The cavern was dark, smelling foul, cold atmosphere chilling his bones. He looked around nervously, wearing his nice and shiny Kvatch armor, sharpened elven dagger at his hip.
He saw the first person right near the entrance, standing guard at a sturdy wooden door. The Breton readied to sneak up on the robed man like he had been practicing for weeks, only to realize he had already been spotted. At least, if the narrowed set of eyes watching his every move was anything to go by.
So much for the practice.
The Breton walked up slowly, seeing that he wasn't being attacked on sight. He was a little lost to be honest, and still surprised that he was even able to find the shrine without help. He knew that the best way to go through this was to go undercover, but the chance of him passing for an assassin seemed pretty bleak. It was shocking he made it this far, actually.
The man spoke first, heavy velvet hood obscuring his face, voice deep. "Dawn is breaking," he said, and the Breton didn't really know what to do with that.
"Greet the new day," he tried, hands ready to pull out his dagger. When the only reply he received was a warm smile he calmed, making a mental note to stop by and thank Tar-Meena for all the help. Especially if he wouldn't have to be fighting his way through this place like he anticipated.
"Welcome, brother," the man said, the same glimpse of a smile peeking out through his robe. "The hour is late, but the Master still has need for willing hands."
Nearly all of that went over his head. Was it necessary to talk in riddles? Maybe this was how the Mythic Dawn spoke on regular basis. Well, that was nice.
"You may pass into the shrine," he continued, luckily oblivious to the Breton's silent musings. "Brother Harrow will take you to the Master for your initiation into the service of Lord Dagon." Gloved fingers pulled out a polished key from within the robe, and the man moved to unlock the door.
"Do not tarry," he warned, watching as the Breton only stared at the passage. "The time of Preparation is almost over. The time of Cleansing is near."
He nodded, moving through the tunnel, trying not to be alarmed when the door closed behind him. Someone was waiting for him in front of another dirty banner, baring the same insignia as the others; a sun just rising from the horizon, portrayed in threaded crimson and pale yellow.
"I am Brother Harrow, warden of the Shrine of Dagon," he introduced. The candles near the banner lit up the small area, bringing a dangerous glint to his Dunmeri eyes. Locks of long black hair rested on Harrow's shoulders, unbound by the usual hood, and the Breton found himself having to raise his head so his eyes would meet the other's.
"Hello," he said, testing his luck. "I've come to serve Lord Dagon." Harrow nodded in acknowledgment, letting the smallest upturn of lips grace his features.
"By following the path of Dawn," he began, keeping a cool and even tone. "You have earned a place amongst the Chosen. You have arrived at an opportune time. You may have the honor to be initiated into the Order by the Master himself."
He tried to express his surprise, but he felt something more akin to fear flow through his veins, icy like poison, and he couldn't really figure out why.
"As a member of the Mythic Dawn," Harrow continued, observing him closely. "Everything you need will be provided for you by the Master's bounty. Give me your possessions, and put on this initiate's robe."
His eyes widened at the request. "Uh, no. I don't think so." Harrow raised his eyebrows, features developing a ghost of a scowl.
"What?" He asked, voice hard. "I must warn you, no one leaves this place who does not bind himself to the service of Lord Dagon." He seemed to force his face to take up a smile, calculating and threatening even so. "But I'm sure you will reconsider. You have proved yourself worthy and dedicated to have come this far."
The Breton watched warily as he held out the other set of robes, collar golden and size too large. "I ask you one last time; give me your possessions. The Master requires it of all the initiates."
He sighs, finally, before taking the enchanted bag from his shoulders. They traded, the material of the robe feeling rough against his hands. Harrow turned so that he could undress unseen, and he managed to slip his elven dagger in one of the robe's folds.
"Very good," he finally said, Harrow holding his Kvatch armor in his arms, and the Breton automatically felt a million times more vulnerable. "Follow me. I will take you to the shrine."
They left through the door ahead, closer to the Amulet of Kings with each step.
He descended the row of stone stairs, floor cold under his bare feet. A voice was speaking in the main chamber room, merely a silhouette in the shadows of flames, words escaping the farthest reaches of his hearing.
There was a small gathering of the Mythic Dawn at the base of the chamber, a beam of pure light set right on the talking figure of Mankar Camoran. The Breton couldn't make out his face from below, only seeing the stainless blue robe that he wore, but his speech made itself apparent as they drew closer.
