The portal to Oblivion lay right in front of him, daedric metal entwining a mass of fire. Heat resonated off the gate, smoke coming off from it in tiny tendrils, distinct shapes in the flames swirling around all that it was.
And he was about to go in the thing.
He rolled his shoulders, giving a backwards glance to Savlian, who replied with a confident smile. He turned back, looking at the barely intact walls of Kvatch, a small curse going out to the last son of Uriel Septim before stepping through.
It wasn't nearly as painful as he thought it would be, just a sort of warmness spreading over his gut. He almost expected to sail straight through the portal, but the world that greeted him on the other side was definitely not Tamriel.
His eyes glazed over, pupils wide with fear at the sight. The sky was made of fire and orange lightning, thunder booming across the whole land. The earth under his feet was cracking, stained red. The air smelled of smoke and tasted like blood, and a jagged gate stood tall directly in front of the portal, guarding the shadow of a huge tower in the distance.
The Breton would've stood there longer, gawking in horror, if not for an inhuman screech. His eyes found a scamp similar to those that had been invading Kvatch, bounding over to one of the city's guardsmen. As he watched, the guard ran past the gate, holding up his shield to block against the creature. The Breton grabbed a hold of the sharpened steel dagger strapped to his waist, courtesy of Tierra, running over to the two.
The guard jumped in shock when he caught sight of him, mouth slack under his chain-mail helmet, shield lowering slightly. His blade went through the scamp's stomach before it could take advantage of the weakened defense, pulling it out of the limp body with little difficulty.
"Hello," he greeted the guard, a bit too cheerfully in a place like this. He glanced down at his dagger, covered in rich crimson, before sheathing the weapon and holding out a hand to shake. "Are you Ilend Vonius?"
The man disregarded the hand completely, going forward and enveloping the Breton in a bone-crushing hug. He stumbled back in surprise, but didn't push the guard back as he started to speak.
"Thank the Nine!" He exclaimed, and the arms around him tightened for a moment. "I never thought I'd see another friendly face," he admitted, and the quiver in his voice made the Breton slightly reluctant to pull back.
"So you are Ilend?" He asked, reciting the name as Matius had told him, and the man gave a nod. "What happened?"
Ilend trembled slightly. "The others... taken... they were taken to the tower!" He choked out. "Captain Matius sent us in to try and close the gate. We were ambushed, trapped, and picked off. I managed to escape, but the others are strewn across that bridge. They took Menien off to the big tower. You've got to save him! I'm getting out of here!" The Breton held out his hands, taking a deep breath, and Ilend waited.
"Hold on," he said, slightly hating himself, but if he was going to close the gate for some stubborn priest, he wasn't going to do it alone. "I could use your help here."
Ilend seemed to consider it, before reluctantly nodding. "You're right. You're right," he amended. "I can't just leave poor Menian to his fate. If he's still alive, we've got to try to save him. Alright," he said, grip tightening on his sword. "Lead the way. Let's find Menian and get out of here."
The Breton smiled thankfully, heart lifting a little. Okay, so he had help. Now what?
He knew what tower to go to, but it was far out into the strange plane. The heat was starting to get to him, sweat plastering his messy brown hair to his forehead, and the Breton already missed Martin's spells. They had made him feel a million times better, but the effects already seem to start wearing off, and he didn't know quite how far his mental well-being was going to tolerate Oblivion for a couple strangers he literally met within the last two days.
Three days? Hm.
He sighed before taking up a slow walk, picking his way over the crumbling ground under his feet. His eyes kept darting from side to side, anxious, as Ilend followed at the same pace from behind. A few monsters came at them, but it was a relatively easy journey until they reached the plants.
They weren't like the clumps of who-knows-what he had spotted, sitting at the crooks of lava pits and growing between rocks. No, these were huge and lightly colored, thorns protruding along the length of the vines, and they didn't think much of it until one of them lashed out across his face.
