A bit short, but next chapter will definitely be longer, and will come in quicker. By next Sunday? Enjoy the chapter.
Cheydinhal was absolutely stunning.
He hadn't quite seen anything like it. There was the Imperial City, bustling with people, and Bruma, small with a cozy feel. He had traveled to Bravil, barely holding itself up as it was, and Chorrol, which held its own quiet kind of beauty. But Cheydinhal was different.
The buildings all had their own personal touch, guild houses doused in banners and each brick gleaming in the sun. Green was everywhere, sprouting in tufts from the ground or swinging swiftly in the wind from large oak trees. Glimmering rivers wormed their way through the cracks of the hold, quaint bridges extending over the water and holding strong underneath his weight.
It would have been infinitely more beautiful if not for the storming skies overhead, red spikes of lightning raking across the heavy clouds. The few dwindling townspeople daring to step outside held themselves in a defeated manner, as if they were simply waiting for their home to become the next Kvatch. He headed across the length of the city, away from the palace and towards the exit, shoulders set.
He jogged through the fields of flowers, having to stop a few times due to the heavy armor he wore. It was a large difference from his usual light Kvatch cuirass, but ever since he had been accepted into the Blades he hadn't stopped to switch over. There hadn't been a need to, either way- as they waited for Martin to decipher the next part of the spell, the Breton had been off, closing gates near the towns and earning aid for Bruma.
He slowed to a walk as the portal came into view, a bright orange surface encircled with daedric metal. The greatsword at his back hummed with power, as if sensing the world it came from, making him slightly uneasy. The Hero's sides ached, being reminded that with or without armor he was a terribly slow runner, Akaviri katana clanking against his thigh uncomfortably.
The winds seemed to grow stronger as he approached, strings of brown hair whisking into his eyes and bouncing against his forehead. His fingers reached to comb his hair back, shiny silver knife strapped to his arm. It was engraved with the slightest symbols, fading in and out of the metal, giving it a soft blue glow.
The Breton finally reached the gate, standing in front of several corpses. There were a few guards standing around, only one paying him any sort of attention, and that told him wonders. The man went over towards him, helmet snug on his head.
"I advise you to keep your distance from that accursed portal," he warned, shouting over the rumbles of thunder, and the Breton suppressed the urge to laugh.
Very cute, he wanted to say. "Uh, what?" He said instead, mentally face-palming. He was pretty sure that some part of becoming an elite force created to guard the one and only emperor was to be freaking awesome, and he was just as sure that he was failing at that.
The man frowned. "Haven't you heard about these gates to Oblivion opening up all over Tamriel?" He asked, and once again, he nearly erupted into a fit of giggles. Which, admittedly, would have made him look quite mad, but really?
No. I have never heard about them. Not at all. Nope.
"Yes, I have," he shouted over the noise, arms curling around his small frame. He wouldn't mind if Baurus was here to simply push the guard out of their way, or if Martin was here to put a smile on his face. But no, he was left with this guy.
"Well, then, you know what they're capable of producing," he reasoned. "Although, nothing has come out since Farwil entered."
He squinted, racking his brains. Ever since he woke up in that prison (and perhaps even before) he had trouble hanging on to memories. Sometimes they simply slipped past his fingers like fine grains of sand, or faded to the point that they were simply shadows of what they used to be unless he was constantly thinking of them. He didn't remember who Farwil was, couldn't recall the name of the Kvatch captain, completely forgot about the Amulet of Kings-
"Farwil?" He forced out of his mouth, not wanting to follow where his train of thought was leading.
"About two days ago," he answered, voice dropping as the storm quieted. "Count Indary's son, Farwil, entered the Oblivion gate with six other men." His eyes widened, not at the tale but in remembrance. The Count had literally just told this to him!
"By the Nine!" He snapped, huffing. Yes, there were bigger problems at hand, but this was just getting ridiculous. The guard, however, mistook the meaning behind his words, nodding agreeably.
"Such a terrible fate," he murmured. "We haven't heard from them since. The Count fears the worse, and has posted guards here so we can watch and see if anything comes back out. So far, nothing." He was about to continue when the Breton raised a hand, silencing him.
"That's great and all," he offered. "But I have to go now. Sorry." The apology seemed necessary to add, shrugging as he didn't spare a second glance to the taller. The hero walked briskly to the portal, being stopped by a hand that grabbed for his shoulder.
"Hey!" He was turned back around, facing the knight. Sighing, he pulled free of the grip, unamused. "I thought we were done?"
He honestly just wanted to get this over with quickly, especially if others were at stake, but he seemed to be the only one. "I can't let you go in there, citizen," he said, and the Breton narrowed his eyes.
"Well, you also can't convince me otherwise," he replied, adamant, hoping the guard realized he wasn't going to back down. The guard seemed to understand, reluctant but willing.
"If you find any of the Knights of the Thorn, get them out of there," he said, and the Breton recalled Farwil making a little group of followers who were worse with a sword than he himself was. "I'm sure that the Count would also be pleased if the gate was closed."
He could confirm that fact, seeing as he had just struck a trade with said ruler, but saying that wouldn't be any help. Nodding, he turned around once more, taking in a quick intake of breath as he crossed dimensions.
It took two trips into the "Bowels," three mines, one sprained ankle and about fifty flame atronachs to reach Farwil, and when he did, he could honestly say that it probably wasn't worth it.
Oblivion looked just as it always did, with thunderous red skies and dry soil flecked with Harada root and veins of blood. Stones that gleamed in the glowing canvas above peppered the valley, creating a misshapen trail. He found corpses of Farwil's followers along the way, faces so young and armor coated in crimson, and he had to push himself forward and past the regret.
The trail lead him into a series of caves several times, a separate maze on its own. Letters carved into stone morphed into something interpretable, telling him that he was descending into the Bowels. It wasn't a pleasant thought, seeing as the passageways were stuffed full of foul-smelling smoke, but he even got past that.
It was in the expanse of land between cave entrances that he found the mines, stumbling across the trap as he tried to dodge gradually falling boulders from the mountains. They were buried and hidden in sprouts of bloodgrass, going off as his foot stepped on the mechanism and exploding into a assault of fire and light.
His backside hit the ground hard, pain shooting up his right leg. The blast had turned his greaves into a blackened mess, rips running along the black fabric through the gaps of metal. The real damage came from the impact of flying back, ankle throbbing with pain, and he wasn't nearly confident enough with his Magicka to try and heal the sprain.
He grunted, limping heavily through the rest of the way. It proved to be quite a challenge to fight with the cripple, one particular clannfear trying to claw off his face. His heavy cuirass luckily blocked most of the hits, but he came out of the second cave looking much worse for wear.
And, of course, a grumpy Dunmer face was right out there to greet him.
He blinked his big brown eyes in a daze, staring at the other. Red irises examined him thoroughly, as if trying to figure out his worth, and he saw the boy's nose wrinkle in disgust. He probably would've been angry if he had enough energy for it, but in truth, the last of his potions had gone to preserving his strength and sustaining his health.
He furrowed his eyebrows, face sickly green, thinking much too hard. He stumbled, struggling for balance, trying to focus on the Dunmer boy as he spoke.
"It's about time that someone got here," he snarled, just as the Breton began to recover. "What took you so long?"
He heard the hostility in the voice but didn't respond to it, not able to focus on much besides the other boy. It must have been Farwil, then; his face faintly resembled his father's, eyes cold instead of kind.
He breathed in heavily, stumbling again, face pitching forward this time. A blur made itself known from the mess of colors, strong arms grabbing his form and catching him before he could fall. He let the heat and pain overcome him, succumbing into darkness.