The Daedra's Wrath

(A Lord of the Rings/The Elder Scrolls Crossover)

Chapter One

Turdas, 1st Frostfall, Year 85 of the Fourth Era.

5:22am, Halesgarden, The Colovian Shires, North-east of Kvatch.

The path from Halesgarden to the Watch Post was coated in a fine layer of ice and frost, the first of Winter's snow falling lightly through the trees. A lone man traipsed the path, drawing his cloak tighter about him, his breath coming out in a misty fog. His hood was raised, further shadowing his stubbled and weather-worn features, and a well crafted bow was slung across his back. Up ahead, a lantern twinkled in the morning gloom, marking the position of the Guard House on the path.

Leaning against the wall of the small house was a bow and quiver of arrows, and Cassius smirked to himself, shaking his head as he opened the door, the worn wood creaking on it's hinges. "T'would be a fine thing if a gang of bandits chose to raid Halesgarden in the dead of night, Ludovic." he said in a mock serious tone, stepping over the threshold. The Guard House was a small stone building, around fourteen feet long and wide. A bear-skin rug was stretched out across the floor, and built into the far wall was a neat fireplace, merry flames crackling in the grate. Another man, no doubt the Night Watchman, turned in his chair, stretching and yawning.

"I don't see you volunteering for night duty, Malacabre." The guard replied with a small smirk. "When was the last time you braved the cold to defend the residents of Colovia, hmm?"

"That's Captain Malacabre to you, Guardsman." Cassius replied, folding his arms, a smile moving across his features. "And as such, I am able to delegate less enjoyable tasks to my clumsy subordinates."

"Clumsy subordinates indeed." Ludovic rose from his chair with a chuckle, stretching and yawning. "Nothing of import to report. A few wolves away to the south, but I was able to chase them away towards Anvil before they got to close to Halesgarden... By the way, why are you here this morning?"

"Phineas is indisposed." Cassius replied, folding his arms and leaning in the doorway. "There was a brawl at the Dancing Dagger last night, and he was knocked unconscious when he attempted to break it up. The brawlers are currently sobering up in the barracks and no doubt feeling terribly sorry for themselves."

"Ah, I see. And you've admirably stepped forward to pick up the slack. I applaud you, sir." Ludovic moved past Cassius, patting his Captain on the shoulder. "I'm going to see if Madam Frost will perhaps open the Dagger early for a weary guard desperate for a warm mead after a night of defending the realm. Farewell."

Cassius saw the guard to the door, and watched on as he progressed down the path towards the sleepy village, fishing in his pockets for his pipe and pouch of tobacco. The first grey light of dawn was filtering through the trees, and a few plumes of smoke could be seen drifting towards the skies as the early risers of Halesgarden began to awaken and go about their business.

Halesgarden itself was a fairly young town, part of the rapidly growing Colovian Shires East of Chorrol. The area had been first colonised some 60 years previously, around the same time that the High King of Skyrim allowed the Imperial Legion to build the town of Helgen in Skyrim's Falkreath Hold. The Colovian Shires were co-founded by the Nords, and as such, many Nordic designs could be seen in it's design.

Taking a few thoughtful puffs from his pipe, Cassius leaned against the wall of the guard house, gazing around at the gently falling snow. It was indeed just another quiet morning in Halesgarden, and Cassius found himself quietly regretting his need to be stationed here. He preferred traipsing the woods and roads to sitting at a static guard post like this. But, as Watch Captain of the Colovian Highlands, such duties were unavoidable.

He hadn't been on duty for long, when the sound of an approaching horse met his ears. The slightly muffled clip-clop of hooves along the snowy cobblestones, and the occasional snort from the horse drifted up the path, and Cassius turned his head, spying a chestnut brown steed trotting along the road, a cloaked rider sitting atop it. As the rider approached, Cassius stepped out onto the road and raised a hand. "Who goes there?" There was no suspicion in his call; He was simply a guard doing his job, asking questions of riders on the road in the early hours of morning when most were yet to rise.

The rider, on closer inspection, was a broad-set, powerfully built man, and when he lowered his hood, jigging the horse to a halt, he appeared to be in his mid to late fifties, his face heavily worn and scarred. "Travias Grelden, resident of Halesgarden.." he replied gruffly, clutching the reins and glancing down at the Guard.

"You're out early." Cassius replied conversationally, recognising the man. He had moved to Halesgarden a few weeks previously, and whilst Cassius had seen him about town once or twice, the two had never previously spoken. In fact, hardly any of the locals knew much about him, aside from the fact that he was a former member of the Legion. Grelden, it seemed, appreciated the quiet life.

