Faal Vokul Mun
Loading Screen… The technological renaissance was led by Talos Stormcrown in his later years, his reasoning being he wished to be powerful enough to defeat the Devil, Konahrik…
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A boy entered a village full of shanties and shacks with gabled rooves and men in funny cloaks with pointy hoods who called themselves the College of Whispers. Water edging onto the shore the hamlet rested by. Water's Edge.
"Can't believe the great Ragnar Salot is in town," one of the wizards said to another as the boy came to the corner home he lived in. Everything washing out in a blur. "He helped the Champion of Cyrodiil, you know!"
Pushing aside the door, it was dark. A weird noise permeated from the other room. The boy's heartbeat rose in a crescendo as he placed one foot ahead of the other. An eeriness wove its web through the tapestry of his mind.
A deep, rough voice growled from behind the door.
"Please stop!" The sounds of his mother's voice were muffled, and she screamed into the man's hand as he silenced her.
The boy's eyes widened with horror as the man named Ragnar abused his mother. "Mama! Why is he hurting you!?"
"What the fuck?!" The man wore his shirt, but his pants had slid down to his ankles. "Get the Oblivion out of here, stupid kid!"
The boy saw the tears escaping his mama's eyes. He ran at the man. The bad man grabbed the boy with one hand and tossed him aside. The boy smashed into a table, too dizzy to stand. Glass fragments bleeding into his forearms.
"NO!" His mother screamed. "DON'T TOUCH MY SON!"
"Shut up, bitch!" The evil man slammed the boy's mom into the surface.
The man began to morph and change, hairs exploding over his body. Ragnar's brown hair became a dark, salt and pepper color, and his pink eyes began to shift. His mother became someone else too, a blonde, Nord woman with short hair. The man turned to smile at the boy with glowing, violet eyes.
"I'm a real man," Talos declared.
Krest's skin clawed into him and sweat like acid peeled his palms.
Something inside broke.
Magical energies filtered and flossed betwixt stone curvatures of marble pillars. Vast and expansive, a supernatural aura filled the vestibule, radiating off each cornerstone. His ice-blue eyes died.
Talos… Played us all for fools, huh? His nails bit into his palms. I can't believe there was a time, when I was a kid, that you were my idol.
Krest collapsed into himself in the far corner, peering at the moonstones of the ceiling and did his best to control his unsteady breathing.
"I hear you faced him and lived to tell the tale. Impressive," complimented Tsun from across the mantle. Krest regarded him with a tired sidelong look.
"So, none of the Septim Emperors were Dragonborn, they just had the blood, and the same rule applies to any Dragonborn descendants. While Shezarrines are just Lorkhan in the flesh." Saadia scratched her chin with her thumb.
Akatosh rotated his shoulders. "Yes. You can't pass down souls genetically. The Dragonborn Emperors, as they're referred to, had only my blood and thus were able to wear the Amulet of Kings and light the Dragonfires, but they were not full-fledged Dragonborn. They could not shout or absorb dragon souls. The only Dragonborn are Miraak, Alessia, Reman, and Cuhlecain before Talos stole Cuhlecain's powers in a ritual. Talos is out there right now somewhere, he is the final Shezarrine. The only one who can stop him is The Last Dragonborn. The final one. For it is written that the Shezarrine and the Last Dragonborn will fight at the end of all time and only one will emerge victorious."
"Prophecies are never set in stone though. And the Elder Scrolls are forever changing, adapting, and predicting," continued Akatosh. "After Reman got a hold of the Amulet of Kings, he enchanted it so only Dragonblooded individuals could wear it. Before that, anybody could wear it, including Shezarrines, such as Pelinal."
Krest took to observing the ornaments decorating the sides of the atrium, a staff-enchanter and scroll-crafting table, a ringed mount with a cool blue hue to it near goat-horn ensconced candles. Fairies and orbs of light floated about like they were in some sort of fairytale.
"Well, you can certainly sympathize with the Thalmor now, knowing Talos indirectly created them," Ancano amended, "when he commit genocide on Summerset, he sowed the seeds of revenge in many Altmeri hearts."
"My agents, the Sehrin are in contact with them." Akatosh sighed deeply. "While I do not approve of the Thalmor's methods at all, I do share their goal of stopping Talos and his worship. Ancano, please report to them and let your superior know we are taking care of it."
