs into the man's neck.