Mehrunes Dagon's army was impressive, boasting a Daedra from every caste, class and location. After just a short time, they'd easily accepted Him into the army, but with little instruction or training. He figured they probably assumed He knew what was going on and assumed, incorrectly, that He had battle experience.
Even though the majority of the creatures ignored Him, He thought perhaps He could pick up tricks if He watched them long enough.
But there were so many!
Everywhere He looked in the Deadlands, there were Daedra training, Daedra marching, Daedra talking. And none of them wanted anything to do with Him.
After a few failed and awkward attempts to start conversations with other Kyn, He gave up. They all looked at Him like He was a mortal when He said hello to them.
He picked up some training habits from watching the others, but for the life of Him, He couldn't figure out if anyone was in charge. Surely there was someone in charge, but who were they and where were they? Was he supposed to be reporting to them?
This, He supposed, was the downside to having such a massive army.
A Banekin ran by His feet, chattering angrily as it went. It glared at Him as it passed and He frowned, wondering what He had ever done to deserve that.
"Yeah, you better run!" a voice shouted after it. There was a Dremora on a nearby rise, shaking his fist at the beast as it stomped away.
He looked familiar…
"Hey, Kyn!" the Dremora greeted, "Is that you? Remember me? From Cold Harbor,"
"Oh!" He exclaimed. "Yes! You were the one who always wanted to throw Banekins!"
"Yes!" The other Dremora said, flinging his hand wide. "That's me! I'm still wanting to throw Banekins!"
They were finally close enough to not be yelling, and He found himself relieved to see a familiar face. His old friend frowned, "What are you doing here?"
"Same as you, most likely." He answered. "I'm looking for the glory of battle, and rumor has it Mehrunes Dagon is the one to work for to make that happen."
"Yeah, he's got some big scheme worked up," His friend confirmed. "But its guaranteed to mean battle!"
He hesitated, not wanting to admit He had no idea what was really going on. "I'm a little lost, actually. I'm not sure who I'm supposed to be reporting too?"
His friend waved a hand, "Don't worry about it. Stick with me, we'll just take on the foolish mortals together!"
That sounded like a great plan, and one He could get behind. He readily agreed, stifling an out loud breath of relief.
Everything was coming together.
This was it!
His first battle. His first true test of skill. His moment!
Mehrunes Dagon's forces were in the process of creating something they called a Great Gate, but He wasn't really sure why it was great.
Maybe they meant "great" because it was big.
Regardless, this was it.
His friend was practically jumping up and down beside him, just as excited. He'd said he'd been in a few small skirmishes, but nothing like what awaited them on the other side.
Apparently the gate was near a town called Bruma, which sounded really familiar, but He didn't dwell on it. Apparently there was also a horde of humans on the other side.
He couldn't wait.
The gate burst to life with fiery sparks and a roar like a Daedroth, filling the space between obsidian spires with swirling Oblivion Magicka.
A sudden raucous call went up around the gathered forces of Lord Dagon. And what a varied assortment they were. He never seen such variety since Molag Bal's attempt at the Planemeld.
That felt like such a long time ago now.
All the denizens of Oblivion moved towards the gate, and He had no option but to comply and move with them. It didn't take long to reach the gate, but by the time they did, everyone had altered positions and He felt a tad claustrophobic.
There were multiple figures blocking His view and several that bumped into Him with enough force to make Him stumble.
Everyone was looking forward to the battle, He was sure.
The gate loomed in front of Him, dark and blistering, a comforting sight to behold. With no time to even take a breath, He was swept along with the tide that entered.
In a split second, the Deadlands were behind them, and an unfamiliar, disgusting visage of bright colors and clean air greeted them.
He could only assume this was Mundus, in all its' horror.
But, the silver lining on the black cloud was that a battle raged around Him on all sides.
The sound of steel clashing upon ebony, the sight of magick spells tossed hand to hand, the pained screams. It was everything He had hoped it would be, and more.
He took one step towards the heart of the battle, searching for a target to slay.
An arrow suddenly flew out of nowhere and embedded itself in His knee.
Someone had shot Him! In the knee! With an arrow!
What kind of monster would do that?!
It had managed to hit the space between the plates of His armor and found purchase in the fleshy substance beneath.
He toppled, surprised and overrun by the unexpected pain.
He hit the ground without any dignity, and promptly pushed Himself up, trying to get a glimpse of whatever mortal dared to fire at Him, but He quickly gave up on that notation when moving only increased His pain.
Whatever noise he made as He cradled His injured limb was thankful lost in the din of battle, but He looked around with less appreciation now.
Everyone He looked, His Kyn were being felled, one by one. Yes, some mortals fell, too, but it didn't look like either side was winning.
"I don't want to be here!" He exclaimed. No one heard Him, of course, but He whined again; "I want to go back!"
Ignoring the pain, he started to crawl His way back towards the gate, hoping to get through and back on the other side.
At least there He would be able to breathe.
He hadn't made it that far from the gate, but it seemed to take phases just to get near it now. His path was blocked suddenly by two humans doing battle with a group of Dremora and Clanfear. He wasn't sure with them being mages that He could make it past without being destroyed.