"Praise be to your Brothers and Sisters," he was saying, voice haughty and proud. "Great shall be their reward in Paradise!"
"Praise be!" They all chanted, but he stayed silent, waiting.
"Hear now the words of Lord Dagon," Camoran declared once the echoes had resided, and his followers tensed. "'When I walk the earth again, the Faithful among you shall receive your reward; to be set above all other mortals forever. As for the rest; the weak shall be winnowed; the timid shall be cast down; the mighty shall tremble at my feet and pay for pardon.'"
"So sayeth Lord Dagon," they chanted, uneven yet strong. "Praise be."
"Your reward, Brothers and Sisters! The time of Cleansing draws nigh. I go now to Paradise. I shall return with Lord Dagon at the coming of Dawn!" He desperately watched as Camoran backed off from the pedestal, itching to march up in his oversized robes and take what he came for. However, he liked to believe that he wasn't an idiot, and he could easily see how that situation would not play out in his favor.
The sweetest kind of shimmering took up the silence, a ray of gold humming into existence. Through this light, he caught a glimpse of the goal of his endeavors, hanging proud and ruby red from Mankar Camoran's neck- just as he disappeared into the portal of gold and into Paradise.
"Advance, initiate," she called from the top of the steps. He followed, rather reluctantly, meeting her olive skin and mischievous eyes.
Everyone was watching him now, their attention drawn to a peak. He nearly tripped on his own clothes on the way up, hands invisible from inside the long sleeves, and his primary thought for a few moments concerned the too large size of everything he seemed to wear.
The elf looked at him calmly, aiming the warmest of smiles to their intruder, just as he noticed the naked Argonian chained under a likeliness of Mehrunes Dagon. It wasn't exactly the most welcoming sights to behold, that was for sure, as his stomach churned uncomfortably.
"You have come to dedicate yourself to Lord Dagon's service," she said, not realizing how wrong she was. "This pact must be sealed with red-drink, the blood of Lord Dagon's enemies."
He glanced again at the prisoner, knocked unconscious for all to see. "Take up the dagger," she continued. "Offer Lord Dagon the sacrificial red-drink as pledge of your own life's blood, which shall be his in the end."
"I will slay the sacrifice," he lied, and she only grinned wider, urging him on.
The Breton made his way to the pedestal behind her, and she let him pass, shoulders brushing briefly. The knife was there, sure enough, crafted from flawless silver and engraved with beautiful designs, but he couldn't bring himself to notice it. No; his eyes were drawn to the object beside it, perched ever so innocently on the stone table.
It was a book, dirty and torn at, crumbling at its own existence. He was almost afraid to touch it, but he did anyway, the tip of his forefinger making contact with the dusty cover. Everything just sort of blurred into the background, hands trembling as they shakily opened the first page, and he couldn't bring himself to question why he cared.
There were symbols, symbols that should've meant nothing, symbols that bent at his will to form words he shouldn't have been able to read. They were screaming in his head, singing in his ears, and he recognized the words of Dagon on the very first page, spoken by Camoran just moments ago. But there was more, so much more- how could the Master have not seen it?
"Of bold Oblivion fire who finds you, for Lord Dagon forever reborn in blood and fire from the waters of Oblivion." He was murmuring now, just under his breath, but he couldn't help it. It was so beautiful, beautiful like the ash the falls on the mountains of the Deadlands, beautiful like the scent of blood in the air, beautiful like the crimson grass that blooms under a sky of fire-
"Initiate," she calls him, voice like the rudest awakening that he could have ever felt. He jolts, book closing in the action, turning around to face the Altmer who was suddenly too close.
"That item is for our Master's hands only," she admonishes, glaring under her hood. But he doesn't really care, not truly. Her approval only seems even more invalid when there's a slit cut across her throat, body falling to the ground.
He doesn't know how fast he's running after that or even where he's going- he only knows that the way he came in is blocked, and how the book folds perfectly into his arms. The falling statue diverted a lot of attention, enough for him to escape the chamber room, but he feels bad that there isn't sufficient time to morn the death of an innocent.
Maybe later. When the book is safe... when he is safe. Priorities.
He travels through the tunnels, looking for someplace to hide. The Breton finds security in the first available spot, sliding under one of the beds crammed into a branching living room. He holds his breath as the Mythic Dawn catch up, bending his body to fit under the furniture and for once proud of his sickly physique.
