The sun peeked out eagerly behind wisps of clouds, too small compared to the everlasting sky. It was the first thing his eyes found when he left the sewer, dirty and tiny compared to the beautiful environment.
He hummed a bit at the sight, looking at the still water glimmering from the light above. He thought about jumping in and cleaning himself, but he wasn't entirely sure he knew how to swim.
Instead, he sat down on the wooden deck leading out to the stream, pulling the softly-glowing bag into his lap. The Breton dug around, arms extended fully inside, head not taking time to work around how this was physically possible. Finally, he pried it out; a dusty, cracking map, one that he had found off of Glenroy's body.
The thought wasn't really resourceful in the optimism he needed at the moment, so he instead unfolded the paper. It was faded but decipherable, a shape that was presumably a town in the top left singed everso slightly.
He looked towards the center to another black mark, showing where he currently was. Sure enough, he had been in the Imperial Prison, and it kind of stung when that meant absolutely nothing. He desperately needed to do something about that memory of his, or rather, lack thereof.
Sighing, the he reached a thin hand to gently prod a spot on his shoulder, wincing when the slight contact made small waves of pain shoot through his arm. He should put sword fighting on the list of things he needed to learn, because standing there stupidly while a figure in a red robe disarms you and swings a dagger in your shoulder is not fun. That, and how to actually save people instead of having nice chats to them about their impending deaths.
The same hand reached again for something else, too tired and guilty to be surprised when the object found its way to him immediately. The Amulet of Kings glowed brighter than anything he had ever seen, large in his palm. He almost thought about putting it on but abandoned the idea, shoving it back in his bag with a huff and wishing that Baurus was good with healing magic. Or that he was.
The escaped prisoner stumbled to his feet, throwing the bag back over his good shoulder and opting to keep the map out. Regarding it for a few seconds, he headed left, sun already ducking into the growing clouds.
The Imperial City had made him feel that kind of awe when he first saw it, with polished towers and bustling shops. Large wooden gates and small ponds dotted with sacred lotus had guided him by, and the few septims he had made from scavenged potions and armor almost made him overlook the looks he had received from passerby. The whole place left him with a certain kind of nostalgia as he departed, heading out a few hours before sunrise despite the guards' warnings.
Now, the sun was well into the sky once again as he made his walk across the priory grounds. It was just a little ways from Chorrol, pensive grey buildings sharing the same theme as the small city. It wasn't the same as the Imperial City, but the small blooming gardens and cozy farmhouses held their own sort of beauty.
He swung the door open without thinking about it much, closing it gently behind him. A monk at the nearby table noticed his arrival and stood, addressing the Breton.
"Welcome to Weynon Priory, a monastic retreat dedicated to Talos and the Nine Divines." He carried a sort of melancholy, voice low. "I'm Prior Maborel, head of our community, and responsible for all our religious and secular affairs. Now, what can I do for you?"
The priest waited patiently for his answer. "Um," he started. "I needed to speak to Jauffre." The name was a little strange on his tongue, an underlaid questioning tone to his reply.
Brother Maborel studied him for a moment before nodding, taking his seat back at the table. "He should be upstairs," he provided, turning his attention to the scroll in his hands. The Breton smiled a smile nobody saw, feet carrying him up the steps.
The priory was built with dark stone, honey lights giving a certain warmness to the inside that shouldn't otherwise be there. Plush carpets and fine furniture added to the effect, the wooden staircase splitting and leading off to a room holding multiple made beds. He decided on the other way, bookcases heaped with items and more fine carpets leading the way to another priest at the end of the room.
He was situated behind a large desk, head ducked and hands turning at a large book. He held that same deep sadness, too, figure straight and much more muscled than a man that age should be. The escape prisoner stood in front of him nervously for a while, unsure of how to start.
"Jauffre?" He finally decided, voice tiny and half-hidden in his throat. The priest looked up from his book, and he continued. "Are you Jauffre?"
"Yes," he replied, tone conveying slight annoyance. "What do you want?"
He fidgeted nervously, unsure of how to explain. Finally, he just decided to be to the point. "The emperor sent me to find you."
He looked shocked at that. "Emperor Uriel?" He then narrowed his eyes, regarding the Breton with doubled suspicion. "Do you know something about his death?"
"I was there when he died."
The effect was immediate, Jauffre standing in his chair. The action revealed the katana at his waist, the same that the Blades wore in the prison, confirming what Baurus had said.