Off to the side was an outcropping of boulders. It was close enough He thought He might be able to get to it, but perhaps far enough away that He could figure out His next move.
He began to crawl his way there, wincing as a fellow Dremora Kyn fell dead right beside Him. Somewhere in the distance a loud explosive of magick hit and a shower of dust sprinkled Him as He moved.
He was so close, so very close to those rocks…
A scamp ran by, making that weird laughing, growling sound that they did, and didn't even glance His way.
He frowned, annoyed.
Typical.
The rocks were almost within reach, but he had to roll out of the way as a mortal's body came crashing down, landing in a heap where He'd been a moment ago. The body was mangled by what looked like several bashes from a mace.
"What are you doing?!" a female Dremora shouted at Him, mace in hand with blood still dripping from it. "Get up and fight!"
Before she even finished speaking, an arrow pierced the back of her head, then her arm, then her chest. She swayed, then crumpled to the ground.
He didn't need more of an initiative to move then that.
Finally, the rocks were in front of Him, and He used the rest of His adrenaline from the battle to haul Himself up and over.
Once on the other side, He heaved himself up to a sitting position to look as His leg, still amazed that someone had shot Him.
The sounds of battle were ringing in His ears, and His very being was torn between wanting to rush down into the thick of it, and run away where He'd never have to hear it again.
"I told you not to go down there!" a voice said, coming into range.
He froze.
That was a mortal's voice.
"I should be helping," another voice said.
There was a half-laugh, half-snort. "Oh, okay. With your vast knowledge of warfare, eh?"
He peeked over one side of the boulders, trying to get a look at what was going on. He strained and heard footfalls, though they sounded odd.
"I did help, you know,"
"This guy took a spell for you!" the first voice insisted.
Finally, coming up a small ridge, were two—no, three—figures. One was half carrying another which was why the footsteps sounded so odd.
The third was wearing impressive armor and looked sheepish at the last comment. "Well, yes,"
"Well, yes," the first voice, a female, mocked. "Look, I'm the hero, as everyone likes to tell me, so I'll do the hero stuff. You stay out of harm's way so you can do whatever with that amulet when I get it back."
She shifted the weight of the body she was dragging and then carefully they both lowered the armored figure to the ground. He groaned and mumbled some nonsense about it being an honor to take a spell for the future emperor.
The woman rolled her eyes. "Save it for when you're having drinks later with your friends. It'll make a fine story."
"I-I don't think I'll be telling any stories," the man muttered, sounding pained.
She shook her head, "No! No one is dying. You will be fine."
He muttered something unintelligible from His vantage point, but the finally figure shook his head. "No, our friend is right. You will be fine."
"You better be," the woman said, voice strained but amused. "I went back for you and everything,"
He watched as they worked to heal him, magicka flowing in gently glowing waves, and He was surprised that it seemed to be working.
"You should go, you need to get inside that gate," the man in the more ornate armor said.
She frowned. "You saw what happened when I tried, it shoved me back."
"We didn't consider that the gate might not allow mortals in," he concurred. "I suppose I should have…"
"I'll figure it out." She said, shrugging. "Just promise me you'll stay put."
He seemed reluctant and she glared at him. "I am not kidding, Martin. If I have to save you one more time, I'll kill you myself when this crisis is over. What part of you being the only one who can use the amulet do you not get?"
"Alright, alright. I'll avoid the battle." he finally agreed.
He had been leaning, straining to see and hear their conversation, but was avoiding using His legs, for fear it would hurt more. But as He tried to shift, His gauntleted hand slid against the stone beneath it and made the most horrid screeching noise.
He winced and dropped down, hoping that they hadn't heard it.
"What was that?"
He winced again. Well, that wasn't good.
He looked around, trying to see if there was an easy escape path, but there was no such route. It was only a matter of time.
The mortals would find Him. They would kill Him.
With a spell? With more arrows? With swords and daggers?
Footsteps wandered towards Him and he braced Himself for the end, racking His brain for a final, triumphant battle cry.
The female of the group cautiously came around the pile of boulders, bow drawn back and ready to fire.
He was about to shout His final words when she paused and cocked her head to one side.
"Steve?" she said.
He blinked. Once, twice.
It was her.
The mortal from Cold Harbor. All those phases ago…
But that was impossible!
"It is you!" she said, lowering her bow but keeping the arrow notched. "And they say the Aurbis is so big…"
He just gaped at her. She grinned, "Oh, you probably don't remember. From Cold Harbor. I was that crazy one in the prison who always gave you a hard time. Fancy meeting you here. I've run into a lot of Molag Bal's old goons, actually."
"I…do remember you." He said slowly, knowing He was only dragging out His evitable demise.
She smiled, "Really? That's great!"
Great?
She was crazy!
They were enemies!
He should have wanted to kill her where she stood, but truly all He wanted was to run away, back through the portal and return to Oblivion.
The mortal realm was a very scary place.
"What did you find?" her companion asked, boots crunching on the somewhat frozen ground as he approached.