"I'll use the dwarven computer to send Elenwen a transmission." Ancano walked off.
Akatosh is keeping his cards close to his chest, he hasn't revealed the whole picture about Tiber Septim yet.
"So, what exactly does Talos, Lorkhan want?" Idrasa seemed as if her head were ready to implode. "And is it even possible?"
"That will be shown at the proper moment." Akatosh pouted.
"What if there was another Shezarrine we didn't know about?" It was Idrasa who instigated the inquiry.
"What if Idrasa, you didn't ask me dumb questions?" Akatosh gave an all-knowing look. "Didn't think about that, did you? Relax, I'm joking. But no, Talos Lorkhan in his current form is the last Shezarrine." As if he had planned it, Akatosh levitated a bit into the air, crossing his arms. "There is a reason the statues of Talos depict him stabbing a snake. The snake represents his old skin, Lorkhan. Just as a snake sheds its own skin." Akatosh combed a hand through his long lustrous beard.
Tsun cupped his own shorter but thick, greying beard. "So, you can't be both Shezarrine and Dragonborn. Only one. At least not by conventional means. Shor, Lorkhan can never be born directly with the blood and soul of dragons, in other words. He is a snake, and you are a dragon, Akatosh, your two natures are polar opposites and can never be reconciled."
"Yes, I had thought Tiber Septim was born Dragonborn. I had no idea he stole the power from someone else," Saadia admitted. "I didn't think you could steal a Dragonborn's power."
"Lorkhan and I are polar opposites. You cannot be an embodiment of him and a child of mine simultaneously. It's like trying to burn water. Tiber Septim had to forcibly remove Cuhlecain's dragon nature and impregnate himself with it for it to happen," Akatosh summarized. "Like frying water within an impenetrable breadcrumb casing. Though even still, he isn't actually Dragonborn, especially not after I removed his dragon soul recently. Which was really just Cuhlecain's essence wrapped around his own soul so he could absorb dragon souls."
"Why didn't you just imprison him in Aetherius?" Saadia leant on one hip, crossing her arms.
"Well one reason was we had to make him a mortal again and ensure he wouldn't try to incarnate into anything else. Lorkhan, or Talos, Tiber, whatever he refers to himself as now, is at the end of his ropes." Akatosh sneered, rubbing the area beneath his nose. "This is simply an extended execution." He pulled up a chair and took a seat. "I believe Talos will possibly seek out the Last Dragonborn to either kill or corrupt them, for they are prophesied to defeat him. But Talos is so weak and so exhausted, I imagine his biggest problem is just to stay in hiding for now. At least until he can regain his strength."
If the Nords knew the truth, would they forsake Talos? No, they'd still worship him. Because they despise elves just as much as Talos does. If men like Ulfric had their way, there would be no elves left on Nirn.
But I won't let that happen. I'll stop Talos and save the elves.
"I have a headache after all that. Think I'm gonna go lie down," sighed Dibella. Tsun followed her. "Saadia, send a transmission to Hamal, Orla, and Anwen and ensure everything is alright with them."
Saadia nodded.
"Speaking of the Spinners, I miss Senna and Fjotra." Idrasa folded her elbows beneath her chest.
Saadia's shoulders rose. "The Thalmor have become just as erratic and delusional as Talos in their quest to stop him. Let's hope the same fate not befall any of us. We need not become our enemy to defeat him."
I don't know. If someone destroyed my home and killed my people, I'd want revenge no matter what just like the Thalmor do. Krest itched the side of his nose and pointed at the Mask of Akatosh on the bench.
"This?" Akatosh picked it up. "I designed it to help me transform into a dragon after the elf-turned-dragon, Konahrik himself. Whosoever wears this mask will have the ability to turn into a dragon, and your dragon form is reflective of your nature. Mine's is a golden drake. - Which reminds me I forgot to speak on the Elder Scroll of Dragons. That is something we'll need to obtain in order to safely defeat Talos. The spokes on the wheel shall be even." Akatosh set the mask back down, picking up a giant hammer laying against the bench. "Could you take this to Tsun, please? He left it. This is his brother, Stendarr's Hammer."
Krest heaved the heavy thing and lugged it over his shoulder, swaying his way to Dibella's chambers. Feeling fit to collapse under its weight.