"I'm returning from an errand to Kvatch, so I guess you could say I'm returning late." Grelden replied dryly, a very small, almost unnoticeable smile cracking through his worn features. "I was due to return last night, but my business there ran overlong."

"No trouble on the road?"

"None to speak of." he admitted with a nod. "From the signs, a wolf pack travelled through the area about 5 miles to the south, but they'd moved on by the time I'd arrived."

"One would imagine a former Legionnaire could handle most troubles along the road at any rate, right?" Cassius, like most of the residents of the village, was curious about this newcomer. Most people are, in small, out-of-the way towns when a stranger moves to the area. But Cassius, as Captain of the Watch, had his own reasons. He didn't want any troublemakers in his town, and while Grelden seemed respectable enough (albeit rather reclusive), it was better to be safe than sorry.

"Legionnaire?" Grelden arched a brow. "I may be old and forgetful at times, but I don't recall being a Legion Soldier at any point in my long, long career."

"Ah, it seems that second-hand gossip and chit chat has failed once again." Cassius replied, covering his mistake with a chuckle. At that moment, his eyes caught sight of the handle of a katana jutting loose from from within the folds of Grelden's bedroll on the back of the horse, and he narrowed his eyes in curiosity. Grelden, following Cassius' gaze, subtly covered up the handle. "That's an Akiviri Katana, isn't it?" He queried, recognising the designs on the hilt. "You... You were once a Blade, weren't you?"

Grelden concurred with a short, curt nod, gripping the reins, indicating he wished to pursue the topic no further. "I must take my leave, Watchman. The road is not overly long, but it has left this old man rather weary. I bid you a fair day." Without another word, Grelden jigged his horse forward, taking off at a quick trot down the road towards Halesgarden, leaving Cassius' curiosity even higher than before.

10:41am, Market District, The Imperial City.

The Market Place was a bustling hive of commerce and activity. Even the latest of the city's risers were out and about, buying and selling their wares, browsing copies of the Black Horse Courier, or simply chatting about the gossip of the day. Of course, not all of the citizenry were out for shopping and chit chat.

A loan Khajiit strolled alone amongst the market-goers, dressed in a ragged brown cloak and hood, eyes downcast and hands clasped in front of him. The cat was a regular in the Imperial City, being one of the homeless vagabonds from the Waterfront District, although few new his name, and even less knew why he visited the Temple and Market Districts when he didn't have two Septims to rub together. At least, that's what the inhabitants of the City believed.

The Khajiit moved through the streets, carefully weaving between the crowds, until something caught his eye. A nearby stand had mounds of freshly baked bread on display, and the hungry cat felt his stomach growl, gazing longingly at the various baked goods, his mouth almost watering at the sight of the sweet rolls on the stand, and in his careless moment, ran headlong into a tall Nord. The Skyrim local barely moved, but the Khajiit fell to the ground, his cloak and hood tangling up under his feet.

"Watch where you're walking, cat!" The Nord barked in annoyance, dusting off the front of his tunic, a sneer etched into his face.

The Khajiit quickly scrambled to his feet, straightening his cloak and bowing repeatedly to the Nord. "Ma'kiir offers you the sincerest of apologies, good Nord." he said shakily, nervously. "He is a little clumsy at times, please forgive him. He is but a poor Khajiit who-"

"Ah, cut it out!" The Nord said, embarrassed by the slowly unfolding scene. "Just, watch where you're walking in future!"

"You are too kind to this poor Khajiit." Ma'kiir said submissively, bowing once more. "May you have the most pleasant of days and the fairest of luck until Sovngarde beckons!" The cat offered a final, twirling bow before hastily turning, leaving the bamboozled Nord feeling at a loss for words. As he watched Ma'kiir disappear into the crowd, the Nord stuck his hands in his pockets, trying to recall what it was he was in the middle of doing. That's when he noticed his Coin Purse was missing.

"Hey!" he roared, sprinting through the crowd, knocking over a cart of cabbages in the process, and winding his fingers into the folds of Ma'kiir's hood. "You mangy feline! I'll skin you alive!"

Ma'kiir let out a shriek of fear, squirming for his life and tugging his hood free. "Guards! Guards!" He screamed. "There's a madman on the loose!"

Before the Nord could protest, cries of "Stop right there!" echoed throughout the street, and two heavily armored Imperial Guards came storming towards him. They grabbed the big Nord and slammed him into a nearby wall, twisting his arms behind his back. "Thought you'd assault the poor, needy folk of the Imperial City on my watch, huh?!" The guard growled, slapping irons on the Nord's wrists.