He stumbled back in shock, holding out a hand when Ilend started to run towards him. The Breton slowly backed up from the root, wincing at the feeling of hot air against the cut. The scratch was deep, running along the side of his face from his right temple to his chin, and blood already started peaking through the cracks. He was glad that Martin had healed his previous wound on his cheek as the root shuddered, whipping at the skies above.
"C'mon," he mumbled, and they did, picking their way over through a couple more scamps. His skin felt as if it was going to melt off from the heat as they reached the tower, air heavy and forceful down his throat. That pain combined with an ache that had settled in his bones distracted him enough that he didn't see the monster hiding in the shadows, face abhorred and sword wicked.
It screeched as his foot touched the steps leading to the entrance, a ragged door camouflaged within the walls and marked with strange symbols, and he winced at the sound. He barely managed to dodge as its blade came for him, and the Breton caught a close view of the marred sword, made of crimson-stained metal and glowing softly.
Ilend came up behind him, striking the creature, but his sword merely glanced off its skin. It snarled at the guard, face so twisted he couldn't face it, and fire untangled itself from inhuman fingertips to knock the man back. The Breton shouted at that, running forward and placing all his might into a stab directly into the monster's forehead, suddenly glad that Martin had forced some food down his throat before he left on his quest.
What had he called it? "Idiotic task" or " utter suicide" or something equally disheartening? That was definitely agreeable, he mused to himself, extracting the dagger out of the beast's skull. That, and all evidence that proved he was a fool that seriously needed to get his priorities straight- because, even though they might be pretty, you don't go strolling through gates of Oblivion for a dead king and his dumb son. Unless you were, in fact, a fool that needed to get his priorities straightened.
He ran over to where Ilend lay, groaning, gently removing the guard's fingers from his chest to observe the wound. The Breton winced at the sight, chain-mail armor melting into skin, Kvatch symbol on his cuirass smoking. He wished he had noticed the various bruises and wounds covering the man's body, wished he actually knew how to use Magicka, because Ilend was dead before he hit the ground.
The Breton said a few words to gods he didn't know the names of, standing up and observing the sword left by the beast. He was pretty sure that they were called daedra, at least, but he didn't think it truly mattered.
The blade itself was smooth, point unimaginably sharp, the darkest red he had ever seen and inscribed with strange symbols that glowed white at angles. The hilt was jagged, handle rough but mending perfectly with his palm. It was heavy in his hand so he held it in both, the weight somehow balancing between the sturdy grip, metal cool to the touch.
He felt ashamed about it, but there was no way he was leaving this weapon behind- not something this beautiful. After several failed attempts at trying to put the sword in his bag he had brought along (because even enchantments had limits, it seemed) he remembered the rusty greatsword he had found in the tunnels through the Imperial Prison, and his shaking hands finally found it's sheathe, complete with a strap. He secured the daedric sword around his back, realizing that he was in no fit condition to swing something that heavy around, and dug out his last two potions.
He downed the larger one, feeling his energy seep back into him like one of Martin's spells. The Breton slipped the smaller one back in the bag hanging from his belt, and the iron armor he wore didn't feel as heavy and limiting as it had throughout the journey. He gave one last fleeting look to Ilend Vonius's corpse before heading to the door.
The door didn't have any handles, but quivered at his touch. When it opened, it split in the middle, gooey substance stringing across the opening and hanging from the sides. He was careful not to cut himself from the pointed spikes that seemed too much like teeth dotting the opening, cringing slightly as his skin made constant with the strange substance.
The inside was dark and cool, feeling like bliss to his burning skin. The door clamped shut behind him, the first thing he noticed being a fiery beam functioning as the centerpiece of the tower. It was surrounded by a large pit, shooting upwards into a ceiling he couldn't find, emanating a sound he couldn't place.
The Breton stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, hearing the snarling of creatures that amazingly hadn't seen him yet. Perhaps they were blind? He didn't dwell on it, eyeing a strange pedestal displaying a ball of blue light near the doorway. He decidedly backed away from it, pulling out his dagger when as he was spotted.