"Krest." Akatosh rushed over to him and fixed Tsun's borrowed mallet across his back, so it was easier to carry. Krest propped it over both hands on his trapezius. "There you go, much easier to hold."
Krest turned to Akatosh with a solemn expression squared on his face. "Why is Talos so lustful? Why does he conquer lands that don't belong to him? Why is he so power hungry? Why is he the way he is?"
"Kyne always deserved better than him." Akatosh put a hand on Krest's shoulder. "To a tyrant, power is the cure for fear, cruelty is the tool for control, and legacy the prize worth any atrocity."
Krest chewed on that for a bit, nodding, he set off.
The temple flew down a set of steps and poured out into a decorated hallway with bronze copper doors. A brisk chill filled the air and painted stone tiles ran beneath his heels. Sugared water poured through refurbished taps centered around yet another statue of Dibella. Torchlight illuminated the way ahead, pocketed in a bracket on the wall.
Krest pushed through the doors, his eyes on the floor, and set the sledgehammer down backwards on the side of the entrance.
Above him on a platformed king-size bed was Dibella. Tsun was making love to her as she held onto him, her legs tied around the Atmoran's waist. Dibella seemed in bliss beneath him as her fingers snaked around his scalp. Their chests pressed together.
Krest stood frozen, completely still.
Tsun and Dibella began kissing, their foreheads pressed together. Krest stooped out and quietly shut the door. He stood there for a while, listening, his heart beating against his chest.
Dibella moaned, "I love you, Tsun. Oh, I love you."
Krest finally moved on down the lane, feeling dizzy as his shoulders slumped. I'm a warrior, and warriors don't need love or affection, he reminded himself.
Krest decided to take a walk. Exploring the city, he went into an underground passage which led to a fork. One way led deeper underground through a stone archway, the other a set of steps that curled upwards. Krest walked up it and down through another old, wet corridor until he arrived at a room with bones scattered everywhere. Skeletal anatomy crunched beneath his feet as he strode forwards. Ice Wraith skins were sprawled across the floor while icicle stalagmites and stalactites decorated the way. Nordic runestones dotted around. He moved on, towards the stairs, back into the city that was ladened with pink sunlight. Trains moved through glass-domed stations below and Akaviri blinds decorated the decks of houses in cramped alleys. Homes embedded in the rockface all the way down to the docks as cranes scaffolded the Arch of Solitude. Krest smelt and saw crates full of various spices and mead. Statues of Dibella were on stacked shelves, as if only there to taunt him more. Blood horkers and seals hung from fishing lines and large cranes lifted barrels of mackerel, salmon, and whale oil among other fish. Some Vigilants of Stendarr stormed past him, their faces lined with stress. Horse lords and noble thanes trotting on their regal stallions.
Krest came to a small alcove in the wall, enclosed by some moss and rocks where none could spot him. Rolling icy winds rushed past and parts of the sea were frozen over. A snail slowly slithered across a rock's ridge above a scene of sailors spearing a squid in the sea.
Krest jumped. The wind whirled past him, and he was submerged in the stone-cold ocean. The frost burned him, and the fire froze him. A forest of seaweed filled the ocean as narwhals swum around.
Krest shook his head. It was just a daydream. He stood by the pier; the snail had almost trailed across. Snails move slow, yes, they move slow. Doesn't a snail move slow?
Krest laughed wildly into the winds that carried his agony, entangling with the air and freezing currents. His eyes dilated demonically. A giant was herding a mammoth off in the whitish countryside as thick rain reigned over them, transitioning into globules of oobleck that hardened into sludge on the floor. Krest smashed the snail onto the carved stone with his boot, screaming laughter into the heavens and towards the cold, distant Anu.
"Armilius, is that you?"
A pudgy, sun-tanned Breton with a soft face and tousled brown hair stood in his way. Praetorian Pierre Guimard. - Krest's face ripped into a scowl as he glared at the seventeen-year-old.
"Krest Armilius, you know why I'm here." Pierre grinned, his maple-brown eyes trailing around.
Krest held his fist to his nose, tightening it. When Pierre's attention reverted to him, Krest knocked the Breton aside into the stone wall. Some strangers gave Krest odd looks like he was crazy. He chose to walk away then.
"Well, fancy seeing you here," Pierre's distinctive voice grabbed his shoulder.