It's only about two or three that actually enter, the agents making up the shrine splitting in groups, and he starts to realize just how much trouble he has gotten himself into. Only one sticks around, abandoning the others to search, and he knows he only has a little while until he's found out.
When the Breton comes out from the bed to be greeted to a pleasant surprise, Harrow being the only other occupant in the room. He grabs his elven dagger and stabs blindly in the man's back, watching as the assassin falls. Without wasting time he reclaims his bag and armor, tucked safely into Harrow's clothes, swinging it all over his shoulders.
The Breton searches the room for anything else that may prove useful, finding a few potion bottles scattered around the desks. He downs one instantly to reclaim some energy, moving to put the others in his bag, only to find out he has gone invisible.
"Well," the Breton murmurs, impressed. "This could be fun." He continues on through the dimly lit tunnels, trying to find his escape.
Harsh winds whistle through the snowcapped mountains, hooves pounding on the trail winding up to Cloud Ruler Temple. He's infinitely glad that he took one of the horses for the journey so long ago; the Breton doesn't think he would have been able to escape if he hadn't. Well, at least he knows that the invisibility potions don't last forever.
The chestnut steed makes it to the top, coming to a halt just before a pair of stone doors. He recites the practiced knock from before, instantly being greeted by Blades. One of them takes his horse away, directing him to the main hall in the temple.
A warm sensation settles deep in his bones as he makes his way inside, closing the doors gently behind him. The hall is huge, walls made of strong oak and braziers bristling with stoked fires. The Breton's eyes roam across multiple silk banners before settling on Martin, making his way over.
The priest is sitting at one of the tables closer to the fireplace, hands flipping anxiously through a book. The Imperial doesn't take notice of him, even as he sits down, and he clears his throat nervously.
Martin's head snaps up, blue eyes meeting his own, and he breaks out into a smile. "Ah, you're back," he beams, setting the book down. "I told Jauffre not to worry."
"Yeah," he answers, voice hollow, and Martin gives him a small frown.
"I can see you have bad news," he remarks. "You didn't recover the amulet, did you?"
"No," he admits, bringing out his bag. He lays it on the table, shuffling through the contents. Slender fingers finally grasp at the prize, pulling out the tattered novel. "But I found this."
Martin's jaw goes slack. "The Mysterium Xarxes?" His voice is quiet while the Breton just looks down, pondering the name. A series of Commentaries, just for this broken, withering thing? That was kind of pathetic. Which was, of course, why he had stumbled his way through a mob of blood-thirsty assassins for it.
Martin's next words break through his reflections, too loud and angry. "By the Nine!" He shouts, and the Breton can feel the wandering eyes traveling over to the scene. "Such a thing is dangerous even to handle!"
He shrinks back into his torn at Mythic Dawn robe, just a little, reminded of the Imperial sewers and the Blades' heavy words as they readied themselves to kill him. Well, it was refreshing to know he was still the same coward as he was a few weeks ago.
Martin observes him, expression apologetic. "Forgive me," he says, much softer. "You were right to bring it. But you'd better give it to me. I know some ways to protect myself from its evil power."
He reaches out calloused hands, then, waiting for the book, and the Breton would be lying if he said he didn't want to refuse. It was as if the Xarxes were screaming at him, urging him to thrust his dagger into Martin's throat, just to keep all their precious knowledge to himself-
The book goes into Martin's hands and out of his, and that's that. Martin seems pleased, giving him a small nod as he tucks the object away, and the Breton tries not to feel crestfallen at the act.
"So," he tries, feeble. "Can the Xarxes lead us to Camoran?"
Martin sighs, considering the question. "I don't know," he eventually decided. "Maybe." He waits for the priest to continue, which he does. "I suspect that the secret of how to open a portal to Camoran's Paradise lies within these pages. But I will need time. Tampering with dark secrets, even just reading them, can be very dangerous," and doesn't he know it? "I'll have to proceed carefully."
"You know you can do this, right?" He asks, aiming to sound convincing. "If anyone can save the world, it's you, really."
"I really appreciate that," he says, tones the sweetest they could possibly be, and the Breton warms up just a little bit more. "Thank you." Martin smiles, just a little, but he thinks that it's enough.