"No! I've been robbed! That crafty cat stole my coin purse!" he bellowed, writhing in the Guard's clutches. The Nord however, quickly admitted defeat, and as he cast an eye over the area, he caught a glimpse of Ma'kiir leaning on a nearby wall, a broad, toothy grin on his face, bouncing a hefty coin purse up and down in his paw. The Khajiit tipped the Nord a final wink before kicking open the sewer grate and disappearing into the shadows below.

Ma'kiir, of course, was no mere beggar. Ma'kiir was known to those closest to him as Ma'kiir the Crafty, and his name was well earned. The Khajiit was one of the best thieves in Cyrodiil, and the fact he had no reputation amongst the regular public reinforced that.

Sliding the grate closed, Ma'kiir ambled down the pathway that bordered the sewer waters, weighing the coin purse in his hand, exceptionally pleased with the morning's work.

7:10pm, Howling Labyrinth Cave, South of Helgen

As with any career, being a member of the Companions had its own perils and dangers. And, due to the higher risk involved (not to mention the far greater possibility of death), the only warriors admitted to the Companions were of the highest echelon in all of Skyrim. The Companions took jobs that were often too great for the Hold Guards, and tonight was no different.

A sizable group of Falmer were found residing in an old cave on the border, a short distance from Helgen's walls, and after attacks on a few local small-hold farms, the Companions were called into action. Four of Jorrvaskr's warriors entered the cave, axes and blades at the ready.

Within twenty five minutes, though, a minor cave in separated the group; On one side of the divide was Sognvir Ice-Hammer, on the other were three junior members of Skyrim's fighter's guild. Not wanting to send the rookies off alone, Sognvir told them to wait while he found another path around, but before he'd gone too far, he heard what he'd been dreading.

The ringing of metal, the twanging of bows, the battle-cries of the Companions, and the screaming screech of the Falmer. As he sprinted through the icy tunnels, it became apparent to Sognvir that this had been a trap. The Falmer were far smarter than many gave them credit for, and they'd managed to (seemingly) pick off three elite fighters with ease.

Clutching his heavy battle-axe, Sognvir charged down one tunnel after the next, his eyes smouldering with furious fire beneath his closely cropped hair, his teeth grinding in silent snarls from behind his long, black beard. Before long, he came across a dented and blood stained helmet, discarded on the path, and the badly beaten corpse of a young Dunmer who'd been on the verge of a promotion into the next ranks of the Companions. Seething, the big Nord continued his war march, occasionally needing to duck so that his seven and a half foot frame could squeeze between the low overhanging ceiling.

Entering a high, icy chamber, Sognvir's eyes fell on an unmoving figure lying in the centre of the cavernous room, and as he slowly made his way towards it, the figure twitched, a low groan escaping his lips. The man was still alive. Sognvir sprinted the last few steps, dropping his battle-axe and stooping beside his fellow Companion, trying to rouse him, examining his wounds with worrisome eyes.

"S-Sognvir..." the Nord gasped, clutching at his superior's armor. "It's... trap..." Footsteps echoed in then chamber as the warrior released a final, racking breath, his arm falling limply to the side. Sognvir laid the man back on the ground, placing a hand on his heart.

"I'll see you in Sovngarde, my friend." he said in his deep, gravelly voice. "Mayhap sooner than you think." Rising, he swept his eyes across the room, watching as the blinded elves crept towards him, holding curved scimitar-like blades and crooked bows. The Nord's face was a mask of fury as he closed his eyes, tearing off the straps of his armor and tossing the chest piece aside. When he opened them again, his pupils were dilated, with glowing red irises, and he bared his newly grown fangs with a savage snarl. The Falmer halted their movements towards him, feeling the change in the air, and Sognvir began to grow.

His nails extended and hardened into wicked claws, dark fur spread across his shoulders, and with his face contorted with the pain of the transformation, Sognvir Ice-Hammer turned his head to the ceiling, releasing a blood-curdling howl...

9:26pm, Bleak Falls Barrow, Whiterun Hold, North of Helgen.

Bleak Falls Barrow, rightfully so, had a dark name in Skyrim. Many wondered how the residents of Riverwood were content to live in it's shadow, to dwell beneath the eyes of the ancient tomb as it sat on the top of the mountain like some dark, benevolent idol. It was common knowledge that Draugr resided deep in it's catacombs, and none but the bravest of adventurers (or the most desperate of criminals) ever ventured into its depths. And those that survived the legions of Draugr and the nests of Frostbite Spiders were usually far too shaken to repeat what they saw in the claustrophobic darkness.