The tanned figure of Pierre came crawling up to him, jabbering relentlessly. The poorer districts of the sprawling metropolis saw homeless warming up near pyres. Overturned longboats served as housing alongside longhouses with runic calligraphy painted on them. White trees were planted in designated squares with lanterns hanging off the branches. A dwarven machine was distributing sandwiches composed of meat and cheese. Krest took one as it was about lunchtime.
The Praetorians took the indoor way. The walk devolved into a drudge the further they went. The carved rock of the city's marble corridors was cut open at intervals, allowing them to see the scenery of Haafinheim hold. Why am I even alive? Krest sighed and tried to focus his attention onto the breathtaking scenery pictured before him while Pierre continued to babble nonsensically. Ivory sculpted cliffs, monumental mountains, and white forests. He could see mermaids in the sea too.
The voices of the crowd in the hallway blurred into a massive blurb of noise. Someone was strumming the keys of a piano somewhere. The shadow of Magnus playing hide and seek in the sky, glinting pink seams of light. Shadows waxed and waned. Krest swallowed the knot tangled in his throat. He spotted some lavender, reminding him of Talos' eyes.
A stand was selling toys, trading cards, and even stuffed dolls of the Divines. Red-bannered with white stripes over a wooden post. Several guardsmen in their nordic gear perused the items.
"How much for this doll of Kyne, Calixto?" A young Nord asked the old Imperial shopkeeper. When his fellow guards eyed him, the Nord responded with, "it's uhh… for m-my mother, Hilde…"
"Your mother passed away, Sven Raevild…" One guard intoned.
Sven's face fell. "Oh, yeah."
Krest picked up a stack of cards and got in line behind the Nords.
"Oleg Dragonknight, is it?" Queried Calixto. "You wished to contact Orgnum Qyslom? He's currently in Ocearan I'm afraid."
Orgnum, the King of Pyandonea is here in Skyrim?
"Yes, can you contact him for me?" Oleg asked Calixto.
"Forget this." Krest put the cards back and walked over to the washrooms, leaning into the sink.
"I am Neloth Zaeryn, librarian of the Luminarch, Nordenbjorg's library!" Krest looked over and saw an old Dark Elf examining his long goatee through the looking glass. He was talking to himself.
Krest's expression deadened, and he stumbled out of the washroom, sitting down at a dwarven interface in the library. He decided to do some research.
In Breton culture, Lorkhan is known as the Bad Man. An evil figure who curses the harvest, similar to the Greedy Man of Skaal literature. Additionally, a riddle left by Tom Thorne links several historical figures to Lorkhan.
L – Shor
O – Pelinal
R – Wulfharth
K – Zurin
H – Hjalti
A – Talos
N - ?
The N is yet to be identified. Perhaps another will come to fill the role. Krest closed the tab.
Pierre had been watching over his shoulder. "What if the N is you, Krestie?"
Krest grabbed Pierre and dropkicked him into the next room. "Don't you ever fucking compare me to that filth."
I'm the Last Dragonborn, the lastborn child of Akatosh. Not a Shezarrine.
Krest shoved his hands in his pockets and walked off, too tired to care anymore as Pierre stood back up. They clamored their way through the age-old athenaeum. The shelves full of books curved and swayed like waves, aureate linings separating the stacks and each book looking as pristine as the next. Bookcases as high as the tall ceiling. Blue carpeting and fine wood with a mossy oak-brown finish.
Songs of Pelinal, Shezarr and the Divines, The Talos Mistake, were among the titles that haunted his stalk to a table. Krest grabbed a random tome and crashed back into a seat, leaning his cheek on his fist, his elbow on the table, face marred by idle boredom.
Goblins were playing tabletop games and poring over bardic lore. Some Goblins who could prove they were non-violent were allowed inside the cities.
"I don't care if you wrote it yourself, Dimloth, you want a book, you go through me." Neloth cupped his beard, talking to a Goblin.
The Goblin sniffled. "GIVE IT TO ME PLEASE!"
"Dimloth Grimloin!" Neloth smirked, folding his arms beneath his chest.
Krest watched the Goblin slink back into the shadow it whence came. Krest sluggishly pushed open his storybook.
There And Never Back Again – The Parable of Jagar Tharn and Mehrunes Dagon
"This world suppresses the meek and exalts the corrupt," – Martin Septim's last words, 3E 433.
Krest closed the book and yawned loudly. Enough reading for one day. He quelled any thoughts of objection as something squirmy and gray crawled out under his desk. A small, smiling spider.