The minute he saw the Dremora, his hand reached for the sword at his side. The blonde woman's eyes widened and she thrust her arm out. "Whoa! No, he's fine."
He winced, fully expecting a blow all the same, and was surprised when her companion actually hesitated. He was looking at her like she had lost her mind. She just smiled.
"He's an old…um…well, friend isn't the right word, but he's fine, no need to draw steel, Martin." she explained. As if to prove her point, she placed her bow onto her back.
'Martin' frowned at her, "Of course you are friends with Daedra. I really shouldn't be surprised by anything you do or say, should I? Is this like you claiming you met Vivec?"
"I did meet Vivec!" she insisted, sounding annoyed. She rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the Dremora. "Actually, Steve,"
"Steve?" Martin commented beside her, sounding utterly baffled.
They ignored him.
"Maybe you can help me." She finished.
He blinked. "With…what?"
Now He was making deals with mortals. He had to be the worst Dremora in all of Oblivion.
The woman pointed towards the Gate looming in the not-too distant, distance. "I need to get inside of that."
"You want to go inside the Great Gate?" He repeated, confused.
She nodded. "Yes, I…well, nevermind why, just when I tried, it repelled me. I've been through gates before and never had that problem."
"I don't make the gates," He informed her, trying to keep His voice even. He didn't want her to get frustrated with him and shoot him in the eye.
His knee still hurt.
"Well, I figured. But I thought maybe you might know something useful?" she asked.
For all His aversion, she was actually being very…polite.
"I…don't know." He admitted. "I've never gone through them from this way. I don't think the Great Gates were made for that."
"Hmm…like Daedric Arches and Dolmens…" she mused, tipped her chin.
"Perhaps it's because you are from here, Nirn, that you cannot pass through the gate." Martin suggested. "That would make sense; you do not belong to that place, so you cannot enter."
"What if I had a proxy?" she said, turning back to the Dremora. "If I followed you through, maybe then the gate would let me go."
"You want me to take you through?" He asked, startled. "That would be a betrayal, I could never!"
She held up her hands, "Alright, I understand. I'll grab a corpse of one of the other Dremora and try with them." She made a face, "Sorry, those are your friends down there. I didn't mean to be insensitive."
"They are not my friends." He muttered.
He shifted and instantly regretting it as pain laced up His leg.
"Ouch, someone shot you in the knee?" the mortal woman said, gesturing to his wound. "Nasty! Here, let me see."
He pulled away from her as far as He could as she knelt down. She paused and held up her hands, "I'm not going to hurt you,"
He didn't believe her.
She gently poked at His knee and frowned. "My magic won't work on you, but I can at least take this arrow out. It'll hurt for a second."
Looking up at him, she offered a small smile. "Do you trust me?"
"No."
She laughed, then, and shrugged. "Fair enough."
Her fingers wrapped around the shaft of the arrow. "Ready, dreadful Dremora number one?"
He sucked in a breath and nodded.
She wasn't kidding when she said it would hurt; the arrow came out cleanly enough, and He managed to only make a small sound of compliant.
She tossed the arrow aside and inspected the wound once more. Her friend muttered some sort of incantation under his breath. The words sounded somewhat…odd coming from a mortal.
Reddish light engulfed his fingertips and he carefully touched the wound. It eased some of the pain, but didn't close the wound all the way.
The blonde raised an eyebrow at the same moment the Dremora did.
Martin shrugged, "Tricks you pick up dabbling in arcane pursuits."
"Why help me?" He asked, suspicious. "I won't help you through that gate,"
She sighed, "I know you won't, but I wish you would."
"Are you concerned for your pathetic mortal lives? Concerned that your realm will be brought to utter ruin?" He mocked. He was irritated with their assistance, and more irritated with Himself that He needed any help at all.
"Yes." she whispered earnestly. "I am concerned that everything around us will crumble to nothing but dust. I am concerned for the lives lost, and those yet to lose. Aren't you?"
"Dremora know no fear," He snapped.
"Horker dung," she retorted. "You know fear, you simply master it. I am no different. I have seen the end of eras, the rise and fall of countless cities, empires…but that doesn't change that war is an ugly affair."
She gestured to the battle still raging behind Him. "What are you fighting for? Do you think Dagon cares one whit about anything but destruction? My people die, and so do yours. Friends or not, the loss of life is a cruel truth to this wheel, isn't it?"
She suddenly laughed, hollowly, bitterly, and stood. "Dremora pride themselves on strength and mock us of weakness, yet…what is the greater strength? To fight when you know the animus will bring you back, or to fight knowing you are mortal?"
He blinked, not having thought of it that way.
He remembered the horror of the battle from a few minutes before.
"Both our peoples are dying," she whispered. "And for nothing. You follow someone who cares not for anything but his own goals."
"You think your leaders are any different?" He challenged.
She nodded, "I do. But even if they were not, even if this empire falls to darkness…the idea of something better lives on. I fight for that idea. Mortals and Daedra are not so different, Steve."
