The only survivor had been a single mer, and he was a shadow of one of the tall and proud people of the summerset isles. No, he was a nervous and stumbling wreck, that could not look to the moons, and to who the sight of the stars seemed to inspire terror. And yet, he needed to answer questions, needed to explain just what it was that the Imperials had unleashed that had slaughtered so many of their soldiers. Had the race of men uncovered another artifact from the dawn age? Struck a bargain with the deadra? Unleashed reckless sorcery better left in wise hands? There was no way to tell, and so he sat and looked at the mer.
And yet, those eyes seemed to be... in a state beyond fear. It was a state of acceptance, of calm, of resignation. For a moment, the inquisitor paused, unsure of the wisdom of this course. For what, an icy worm whispered into his heart, could inspire something such as this? And yet, even as he opened his mouth, to extend at first a polite and calm voice, to try and take them from this place, or at least see if they would be able to give the information in this state, they spoke. Later, he would wish the survivor had not.
"We did not fight. The Imperials had no secret weapon and I know not why I was spared. No, other than I was the last one left standing on the field. No, I shall tell my tale, and in all likelihood, you shall kill me for it. And yet I have seen the face of Xarxes, and so, I fear not. No Inquisitor, what did this was in most ways, to what the senses could see, a Breton whose features suggest an infusion of Dunmer blood in the last several generations. He sat there, on a small stool that might have been seen in an ashland yurt before a campfire, a pot with tea brewing in it.
He offered at first, to talk, to avoid violence, for he was old for a man, despite appearing to be of middling years at worst, and much preferred peace. How that many hearts would prefer to be home with family, to tend to the land and property, to live good lives as the gods ask of us. The commander stepped forward and as the man offered a cup of tea, struck it from his hand and with a spell blasted the campfire. 'This is what I think of the peace of men!' Our commander shouted.
The Breton sighed and shook his head. Those eyes were kind, as odd it may be to believe, not a shred of malice or hatred in them, but understanding, compassion and resolve. And so, the man stood, short compared to the commander, and yet in that moment, it was if the commander was a child not yet grown being looked down at by a parent gathering their resolve to discipline them. 'Then war is the path you, and all under your command have chosen?' It was not really a spell that caused his words to carry, and yet, it seemed as if he asked each of us that question in that moment. And like fools, we all answered with a single word. War. War and Victory."
The Mer paused for a moment, clearly gathering his thoughts, as if facing the memory was at once something terrible and glorious, even as the words drew the Inquisitor in, wrapping him in the chain created by the words, ensnaring with the absurdity of it all. A single man able to do all of this? Perhaps if it were the Crusader reborn, and yet he had mantled Sheogorath and so was bound by the Compact, unable to interfere directly with Mundus unless invited in. A part of him wondered, was this some terrible jest by the madgod?
"Forgive my delay, but the memory... now, we had replied and the man nodded, accepting our reply. And in that moment, the Moon and Star descended, revealed on his hand as twin blades rose. In one of them, burning like a torch was the kindling fire of truth hammered into the shape of a curved sword, scorching and cruel even as it revealed all. The other was if one took the light of the moons and sung hope into it, its soft glow seeping into the heart and calling all that saw it that there was hope yet in the world. And then he spoke, that same quiet tone.
'Then know me, army of the Thalmor. I am Nerevar, Hortator and Nerevarine. As you have called for war when offered peace, I shall grant it to you.' And then he moved, and the we died. It was not a fight, for a fight implies struggle, implies conflict. No, we attempted to strike him, to strike the thing moving into our midst. With blade and arrow and spell, we attempted to strike. And yet, none of it worked, none of the blows striking him as he was not were they fell, and if he was, then he simply deflected them. And so, he moved and we died, unable to slow him. In some ways, he was a wind of death, with his passage having soldiers fall, slain in a single strike as he moved to the next, never stopping his advance.
And yet, how swift he was! How sure of foot and strong! The tales tell that he did battle with gods in a past life and his current one, that he dueled the devil of Red Mountain and the Mother Goddess of Morrowind, besting them both. He survived the hunt of Hircine not by evading the prince, but by besting him in single combat after winning through a maze hunted by werebeasts. What were mere mortals to him, that he could move through like this, that he was nothing more than a reaping wind?
And soon it was, that all was silent, as he looked at me, all others on the ground, felled like so much lumber, so much wheat. 'Tell your masters,' he said, the burning blade of truth pointed towards me, 'that if they continue, I will be most displeased. I rather like this world after all. It is where I keep my collection.' And with that, he turned and left, walking towards the Imperial City unconcerned of any threat I may pose.
And so, from the land of war and poetry, of ash and dead gods that dreamed themselves alive, comes a man. A man who desires peace. What will be your answer inquisitor?"
And as the mer burned the Inquisitor to prevent a panic from spreading, to prevent rumors of what happened, fear was planted in his heart, as he wondered... how could they tear the tower down, if such a guardian was arrayed against them?