There were only a few scamps in the room, and it was slowly becoming easier to defeat them. As he made his way into the side passages, eyes squinting in the darkness of the halls and gradually ascending the tower, he grew better at dodging their strikes and stabbing their hearts. It went smoothly for a long while, barely evading traps but escaping them all the same, when he suddenly found himself out into the plane of Oblivion once more.
The bridge was far too narrow and the drop far too deep, smoky air and high temperature trying to burn him into a crisp. He craved to go back inside but needed the key to the door to continue, and this was the only other passage he hadn't traveled through yet.
He made his way carefully across the bridge, iron armor overpowering his sickly thin form, his newly acquired daedric sword clanking against his back. The Breton made a resolution to himself that if he actually got out of this alive, the first thing he was going to do was stuff his face silly with food, Martin Septim and Kvatch all be damned.
His hands reached out to the slab of stone that stood for doors in this Realm, finding it to open too slowly for his liking. As soon as it closed behind him, air not as cool but room not as dark, he heard the scared cries of an actual person.
Menien, he remembered, deducting that the shouts came from above. The building was arranged in a demented spiral, branching off the main tower, half crumbling on its roots. He started upwards, not taking sight of the daedra until he was at the top.
It spoke before attacking, voice rumbling and unimaginably deep, sounding like it was gurgling its own blood as words escaped its tongue. "You should not be here, mortal," and the sentence sent shivers down his back. "Your blood is forfeit!" It yelled, and the Breton saw who he presumed to be Menien cowering in his cage. "Your flesh is mine!"
It came forward with a nasty looking mace, and he almost died from fear right there. It seemed easier when Ilend had been with him, out in the open plane- but this, this was downright terrifying, and reminded him of his terrible lack of sword skills.
He avoided the first strike, observing that all manner of Oblivion nasties were ugly and clumsy, but was not prepared for the second that raked his armor. It didn't cause any fatal wounds thanks to the tough metal shielding him, but the Breton found the breath knocked out of his lungs. He stumbled and fell back on the floor, head banging against the wall, and regretted the idiotic decision to leave his helmet back at the chapel- even if it was three times the size of his head, so was everything else he wore.
Black beady eyes gleamed down on him, mace raised to come crashing down at his skull, and he braces himself for death. When it didn't come he pried open his eyelids, being greeted with the sight of the daedra sprawled out on the floor. Frost was lightly dusting the back of the creature, the after-effects of the spell it was blasted with, and he took the chance to reclaim his fallen dagger and thrust it through the monster's one weak point.
Only when the body went limp did he pull the weapon out of its skull, wiping the possibly permanent blood-tainted blade off on his person. It didn't do much to clean against the armor, but it never did, and it really wasn't the biggest problem to deal with right now, so he just sucked it up and sheathed the knife. His head was still pounding and his nostrils were full of the scent of decay, which he didn't quite understand, but he pushed it aside and went to the man who had saved his life.
"Thank you," he managed to choke out, tone sincere. The man didn't face him, huddled in a small ball in the corner, and he distinctly wondered if this was the guy who had blasted the daedra to pieces. "Um," he began, like he always did. "Are you Menien?" His mind fumbled for the last name Savlian had given him, but he couldn't find it. He decided to let the question settle roughly in the air, waiting for a response.
He let his attention wander over the room while Menien gradually deranged himself from the defensive position, regretting it when he looked to the ceiling. Naked corpses were strung to the top, mutilated and rotten, and he suddenly found he could place the smell of death. The Breton had to push down the bile coming up his throat, stomach churning at the sight.
Menien's rough voice jarred him from his thoughts. "Have you got the key?" He asked, jumping to a shout when he only received a dumbfounded look. "You must get the Keeper's key- it's the only way into the Sigil Keep!"
He blinked. "Sigil Keep?" He questioned, but Menien seemed to be done talking, only mumbling nonsense under his breath and rocking slightly. The Breton nodded to himself, working up the courage to approach the daedra's corpse. After a few embarrassing moments of fumbling through the cracks and chips of its armor- which, a dark part of his mind mused, was probably the creature's natural skin- he found the key tied to its neck. It was secured by a strong chain of dark red metal, the same the greatsword on his back was made from, and he had to tug it roughly off the daedra's neck.