Apparently deeming the conversation over, she turned back to Martin and drew her bow. "I'm going to try and using our new plan to get through. If it fails, if…if I fail, then this is our last stand."
Whatever Martin was going to say in reply was cut off as He stood, "Mortal, I will go with you and help you get through that gate."
She turned to look at Him, surprised. "Why?"
"Because I want to see this strength of yours in action." He replied.
She slowly smiled and nodded, "Then let's go. Can you walk?"
"Yes."
He wasn't sure if that was true, but He wasn't about to admit anything of weakness to these humans.
She must have noticed this before she gave Him a look and then reached out to steady Him, putting her bow away in favor of a sword. "Alright, to the gate."
He was loathe to return to the battle, but he followed her all the same.
"Stay here Martin!" she called back one last time.
As they decesened into the fight, she muttered; "Damnit it all if he doesn't listen to me." Glancing up at Him, she shook her head. "He's been nothing but trouble, really."
The battle roar almost drowned out her words, and He limped along on His leg until He found His balance. Once that happened, He carefully pulled away from her and nodded. "I can walk."
"Alright, then let's get to that gate." She replied, hurrying forward.
The first paces through the battle, they merely weaved around groups of fighting Daedra and humans, unbothered. Everyone was too busy locked into their own fights to even notice the odd pair of companions rushing forward.
But that was short lived.
As the power from the gate could just be felt against His skin, there was a shout from a mortal nearby. He winced and brought His blade up to catch the attack aimed at His head. The force of the blow buckled His knee and He went down to a kneeling position with a grunt.
"Solider! Fall back!" the woman yelled, running up and using her free hand to shove him back and away from the Dremora.
"Wha-?" the man said, stumbling a few steps backwards.
She pointed to the other end of the battle. "Go and help the warriors from Bravil on the slope!"
The man looked between her and the Dremora and hesitated.
"Go!" she snapped. "I have a gate to get too."
He nodded then and ran off.
She reached out and yanked Him to His feet. She was strong from a tiny human.
"Alright, we're almost there,"
A Xivilai rushed forward, mace held aloft for a killing blow. Before He could even raise His blade, the mortal woman had rolled aside and stood, turning in one fluid motion and drawn back her bow.
An arrow hit dead center in the attackers eye, toppling him instantly.
She glanced at Him, "Sorry,"
"I hate Xivilai." He said honestly.
She grinned and ran past Him towards the gate. "Come on Steve, let's see if this works."
He was about to follow her when an explosion went off close by and showered them with debris. He felt a rock chip slice His cheek and growled, annoyed.
The mortal picked herself up from where she'd been knocked back, making a similar growling noise of irritation. "Mages," she muttered.
She stumbled forward towards the gate and He followed, only to stop when He heard a rather loud cry of pain from what was obviously a Dremora.
As the dust and embers from the explosion settled, he could make out a heap of dead from both sides. And crawling from it all was a familiar Dremora.
The one that always wanted to throw Banekins.
He seemed extremely disoriented from the blast and was clearly injured badly. Chances were that he would die shortly.
For a moment, He hesitated.
Then He turned away and limped to the gate to catch up with the mortal. She was standing in front of the gate, panting. Her arm was bloodied from the fall after the explosion, but she held her weapons steady.
She glanced up at Him.
He held open His armored hand.
As soon as she was gripping it, He closed His eyes and stepped through.
There was a slight resistance, as if the Gate wasn't pleased someone was coming this way through it, yet the magicka relented finally and they tumbled out the other side.
He took a deep breath of sulfur and ash and breathed out a sigh of relief.
At the same time, the woman beside Him began coughing and choking on the same air.
She rolled to her knees and looked around, eyes narrowed against the heat of the Deadlands. "It worked!" she exclaimed.
They both stood as a shadow fell over them.
The siege engine was crawling straight at them.
The mortal spat something obscene.
She glanced at Him and offered a smile, "Thanks, Steve. I've got to run. Have a stone to grab before that thing gets out there."
"Wait," He called as she ran off. She skidded to a stop and looked back.
"You said you fight for an idea. I don't understand what that means."
She blinked, "The idea that all life is important, precious. That all of us can be more than we are. That everything, and everyone, deserves a chance. I fight for the idea that maybe someday, we won't have to fight any longer."
"You went back for that solider," He said, gesturing back at the gate. "You risked your life for his. Was that because of your idea?"
"Yes."
He hesitated. "I…I am conflicted."
He wasn't sure why He was telling her, why He felt conflicted at all.
He was safe.
That was all that mattered.
And yet…
"My friend, the only one I've ever had. I saw him. He was caught in that explosion. If he dies in your world, I don't know if his animus will return to Oblivion or not." He explained.
She looked surprised. "You…want to go back for him?"
"I shouldn't. Dremora know going into battle what it means."
"It is not weakness to lay down your life for another." the woman said. "In fact, that is no greater strength or courage, then that."
He paused, at war with Himself. Every part of Him knew He shouldn't go back, but one, tiny fiber, told Him the opposite.
He looked back up at the mortal; injured, exhausted. She would likely die, as they all would. Here, now, or tomorrow, somewhere else.