The Breton looked back into Jauffre's eyes as he spoke. "You better explain yourself. Now."
He launched into a sort of summarization of Uriel's last words, words stumbling over themselves with nervousness he couldn't quite place. When he was finished, he looked hard into Jauffre's guarded eyes as the man sat back down, waiting for him to respond.
"As unlikely as your story sounds," he sighed, rubbing his temples. "I believe you. Only the strange destiny of Uriel Septim could have brought you to me." The Breton smiled at him, not too off-put when he received a blank stare back.
"The emperor asked me to find his son," he told the priest, who was now observing him strangely. "Do you know where he is?"
Jauffre looked pained, almost, as his mouth found the next words. "His name is Martin," he told the escaped prisoner, looking down. "He serves Akatosh in the Chapel in the city of Kvatch, south of here. You must go to Kvatch and find him at once. If the enemy is aware of his existence, as seems likely, he is in terrible danger." He raised his head once more for the response.
He shuffled his feet a little, thinking about what to say to the order. "Um," he started out. "Are you sure I'm the, uh, best one for the job?" At Jauffre's raised eyebrows, he added, "I'm not exactly the best with a sword, or with the land."
It was a bit of an understatement, really; he was terrible with the sword that he didn't even own anymore, resembled a stick, had no reliable knowledge of the area and was probably carrying some nasty diseases if the tone of his skin was anything to go by. Not to mention the hastily wrapped wound on his arm- and really, he was bound to drop dead in a few days just due to stench of the sewers that still clung to his sack outfit.
He couldn't quite decipher what the priest was thinking until the words came out. "If what you say is true, which I hold little doubt that it is, than the emperor picked you for the job. It is only right we honor his last dying wish." He nodded bashfully, hands playing with the seams of his pants. The Breton only raised his gaze when Jauffre rose, going over to a chest to his right and unlocking it.
"Please," he offered, gesturing to the large chest as he sat back down. "I keep a few things here to resupply any traveling Blades. Help yourself to whatever you need." He thanked Jauffre tremendously as he went to open the chest, finding it filled with armor, weapons and potions.
He found the iron armor and brought all the pieces out, laying them neatly down as he then reached for the polished steel dagger and all of the potions inside. He slipped them in his sack with ease, interrupting the priest once more to ask if there was any place he could wash off and change. Following his instructions to a nearby secluded pond in the back just for this reason, he scrubbed off any remains of the prison and set to work on the armor.
He had to pull the straps as far as they could go to accommodate his form, the size built for someone much bigger. He managed to tighten them enough so that they wouldn't move or fall off, having to bring back the gauntlets on the account that he couldn't adjust them, only keeping the oversized helmet because he wasn't a complete idiot. Finally, he was heading back out for the last time, feeling a lot better than when he arrived.
Brother Maborel stopped him near the door, giving the Breton a warm smile. "I know that you are on an important mission for the Blades," he said, getting a nod in return. "Please, if you need a horse, take mine from the Priory stables."
His heart warned up a bit at that. "That's a generous offer," the Breton replied, beaming. "Thank you." Brother Maborel bid him farewell as he walked out the door, footsteps a bit lighter.
The sky had faded into a warm orange hue by now as he made his way to the stables. The Dunmer tending to the two steeds told him which one was Maborel's, red eyes kinder than the last pair he saw.
The Breton went over to a strong paint horse, who regarded him evenly. He didn't exactly know how to ride one, so the same Dunmer helped him on, telling him how to direct her and such as he refilled their pans with fresh water. Finally, he grabbed hold of the reins and urges her forward, relieved when she obediently trotted forward. He guided her to the front of the priory, bringing out the map that another priest had marked helpfully for him, jotting down the major cities in neat script.
"Okay," he murmured to his newfound horse. "Let's do this." And she sprinted off at his will, hooves pounding against the neat Imperial roads under the forming stars.
It was only until he was halfway to Kvatch that he realized he had forgotten to give Jauffre the Amulet of Kings.
He had jumped so hard at the thought that his horse pulled back, jostling him completely and almost knocking him off her back. The Breton had sat there, shocked to the core, until cursing out to the night and urging the horse forward again- and that had been that.
Now, as he walked through the survival camp a certain ways away from the sieged Kvatch, the amulet seemed to weigh down his whole bag. It was jarring, carrying something so precious, but he was too far to turn back.