As such, Bleak Falls Barrow was the Holy Grail of many; Plunderers, researchers, adventurers, warriors and bandits. Even so, with so many seeing it as the greatest prize to those in their field, it had been many years since any had ventured past the doors of Bleak Falls.

Until now.

Gharoth Faar, a mage from the College of Winterhold, had succumbed to the lure of the Barrow, seeking knowledge on the ancient Nords. Dressed in his usual blue and tan robes, his hood shadowing his dark-rimmed eyes, the Breton moved cautiously along a narrow stone corridor, a flickering torch in hand.

Scanning the area with his light green oculars, he passed a row of Draugr tombs, swallowing nervously, moving slowly and carefully. The Raven on his shoulder was equally as nervous, rustling its wings intermittently and staring beadily at the skeletal Nords, sleeping in cut recesses along the damp stone walls.

The pair passed through a low ceilinged chamber, past the mummified bodies of some would-be plunderers who never got the spoils they so sought, and the Raven uttered a quiet, croaking caw. "Hmm?" Gharoth muttered, eyes darting to the bird on his shoulder. "Yes, I'm sure this is a good idea. And regardless, it's a little too late to back out now. After the trouble we went through to get in here..." When the Raven simply stared at him in reply, Gharoth rolled his eyes. "Oh Archie, don't look at me like that." he muttered in exasperation. "Look around us, all of the Draugr are asleep, and the only spiders we've come across have been laying on their backs with their legs curled up. We're fine! Seems the old man was right about the... 'evil in Bleak Falls' being in 'uneasy rest'."

This time, Archie gave a slightly shriller call, shaking his beaked head sharply. "Well... Yes, the 'uneasy rest' part left me feeling a little worried... But, it's not like we're going to find a better time to examine this place."

And so, the duo continued, through chamber after chamber, past a (thankfully) empty Frostbite Spider nest, and deeper into the mountain. They found a strange, circular doorway, but after close to half an hour of muttering incantations and adjusting the mechanisms, Gharoth deduced that some form of key was required to enter this sealed room, and they moved on.

Eventually, they came to a nearly collapsed tunnel which, when followed, led to an almost perfectly square chamber. As they stepped in, and Gharoth raised his torch, the mage's mouth fell open into an "o" of surprise. "By Stendarr..."

Stretched out before them along the walls were several ancient carvings, writings in different Nordic dialects, Draconic, and a rather foul and uncouth language Gharoth could understand little of. As he walked around the chamber, taking sketches of the various inscriptions and carvings, the Breton began to piece together a story from the parts he could read, and that weren't damaged beyond comprehension. "Hmm... Perplexing, perplexing..." he muttered, crouching and wiping a coat of dust from the wall. "This seems to be a tale of fallen Kings... An offer was made... Treachery against the people of Skyrim... I, I think the Dwemer are mentioned but... I can't be sure."

The third language (which he could comprehend next to nothing) continually repeated one word. "Nazgul..." Gharoth placed his torch in an empty bracket, staring intently at the wall, hoping that his glare alone could decipher the secret. "Nazgul... Oh, this his hopeless." The mage threw back his hood, running his fingers distractedly through his medium length and rather messy brown hair, the raven Archie perched on a nearby bracket, watched his master pace back and forth, clicking his beak and cocking his head curiously. The familiar turned his eye toward the wall, then hastily fluttered over to Gharoth's shoulder, cawing raucously.

"A... a tomb, you say?" Gharoth replied, narrowing his eyes and striding back to the wall and examining a section. "You know... I think you're right..." He reached out, trailing his finger beneath a row of words, muttering under his breath. "Yes, this... 'Drive out the tyrants of Earth and Sky... And beneath the mountain, let them lie...' And this word, Nazgul again... But... Where is the tomb?"

This puzzle would remain unsolved, for now. After what felt like hours of study, the pair gave up their search. "C'mon, Archie." Gharoth called to the Raven. "We'll try and find ourselves a room at the Tavern in Helgen for the night." Neither of the travellers were all that keen on traipsing back to Winterhold in the dead of night, especially with the eyes of Bleak Falls on their backs.

[Thanks for reading guys! Hope you enjoyed reading this one. As I've said earlier, if I've left any major mistakes/problems with canon lore etc, let me know so I can fix 'er up. Leave me a review? Tell me who your favourite character is?]