And yet…her spirit was unbroken.
He'd seen her during the Planemeld as much the same.
Perhaps she was right, about true weakness.
"I'm going back." He announced.
She smiled, "Good luck, to us both. I hope you save your friend."
She rushed off, towards the tower nearby, and he waited a moment to whisper; "I hope you save your world."
And He meant it.
He was supposed to serve Mehrunes Dagon, but He didn't truly want that other place to be destroyed.
Turning, He ran back through the gate, into the horrible battle on the other side. It was hard to believe it was still raging. He hurried to where He'd seen the explosion happen and looked around. It didn't take Him long to spot His friend, barely moving across the ground in an attempt to get away from the fighting.
Not so different from Him a few moments before.
"Here, let me help you," He said, stopping low to grasp His friend's arm.
The other Dremora blinked at Him a few times. "Y-you…you came back for me?"
"Yes," He assured him. "We need to get out of here.
He was about to try and help His friend stand when he realized that the other Dremora had no legs. They had been blasted clean off by the mage's spell.
He swallowed hard and instead chose to grab both hands and started to drag him across the bloodstained ground, towards the gate.
"Come on," he urged, dragging his friend behind him, limping on his injured knee. If it hadn't had been for that mortal's healing spell, he wouldn't have been able to walk at all.
He shook his head, banishing thoughts of the strange woman. He wouldn't see her again, He was sure.
His friend groaned, the grip holding onto His arm weakening. "I-I can't feel my legs," he said.
He paused, but didn't look back. "When we get back to the Deadlands, you'll be fine." He said instead, resuming his walk.
It took much too long to get to the gate, and for a frightening moment, he surveyed the battle happening around it. There was no way, injured and dragging someone, that he would make it without being cut down.
All around, spells were being fling, swords were clashing and arrows were soaring. Dremora and mortals alike fell, one after the other.
"You…you've got to leave me," his friend muttered. He released his grip entirely. "You'll never make it back. Only one of us will. You aren't injured as badly. You have to go."
"No!" He shouted. "No, I'm not leaving you. We'll get back. We'll find a way."
He reached down and snagged His friend's arm again, ignoring the way the spiked armor cut into Him. "We will. Just don't give up on me."
"Okay." His friend breathed, swallowing. "Okay."
Taking off once more, he winced as his injured leg almost gave out on him. But he pressed onward, mumbling to his friend as they entered the fray.
He talked about how they were going to terrorize banekins when they got back. He talked about how he would finally go with him to try and pick up seducers. He talked about how they would get healed, and how they would get revenge on the humans.
By some trick of magicka or luck, they were nearing the gate and had yet to be hassled by any mortals.
As he crossed the threshold of the gate, He felt the sting of magicka and the heat of the Deadlands and breathed a sigh of relief.
They were safe!
He moved out of the way, before the engine could crush them, and found a spot nearby to settle His friend, who was still awake but breathing heavily.
"We made it," He assured him. "We made it. We'll be fine."
He looked around, hoping to spot a healer nearby, but saw none. They were likely dealing with injuries on the battlefield, He realized, heart sinking.
But as his gaze was automatically drawn back to the gate, He watched it crack, tremble, and finally collapse into itself.
The mortal had spoken truth. She had destroyed the gate.
He stared for a moment at where the gate had been, wondering how the humans had managed to find the power to do these things.
They were too strong. Unnaturally strong.
Perhaps, then, He would see her again. This fight would continue until someone important died, He just knew it.
With the gate destroyed, the Daedra all gathered around what was left of the engine to gossip about what had happened.
He surveyed the group, hoping to see a healer. Finally, He saw one and sprang to His feet to catch the seducer as she walked by.
"My friend!" He said, pointing back. "He's injured."
She gave Him an irriated look, but followed all the same and looked over the other Dremora. It seemed like an agonizingly long time as she studied His friend before she finally knelt down.
But in a flash, she pulled a dagger from her belt and stabbed it into the side of his neck. He died in a matter of seconds, gurgling and clearly terrified.
She stood and smirked at the stunned Dremora.
"Master Dagon does not tolerate weakness," she said, slinking away.
He stared at the lifeless body of His only friend. Mangled, betrayed.
And in that moment, He learned what true hate felt like.
He hoped, more than ever, that the mortals won this war, that they made Mehrunes Dagon bleed.
Long after all the Xivilai, Dremora, seducers and scamps had left the area, He remained. Sitting next to His friend.
Lost.
He stared out at the endless sea of lava and frowned, wondering if He should try and transfer back to Cold Harbor. He kind of missed the dreary cold and endless blue skies.
Besides, it was about time for Molag Bal to come up with a new scheme to destroy or take over Nirn.
He sighed and sagged, muttering to Himself out loud; "What are you doing? Your life is as pathetic as ever…no glory…no purpose…"
Of course, no one answered him, and he certainly had no answer for Himself. He had tried every Daedra, every plan, every section of Oblivion he could get too, and nothing felt right.
He was still a lowly Churl without any honor or glory to his name, very few kills or battles under His belt and no name.