He left the horse with the others, giving an Orc lady his last few septims to keep her safe. The Breton inquired about Martin, learning that he was a priest and most likely killed in the invasion.
Being told that a man named Savlian Matius might know more, he made his way up the trail to Kvatch with a churning stomach and slow-setting dread. It didn't take long to reach the city, smoke and precisely laid bricks guiding the way.
His sight was immediately directed to a portal of sorts, bright and loud, taller than the walls. It was slightly transparent, only displaying an orange surface that distinctly resembled flames. Interest piqued, he didn't notice the armored captain until he was addressed.
His head snapped forward at the stressed tones. "Stand back, civilian!" He yelled over the noise, and the Breton thought it was a bit unnecessary, but let him continue. "This is no place for you. Get back to the encampment at once!"
He considered asking for more details about what happened, but instead skipped to the point. "I'm not from Kvatch!" He told the officer, voice raising to be heard. "I'm looking for Martin! Do you know him?"
The man shot him a confused look, eyebrows furrowing slightly. "You mean the priest?" At the nod, he continued. "Last I saw him, he was leading a group towards the Chapel of Akatosh. If he's lucky, he's trapped in there with the rest of them, at least safe for the moment. If he's not..." He trailed off, glancing towards the portal.
He sighed, thinking this through. He needed to get Martin, and it was most likely still possible to get the through the walls, but it would likely be guarded by the monsters he had heard of that invaded the city. He felt like trying to help, but the officer made it sound like he wasn't asking for it, and really, it wasn't like he could do much to help either way.
No. Martin was priority at the moment, and even though it made him guilty to think of it, he would have to leave Kvatch to its own devices. "Where's the Chapel?" He finally asked.
The captain regarded him dubiously. "You're not thinking about going in the walls, are you?" At his nod, his eyes hardened. "You realize that the chance of making it back alive are extremely slim, don't you?"
"Please," he begged. "Just tell me."
He finally shrugged, apparently deciding that if he wanted to be a suicidal fool, so be it. "It should be hard to miss. First thing you see when you enter through the gates." He gave the Breton a hard look. "Good luck," he told him before running back to his troops, waiting eagerly for something that he didn't know was.
The Breton nodded to himself, grasping the dagger strapped to his waist for reassurance and pulling on his oversized iron helmet. It barely stayed on his head and he sighed, knowing that he must look like a complete fool, but went forward nonetheless. The portal didn't do anything until he was past it, if the sudden yells and sounds of battle he heard were anything to go by.
He hesitated only for a moment before pushing open the doors.
The twin moons were set in the sky, midnight canvas displaying its many stars proudly. It was beautiful, sure, but he didn't have much time to dwell on that as he saw what lay inside the walls.
There were only four that he could see, with sharp claws and long tails. They all rounded on him immediately, snarls coming from their fanged mouths, and he resisted the urge to dive right back behind the doors. He was not a good fighter, and that fact came back to haunt the Breton as a group of blood-thirsty, snarling monsters bounded towards him.
He managed to dodge the first fireball thrown his way, swiping at the nearest one with his dagger. He really despised that this had been the only weapon that he could actually hold when he had to get close to the little demons, but gave the thing a good gash along its deformed skull. It hissed at him but backed away, eyes completely black.
Another one threw himself at him but he swiped at it, too, making contact with its chest. It shuddered and he took the opportunity to plunge the knife in its stomach. He had to bite back vomit as it collapsed, bleeding.
Just as he was beginning to feel good about himself the other one recovered, pouncing once more and clawing at his face. He avoided it just barely and lunged but was blocked off by another scamp, getting knocked down by the force of it diving on him.
The iron helmet came off his head, rolling away. It reached down with sharp talons, scratching up his cheek badly before he managed to strike it in the arm. The scamp jumped off with a snarl, the others surrounding him as he stood.
The Breton saw more of the creatures come out from the wreckage and burning buildings that now made up Kvatch, growing steadily more nervous. He was surprised he even managed to take out one of them, really, but that wasn't really enough consolation for his impending death. Another one lunged forward, trying to get at his face. He managed to knock it off, but in the scuffle his dagger flew out of his hands.
He came out of his shock quickly enough to grab his helmet and knife, scrambling away towards the large building that couldn't be anything other than the Chapel as more of the creatures ran towards him. His armor weighed him down and despite his sickly thin form he was incredibly slow, so it wasn't much of a surprise when one reached him. He barely pried it off his body, stabbing blindly away.
