Yes, I know. I'm working on the Mass Effect thing.
But my muse insisted that this get posted first. And so it has.
========
"Lydia, calm down! Your mother will have my head if you don't behave!"
"Story! Story story story!" the little girl squealed as she held her arms out straight and ran in circles around the room. "I wanna story!"
The elderly man glared at her through his one good eye, but smiled as he did. "If I tell you a story, do you promise to go to bed quietly?"
"Yes grandpapa! Cross my heart!"
The old warrior settled down in his chair by the fire, nodding. "And which did you want to hear, then?"
Lydia cheerfully hopped into her bed and yanked the blanket up over her chin. "The Unknown Hero! He's the best at everything! Tell me that one please!"
The elderly man frowned, "Are you sure? You don't want to hear about Pelinel Whitestrake leading the slaves to freedom? It's a much nicer story."
Lydia crossed her arms under the blankets and pouted. "No! I don't want nice! Unknown Hero!"
"Fine, fine," her grandfather said, raising his hands in defeat. "I'll tell you the tale, as best as I can recall. But in return, you have to promise to go to sleep, all right?ö
The girl nodded her head vigorously. With a slight groan, the old man leaned over and picked up his lute from beside the chimney. Tweaking a few strings until they were in the proper tune, he nodded, and began his story, occasionally plucking soft tunes to accent his words.
ôLong ago, in the closing days of the Third Era, there was a hero. A man he was, and mighty indeed, though from whence he came, none are quite sure. Even as the Oblivion Crisis ravaged the lands of Tamriel, he appeared as though from nowhere, and wherever he went, he set right what was once wrong. Valiant he was, with skills unmatched, and none could best him, no matter the contest. He was no mere mercenary or hired sword. By force of arms and skill, he saved the FighterÆs Guild from the jackals that stalked it. With spells delicate, powerful, and untainted by witchcraft, he destroyed the menace of the King of Worms. And with subtlety and daring, he led the brotherhood of noble thieves, who mocked the opulent rich while protecting and feeding the poor.
ôHe arose from obscurity as the Oblivion Crisis unfolded, as though the gods themselves had sprung him into being, and wherever he went, the darkness was beaten back. Criminals were apprehended, the corrupt fell, monsters were slain, and foul cultists and necromancers both were routed and burned. He strode alone into the Gates of Oblivion, he alone dared to take the fight to their very doorsteps, closing the gates from within and slaying entire armies of demons. Together with Martin Septim, last true Emperor of Tamriel, he shed blood and tears to stem the tide of Oblivion, and turned it back at every front. Entire orders of knighthood stood in shame at his deeds, where they had fled the field in fear, and he alone was deemed valorous enough by the gods to champion forth as the High Crusader, and inherit the tools of Pelinel Whitestrake. At the end of all things, he stood alone at MartinÆs side, without company or order at his back, and together they turned back Mehrunes Dagon himself as he came to topple the White Tower, though it cost Martin his life to do so.
ôHe was hailed as the Champion of the Empire, of Cyrodill, of all Tamriel. Skilled warrior, Archmage, protector of the people, and Master of assassins, he was all these things and more. His was the spell that protected, the shield that defended, the blade that drove forward, and the knife in the backs of the wicked. The people loved him and sang his name as he walked the streets, and he was considered a living legend, blessed by the gods.
ôAnd yet, for all that was good, there was a darkness brewing. Thieves, who lusted for his treasures. Wizards, who longed for his secrets. Warriors, full of themselves and hating their betters, who sought to prove themselves against the mightiest sword in the land. Politicians, with envy and fear in their hearts for influence that was not theirs, and power they could not control. And demon lords, wicked in their ways, who saw this man and desired to see his end, and reclaim what they saw as theirs.
ôIn a single night of treachery and foul conspiracy, all that he had done, was undone. The names and faces of the betrayers are lost to us, but we know that at least three were those he called dearest friends, and one he trusted with his life. But it is also said that on that dark and terrible night, the gods themselves made their will known. For in that night, the betrayers discovered the final secret of this mighty man. Death itself would not take him. No matter how hard they struck, how much they cut and chopped, or what magic they brought to bear, he would not, could not, die. Unable to slay him, who was so blessed by the gods, they instead cast him out. They threw him down into darkness, they plundered his wealth and knowledge, and they struck all knowledge and memory of him from this earth. Records were destroyed, books were burned, friends and confidants were slain. It was a terrible, black purge, an attempt to erase his very existence from history.
ôAnd yet, as hard as they tried, they were doomed to find that it would never be enough. Destroyed his history may have been, and lost his name was to the sands of time, but we the people remembered him and his deeds, and whispered the story to each other in the darkness of the night. We remembered, and the gods remembered, and that was enough. One by one, the traitors died, by accident or treachery upon themselves. And in the end, they died in vain, for the legend of the Unknown Hero lived on.