"Maybe…you're just not cut out to be the bad guy, Steve."
Words from a mortal He'd heard ages ago echoed in His head and He frowned. That couldn't be true. Dremora lived for battle, lived for blood and war and lived to serve the Daedra.
It wasn't true.
It couldn't be.
…Could it?
If He wasn't cut out to be the bad guy, then what was He supposed to be?
He groaned and kicked a pebble into the lava. It disappeared beneath the roiling magma and He morbidly wondered if He should toss Himself in, next. Maybe if the Azure Plasma reformed him over a few hundred phases it would fix all the problems.
Because clearly there was something wrong with Him.
Suddenly, the world seemed to ripple, seemed to tilt. He looked around, confused, and reached out to grasp the nearest stone pillar for support. But His hand passed right through the rock, as if it wasn't there. Yet, He could see it, He could see…
Everything started to fade, to grow hazy. He felt like He was flying, then falling, then flying again. After a heartbeat, He was standing, but everything was black.
And just as He was about to yell in a panicked fury, His vision cleared.
Oblivion was gone. He was somewhere else.
Somewhere….wrong.
It was cold, freezing actually, with snowflakes of purest white dotting his black armor at an alarming rate. It felt a little like Cold Harbor, but it was too bright, too light, too…gentle of a place. There was no heaviness in the air, no aura of dread and despair.
It made Him want to gag.
Instead, He just squinted against the sunlight and looked around.
He appeared to be on a roof of a building, if the walls around and floor below and sky above were to be believed.
Was he…on Nirn?
The thought was a frightening one, and He quickly whipped around to look at His new location, terrified at what He might see.
Upon closer inspection, there was magicka in the air, a whiff here and there, and runes and symbols on the ground.
He began to wonder if He'd just been summoned. His greatest fear.
It had happened to more and more Dremora and lesser Daedra as time went on, with increasingly bad results for everyone involved.
And yet, mortals persisted and Dremora went crazy because of it and he was next.
He was going to die.
Or go crazy.
"No!" He shouted angrily, drawing His blade from His back and whirling around to find whoever had dared to summon Him in the first place. Maybe He could strike quickly enough to destroy them before the ritual was complete.
It was hard to see through the snow, but He saw a figure a few feet in front of Him, dressed in armor with a hood pulled up against the wind and hands alight with purple plumes of magicka.
"You dare bring me here!" He called, tightening His grip on His weapon. "You will be punished."
The figured chuckled, flexing gloved fingers until the spell dissipated from them. "I summoned you, I control you now."
Enraged at the arrogance of mortals, He snarled, hoping it was scary and carried through the wind. "You control nothing, mortal!"
He lunged forward and took a swing at the figure only to have His blade knocked aside by two others. He growled, frustrated, and lifted His blade to attack again.
Yet, the mortal paused. "Wait...Steve?"
He faltered at the old, almost forgotten name and His sword clanked into the stone roofing harmlessly.
The figure pulled back her hood, revealing a familiar face that squinted against the wind. "Steve!" she exclaimed, a smile lighting up her features. "Wow, what are the chances…"
He blinked stupidly a few times. "I…I…"
"Er, sorry." she apologized, sheathing her swords. "I didn't really mean to summon you. I was trying to get stupid Phinis to sell me more powerful spells and he concocted this test thing and…well, here you are."
"…You…summoned me…" He said, feeling out of sorts. He wasn't sure how He felt about this.
About any of it; being summoned, being summoned by her of all people, taking a swing at her, being on Nirn.
"Don't worry," she assured Him, holding up her hands. "I can send you back. You're not stuck here, unbound or not."
She began to weave a spell, and His eyes widened. He reached out and grabbed her hand. "No!"
Looking puzzled, she frowned up at him. "What is it? I thought you'd want to go back right away. I'm sure you don't want to be here on Nirn,"
He hesitated.
Noticing that she had trusted Him enough to sheath her weapons, He did the same with some level of embarrassment.
"Why did you need to summon an unbound?" He finally asked.
"For a Sigil Stone," she explained. "Once I have that, I think Phinis will let me in on the secrets of some new spells."
"I…see." He muttered.
She grinned, "I honestly don't know why this spell defaulted to you. There must be millions of Dremora. It's weird, right? I am sorry to bother you, after all. But I'm glad to be having a civil conversation. I expected more 'I'll tear your heart out' talk from this ritual."
Yes. That was the sort of conversation they should be having. He should be trying to enact revenge for pulling Him from His realm into hers.
And yet…it didn't make sense that He would fight her. She had saved His life, once, and before that offered a "truce". Here He was, standing before a mortal with no desire to spill blood. It felt…strange. But she was strange.
"So…you want me to send you back?" she asked, breaking Him out of His thoughts.
Millions of Dremora, and the spell chose him. Why?
"No." He said, shaking His head. "I want answers."
"About?" she asked, wincing as a particularly strong gust of chilly wind blew past them.
He narrowed his eyes; "About why you summoned me."