He didn't pay the item any mind, simply stuffing it into his bag and crawling back over to the Kvatch guard. The man now had his eyes trained steadily on him, and the Breton liked to imagine it was because he had figured out he wasn't going to hurt him.
He opened his mouth to speak, but was never given the chance. Menien's stressed tones hushed any words he could have provided, form shaking. "Take the key. Get to the Sigil Keep, and find the Sigil Stone. It's the only way."
He held up his hands, and Menien cowered in response, so he put them back down and instead spoke. "Listen," he tried to reason. "You're under a lot of trauma right now. How about we get you out-"
"No!" He shouted harshly, and the Breton stopped. "Don't worry about me, there's no time! Get moving!" He sighed, standing, and started to observe the cage for any openings.
The guard only watched him cautiously, lips pulled into a frown, his face dirty with soot and blood. Seeing as the daedra used corpses for decor, he didn't really want to know what they had done to the guard. No; the only thing he wanted to know was how to get him out.
And it was when the guard started crying, whispering more words of nonsense to himself, that he realized that the cages were built to only hold things inside of them- not to set them free.
He decided to call the tower the Blood Feast.
It had something to do with the pit of lava and the fiery beam, because he realized that at a distance they looked more like blood than flames. Mostly though, it was because of the strange symbols scrawled out on the doors; if he looked at them hard and long enough, he could find readable words inside the mangled shapes, some of them that he didn't want to read.
The Breton had spent a few hours doing exactly just that: staring at the door, trying to figure out how the damn key went through it. The key wasn't much of a key at all, simply a glorified metal twig, so when he punched the closed entrance in frustration and felt a slight burning in his palm, he came to the notion that the "key" wasn't for this door.
It did, however, fit perfectly into the thin slot embedded in the top door, all the way on the highest floor so that he could see the ceiling. The marks on the walls told him it was the Sigilium Sanguis, and when he watched the Dremora topple over the railing and into the lava pit hundreds of feet below, only feeling a sort of resignation, he realized that he was going a bit crazy.
The Breton forced himself through the last room. The floors leading up to the Sanguis squished under his feet, pale and bloody, smelling of decay. He flinched every time his feet walked across the spans of no doubt human flesh, hands grasping at the walls in sudden sickness, and downed the very last potion he had saved for this occasion. It felt warm in his gut like the ones back in the sewers had but unlike Martin's spells, and he realized he had picked one of the potions that didn't work.
He ran for the top.
The large cluster of Dremora and scamps caught onto him quickly, swords bristling, the beam of fire so close to his person that he could feel the heat radiating off it in waves. He only killed about two scamps before realizing that this would not end well if he played the hero, and dashed up the last floors. These were soft and bouncy under his iron boots, too, but too red and strong to be the remnants of men and mer. He shivered still, hating Oblivion more and more by the second.
The Breton didn't get very far up until he was cornered. It was at the very top, the stone engulfed in rich flames in the corner of his eye, but snarling daedra blocked his path to freedom. They knocked the dagger out of his hands swiftly, and it went down over the edge, going, going, gone- like his life would be.
He reached out to pull his daedric greatsword, feeling it mend into his palms, but only hissed when that comfort turned into a full-blown burn. He hastily dropped the weapon, regretting the decision immediately, but then the regret turned into spite and he was almost happy to let it go.
He didn't fully register when he reached down into the pit of his stomach, feeling fear and helplessness and the disbelief of being so close- didn't fully register when a storm sparked at his fingertips and blew the monsters away. Didn't register when he grabbed onto the Sigil Stone, or when he reclaimed his sword in a fit of desperation. He only noticed the flames eating at the world around him, pulling both objects to his shivering form, knowing that the stone would take him home.
The fire died after seconds- seconds that felt like years, wasting away in a Realm of heat but feeling much too cold. The rain was welcome, drops of water pouring down his bright-red skin, smoke coming off from the contact. The darkness was even more welcome; taking him away from the world, forcing his eyelids shut.
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