When he got to the doors, he could only pound on them anxiously upon seeing they were locked. He had to duck to avoid another ball of flame, knocking non-stop on the stone doors.
"Please!" He yelled. "I'm not a monster! Let me through!" No replies came, and his heart sank even lower than he thought it could.
A scamp at his back tackled him from behind, startling him, and the Breton could only yelp as he was thrown against the door. His head was banged painfully against the locked entrance, the metal helmet hastily thrown on rattling his head. He groaned pitifully, more coming to claw against the iron armor he wore.
As he flailed, struggling to stand, more scamps piled up on him. He didn't quite know how, but in a sudden panic his sight went up into flames. His heart sped up and something tugged at his gut, and when his vision came back there were six burned scamps scattered around him, dead.
He stared at the corpses with wide eyes. Did he do that?
He was forced out of the reverie when the doors burst open. A woman with the same armor as the captain outside was the one behind them, brown eyes shining underneath her helmet. She looked at him worriedly, gaze straying to the bodies.
"What," he faltered, quivering. "What took you so long?" It wasn't his intention to be rude, but the timing was slightly ridiculous.
She didn't answer, pulling him inside the doors. He leaned heavily against the walls, watching as the Redguard woman moved back the large dresser holding the doors in place, along with setting back the locks. He supposed that explained the wait, but he was too exhausted to care.
The Chapel was majestic in a way, if not a bit rugged, windows clouded and dirt-covered people huddling over benches. The ceiling reached higher than he felt like looking, air cool and light scarce. You couldn't even hear the battle inside the heavy walls, making the place seem almost like a sanctuary.
She finally finished, walking over to him. "What are you doing here?" She asked, but seemed to regret the harshness of the words when he pulled off his helmet.
"Gods," she breathed, before calling out. "I need a healer!" Someone bounded forward at that but he was too tired to look at them, or much of anything. He was pulled up off the ground, head left spinning at the motion, but let the person drag him off obediently.
The Breton was led down some stairs, feet stumbling and eyes closed as he leaned heavily on the person guiding him. He tried not to feel guilty about that, but he estimated that he probably weighed about two pounds without the armor, so it was a minor consolation. He distinctly heard the opening and closing of a door, and didn't bother to open his eyes even as he was gently pushed into a bed.
It was the other that spoke, deep voice revealing that it was a male. "What have you been doing?" The question sounded like it didn't really require an answer, but he gave it one anyway.
"Running around in sewers," he mumbled. A palm rested on his forehead, soft and smooth, as he spoke. "I wanted to take a bath when I got out, but then the rocks started trying to eat me, so I just went to the priory." He furrowed his eyebrows. "Why do the rocks do that?"
He heard the other man stifle a chuckle. "It was probably a mudcrab," he offered. "Nasty creatures."
The Breton silently agreed, frowning slightly when the palm went away. It went to rest on his cheek instead, and a shimmering sound filling his ears as the broken skin started sewing together. "What are you doing?" He muttered, trying to open his eyes but failing.
Another hand pushed down at the chest he had unknowingly been raising, not hard enough to force, which the Breton appreciated. "It's okay," the voice said. "I'm just casting a small healing spell on you."
He did as he was told, thinking about the spell he had casted on the monsters. It was strange; he had tried to use magicks for a while now, hoping maybe that he would be more successful with that than blades, but had never managed to get beyond a slight spark at his fingers. It seemed that he was right, and if he actually learned how to control that, might actually survive the trip back to Weynon Priory.
Suddenly, his mind came back to him. The spell had stopped long ago and had been replaced by another one, the healer having told him it was to cure the disease he had picked up in the sewers. Before it was finished he jolted up, opening his eyes and trying to ignore the protests his head made.
"I need to find Martin," he said, adapting to the dark room. "The- the priest." He fixed his gaze on the man perched on a stool next to the bed, vision slightly blurred. "Do you know him?"
"Yes," he answered, voice a bit confused and tone more than a little concerned. "Why do you ask?"
"Uriel, he-" he stopped as his vision finally cleared, getting a good view of the man's face. "You," and he faltered at those intense eyes, the color that reminded him of kind smiles and prisons and assassins and death. "You are Martin."
And as the emperor's son nodded, his rich blue eyes twinkled in a way not unlike his father's.