"I already told you," she replied, sounding only slightly exasperated. "What? You think I'm lying? That would be pointless. Accident that you are here, I was aiming for any Dremora I could convince to get me a sigil stone."
"Then convince me." He challenged.
She blinked. Once, twice.
A slow smirk slid onto her face. "Alright."
He wasn't expecting her to draw her swords. "Well, Dremora serve by choice, right? They serve the strong. So, if I best you in combat, you get me a sigil stone."
He laughed.
For the first time in many phases, He laughed.
"So be it, mortal. You meet your end." He intoned, drawing his blade.
He hefted the sword, ready to strike, but everything turned hazy and He realized with a start that His mortal opponent was merely laughing. Despite her swords drawn, He saw the purple flames of a spell.
"Wait, you-"
With a flash, and a tilting of the world again, He was back in the Deadlands. He blinked, looking around.
She had banished Him.
He scowled, putting His sword back and debating if He should throw a tantrum or not. The only other creatures around were Scamps, surely they wouldn't mind…
But then the world was twisted again, and He was falling somewhere in between darkness and light. Once everything stabilized, He found Himself within the summoning circle in the snow storm once more, facing His greatest enemy.
The human girl gave Him a sly grin, hands falling to her side as the swirling magicks of conjuration faded.
"Cheater." He said sullenly.
"So sorry, but all's fair in war, right? I outsmarted you, bested you in combat by banishing you and summoning you again. You owe me a sigil stone." She said, shrugging. "Your idea, by the way. Once I have it, I'll send you back and…well, I don't know. We seem to keep running into each other, huh?"
"Indeed." He said, frowning. "Nevertheless, summon me again and I will have your sigil stone."
She nodded, extending a hand towards the summoning runes. "See you in a minute, dreadful Dremora,"
He closed His eyes, and when He opened them, He was back in the Deadlands.
Lava flowed by at a slow pace, slowly eating away at the rocks trapped within them. He swallowed and looked around, making sure once more that no one was watching. If anyone saw Him get summoned by a mortal, He would be facing endless "rehabilitation".
Luckily, the area was empty, devoid of anything but some Scamps up on a hillside. They weren't paying Him any mind anyway.
He began His trek towards the nearest gate shrine, knowing there would be a sigil stone there. Truthfully, He wasn't sure what He was thinking agreeing to this. He would be killed for His treason, even under duress of mortal persuasion.
But still, she had bested Him, and he had His honor to uphold. Dremora were many things, but they had their own sense of honor and duty.
Besides, He had no ties to Mehrunes Dagon anymore. He had lost His respect when His friend had died for nothing. He only remained because there was nowhere else for Him to go.
No better master then the strongest Daedra, the one who had come the closest to destroying Nirn.
He had no choice.
Approaching the shrine, the Kyngald on duty looked up, narrowing her eyes at Him. "What are you doing here, Churl?"
"I…" he hesitated. "I…require that sigil stone."
She raised an eyebrow. "Require it? For what?"
"…For…" he had never been a good liar. "For my…master."
She stared at Him. "And why would Dagon have you come and retrieve it? A lowly Churl, one who has never even seen a battle to the end?"
Now there was a good question. He had never been good at talking, like some Dremora, weaving spells of words with cunning and crafty wits. So He rushed at her, drawing His sword and ramming her in the temple with the blunt end of it before she could make a move to grab for her staff.
She crumpled to the ground and He winced, gingerly stepping over her fallen body to reach out and grab the sigil stone. The shrine trembled as He removed the stone, and He knew that Dagon would know it had been removed.
Well, Dagon's trusted keepers would know, and they would tell him, but basically the same thing.
As if the ripple of power displacement could be felt in Nirn, He saw the world start to slip away just as Dagon's voice boomed from the ethers of Oblivion; "My sigil stone!"
And in a heartbeat, He was standing once more before the mortal conjurer, who smiled at Him and nodded to the sigil stone. "You got it! I wasn't sure you'd keep up your end of the deal. But, I guess I can always count on you, Steve."
He frowned, and passed it over. "Lord Dagon is…less then pleased at its absence."
Her expression turned concerned as she cradled the orb to her chest. "Are you…going to be in trouble? I feel badly for forcing you into this, to do something against your master must be punishable, right?"
And right then and there He made a choice.
"No." He said, shaking His head. "For Mehrunes Dagon is no longer my master."
She looked confused, and then startled as He drew His sword from His back and slammed it into the stone work between them. Grasping the hilt, He knelt in front of it, and closed His eyes against her wide eyes.
"I have chosen another, for that is what Dremora must do. Chose our master."
"Uh, wait, what-"
He continued, ignoring her; "We serve by choice. We serve the strong, so that their strength may shield us. Practice is secure when oath-bonds are secure, and trust is shared. I swear my blade, my strength and my life to you. Loyalty and honor, power and glory, all to you. My life, for your purpose, my death, for your glory. Your will, my command."
He was frightened for a moment she would deny Him, or laugh, or chide Him for thinking He could ever serve her with His weakness.
But when He gained the courage to look at her, He was surprised to see her at eye level. She had knelt down to stare at Him, face to face.