Krest picked it up between his fingers and studied it curiously. The little fiend tried to wiggle out of his loose grip. But Krest didn't let go. Setting the parchments lain on the table aside, he used his other hand to pull off one of the spider's legs and reviewed it as it made its hardly audible cries of agony, writhing wildly. Krest plucked off its other seven legs slowly, one by one until the once slightly vicious arachnid became nothing more than a fidgeting dot of insect flesh. He dropped it to the floor and watched as it struggled around until eventually bleeding out, a glop of plasma oozing from its corpse.
A few people stared at him.
Krest decided to leave.
He got back to the temple courtyard, crossing the water garden at the base of the Dibella statue where a few koi fish played as fairies used saltwater sponges to wipe the whitewashed stones and gemstones that encased the garden. Bees were nesting in the belladonna lilies. The winter plants blooming; Nirn laughed in flowers. Ancestor moths floated around, and a butterfly landed on his shoulder as he dusted the snow off his boots. Flapping its blue-patterned wings, a wave of tranquil quietude rested here. Krest set a foot upon the curbstones, carefully peeking an eye around as well. A snowball zoomed over the courtyard and hit Pierre in the chest.
Ancano ran from behind a barrier and hurled the balls of ice in every direction.
Akatosh and Idrasa hid behind a pillar, tossing snowballs back. Pierre scooped some up and launched it at the Altmer. Krest froze and got smacked square in the face, toppling over, his feet flying into the air, hair locks scattering over his eyesight.
He held his nose, spitting strands and wiping snow off his mouth.
"Nice job, Krest! But you'll have to do better than that!" Ancano shouted.
Saadia burst through the double doors. "What is going on here?" She stared all around as a cute, little beaver scurried up to her, rubbing its head against her calf. "Ancano, I thought I asked you to set the rice on boil. And Akatosh, you should know better."
Akatosh paled and pointed at Idrasa. "She made me do it."
Idrasa socked the Divine in the shoulder. "No, I did not!"
Saadia scolded them. "Come, I've prepared some caviar."
"Caviar? Oh, you mean frogspawn." Idrasa imitated vomiting.
"That is an axiom," Akatosh agreed as they all went inside, the flames of the hearth roaring and crackling. "Perhaps a warm cup of hot chocolate will suffice."
There was a table full of food and an oven with some pies and turnovers baking in it. It smelled like a mixed aroma between a soup kitchen and bread bakery. His gaze got lost in the dance the flames of the hearth were doing, flickering back and forth.
"You alright?" A smooth skinned hand came to rest on his shoulder. "Let's go make some tea. It'll keep us warm, so we don't become icicles in this beautiful, but freezing city." Saadia got a kettle and poured some water and milk into it, setting it to boil over the stove. She then leaned against the counter, observing Krest with her sapphire eyes. "It's Dibella, isn't it? You little boys are always so predictable."
Krest violently shook his head, hardening his stare.
Saadia took some black tea powder and dropped a massive spoonful into the bubbling liquid. "If you say so." The tea was set and the Sibyl poured them each a cup, mixing some sugar in. "Chai." She beamed proudly, carrying the tray full of tea over to the others.
At least I have some friends now. Real friends that is.
Saadia served a cup to Idrasa who carefully took a sip. "PFFFFFF," she spit it onto Saadia's apron. "This is straight trash! Where'd you learn to brew tea? Fucking Black Marsh!?"
Krest helplessly broke into a smile at the display. The expression felt unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone else. His facial muscles exercised in a way that felt completely foreign to him.
"I'm just kidding, it's alright," Idrasa corrected, drinking her tea in one gulp.
"Do that again, and I may just kill you." Saadia grit her teeth.
"Yeah, yeah," Idrasa tutted. "Just call me the Caller."
Krest remembered the vivid violet eyes that were the Bad Man's view into the world. There was no fooling around anymore, it was kill or be killed.
And I'll kill him.
~ § ó § ò § ~
A/N: In this version of events, the Champion never became Sheogorath. Thus, Jyggalag is still Sheogorath. Also, ESO is also not going to be fully canonized in this version of events unless I explicitly mention parts of it. Btw, Idrasa is meant to be a revamp of the Caller from Fellglow Keep. Please leave a review. Thank you. Hehe HeHe.