"…Is this what you truly want?" she asked.
He nodded, for once in His life sure of Himself.
"Then, I swear to you my blade and my strength. My we shield each other, and find honor and glory together."
He blinked, and then nodded slowly, agreeing with her. "I never asked…what is your name?"
He knew mortals had names given to them at birth. The strangest thing, but surely she had one. He should know what it was before they began their journey together.
She smiled slowly. "Ah, I have been called many things…hero, champion, liberator, Nerevarine, marked, vestige, chosen, scion, agent…Dragonborn." With a single laugh, she continued; "Whatever name I was given at my birth, I know not. I have been called Belle'Rielle Direnni, and The Bright Moon's Claw by those closest to me, once upon a time…" She shook her head. "Many names, many titles…it doesn't matter."
Steve frowned, finding the situation ironic. A mortal with many names that didn't care for any of them, and He, a Dremora with none that wanted a single name to describe Him.
The mortal, perhaps not mortal at all, this…Dragonborn; she was strange, but he found it comforting, somehow.
She held her hand out to Him, making Him look at it in confusion. "I will only accept your fealty if we are as partners, companions, friends. You are not my slave, nor do you owe me anything. If at any time you chose to release yourself from this oath bond, so be it."
He was surprised, even though He figured He shouldn't be. He already knew she was foolish, if not endearing. He found this offered freedom…frighteningly enticing. He didn't foresee leaving her service, but He liked the idea that it was up to Him. That anything was up to Him.
Awkwardly, He reached out to take her hand, hoping He wasn't crushing it with His spikey armor. She grinned and gave the hands a good shake. "Alright, then I dub thee sir Steve, Dreadful Dremora! On your feet. We have work to do."
"What is our mission?" Steve asked eagerly, sheathing His sword along His back.
She grinned, "Well, we're going to save the world."
Steve blinked. "Again?"
"I know, right?!" She agreed. "But, I'll bet you no Dremora's ever done that before, eh?" She paused, holding the sigil stone up to the light. "Hmm…first thing first, though…see if I can get those spells now…" She frowned, "Darn, I'm carrying too much to be able to run…this could take a while."
Slowly, He smiled.
This was where He belonged, where He would embrace His destiny.
Finally, He would make His name known as the strongest Dremora on Nirn and in Oblivion.
He was Steve, Dreadful Dremora number one. He served a mistress with eyes the color of Cold Harbor's sky, hair as luminous as the armor of the Golden Saints. With the soul of a dragon, the heart of the Divines, and the strength of the Daedra.
Perhaps they would become heroes together, names written in the annuals of the Elder Scrolls themselves.
Either way, He had finally found His place in the world.
"There can be no other end," He intoned gleefully.
Author's Note: The End!
Well, Our pal Steve will be appearing in Skyrim LOL's, of course. I hope you all enjoyed this one part serious, three part humor story ;) I had wanted to get this done awhile ago, but I never got very far into Oblivion, and I knew the main storyline and everything, but not how it really played out.
Starting with Skyrim and then trying to go back to Oblivion was weird. The combat on Skyrim is already hard to get used too, and I found Oblivion's even more clunky. Not to mention that stupid wheel of disposition. I could never figure that out...haha.
So, I watched some Let's Plays of Oblivion (which takes longer then it should because people on Let's Plays are needlessly irritating,) to make sure I kind of knew more...and then changed it anyway because A) The hell is Martin doing ON the battlefield? Worst. Idea. Ever. He couldn't give that speech INSIDE Bruma's walls? Dude is the only one who can use the amulet, and we just have him out in a big battle hoping he somehow knows how to use a sword? Sheesh...
And B), why would the Gates let mortals just waltz through them? That was just bad planning on Dagon's part, seriously. In ESO there's a whole big magical thingy you have to have a bunch of mages do to get into Cold Harbor...
Ahem, ANYWAY
I could not resist an arrow to the knee joke. ;)
I wanted to portray the battle being kind of bad on both sides. Although, I'm probably the only one that starting to feel bad mowing down Daedra minions. That led to that part beging surprisingly serious. I actually re-wrote it a couple of times until it made the most sense to me.
There is some mention in lore (and I can't remember where, right now...) that Dagon does in fact kill injured minions and/or those that fail him. Despite that, most of the Dremora still work for him, though those that work for others often comment that he and Peryite the Taskmaster are the worst.
Obviously you don't acquire the Summon Dremora Lord spell from that Skyrim quest, but it made the most sense. I mean, I tend to BUY it from Falion, but that just doesn't have the same ring to it...haha
Hmmm...I think that's it about the story. I could blather on longer, but why?
ALSO, I have made a YouTube channel! No, there's not annoying Let's Plays, ;) I do have some fun stuff, if I say so myself. There's some Skyrim Shorts of funny stuff that happens to me while playing (Yes, Steve WILL be featured on some,) And then there's my pride and joy, HITMAN TAMRIEL. Check it out ;) Channel is TheBangkoraiTrolls.
Thanks all for reading and I hope you enjoyed! 'See' you on the next project!