ôAll the days of his life, he walked without fear. All whose lives he touched, were made better for knowing him. As he returned goodness with good, so too were his justice and retribution unfailing. He was a prince amongst warriors. A king uncrowned by blood, but blessed by the gods. We know not his face or name, but we remember his story, he who fought so hard so that the mortal realms of men and the fair lands of mer might endure. He is the Hero of Kvatch, the Blessed Blade, Averter of the Oblivion Crisis, and friend and companion of Martin Septim, last of the Septim bloodline.ö
The elderly Nord leaned close to his granddaughter, who had fallen to sleep earlier in the story, and whispered softly as he tucked the corners of her blanket under her. ôAnd it is said that he yet endures to this very day, that man who cannot die, and that he will one day escape from the traitorÆs trap, and bring salvation and light to these lands once more. And so we remember, and so we recite the tale, the Legend of the Unknown Hero.ö
The elderly Nord placed his lute on the table next to the fire and stood up, stretching. He quietly made his way outside, and leaned on the wooden railing of house. The aurora burned brightly across the hold, and the illuminated silhouette of Dragonsreach looked like a vision of Sovngarde itself.
The old bard shuddered, and drew his furs about him, though it had nothing to do with the cold. He had slain a band of Foresworn long ago in defense of Whiterun, back in his summer of youth. A witch had tried to curse him with an enchanted dagger, but he had turned it on her, and buried it in her throat before she could complete the spell. He had lost his eye, and kept his life. But ever since that day, he thought sometimes that he could see things, with that dead eye. And as beautiful as the sky always was, all he could see was an approaching, impenetrable darkness.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
ôThe nature of the soul is not knowable. Every wizard that has attempted it vanishes without a trace. What can be known is that souls are a source of mystic energy that can be harvested.
ôEvery creature, living or dead, is powered by a soul. Without it, they are just lumps of flesh or piles of bones. This animating force can be contained within a soul gem, if the soul gem has the capacity. From the gem, the power can be used to power magical items.
ôCenturies of experimentation has demonstrated that there are black souls and white souls. Only the rare black soul gem can hold the soul of a higher creature, such as a man or an elf. While the souls of lesser creatures can be captured by gems of many colors, they are all categorized as white soul gems. Hence the division of souls into black and white.
ôWhite souls are far safer than black souls, although not as powerful. Beginning students of Mysticism should not dabble in black souls or black soul gems. Even if one were to ignore the guild strictures against the necromatic arts used to power black soul gems, it is dangerous to the caster to handle them for long. If the gem is not precisely the size of the encased soul, small bits of the caster's soul may leak into the gem when it is touched.ö
- Souls, Black and White, A scholar's look at the souls of man and beast
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Deep inside a prison fortress, high atop a forgotten mountain pass, there was a cell. Inside that cell, there was a ragged, vaguely male bundle of withered flesh and rotted clothing that, once, might have been called a man. It's flesh, such as was there, was tattered and pale, with dark red muscle dry and exposed to the open air through the rips and tears of the skin. It was quiet. It was hideous. And it was very, very still.
At first glance, any who saw it would claim it a corpse, and a long dead one at that. But closer inspection would reveal that it was most certainly alive. A circle of fire burned on it's neck like a brand, glowing ever so faintly in the darkness, and the skin inside the circle was black as a starless sky.
There was a creaking groan from far above, and with a rushing noise, a body, clothed in the manner of an adventurer, fell down and landed next to the huddled figure with a clatter. A man, clad in armor, looked down through the square of light for a moment, before drawing back, satisfied. A distant ray of sunlight lanced down as the hatch far above was closed, and for an instant, a small metallic object glittered.
Slowly, deliberately, the huddled figure, which had not moved in decades and had not flinched at the sudden noise, reached forward and plucked the object from the stone floor. He held it up to his face, viewing it with empty sockets that could still see, and the exposed muscles of his cheeks slid upwards in something that could be generously called a smile.
It was a lockpick.
-----
The massive demon stepped forwards, hefting itÆs gargantuan axe. Equal parts toad and man and the size of a three story inn, each step it took shook the prison, and controlled lines of destruction could be seen through walls and corridors, marking it's chosen patrol route. A belt of thick leather and metal cord wound about it's waist, studded at intervals with black glowing crystals, and around it's neck hung a massive key on a rusty chain necklace.
ItÆs lips split, showing rows of blackened teeth, and as it spoke, a sigil of Oblivion burned on its tongue.
öCrownless One. The Princes deigned me contain you. For this purpose, I was permitted to be bound by Men and Mer. Return whence you came."
The shriveled corpse effortlessly twirled the rusted blade with shocking grace, and flexed his fingers, fire and light beginning to drip from his free hand.
The demon smiled and licked it's lips, sigil pulsing in the darkness. "So be it. I do not enjoy this, but the united will of the Princes is absolute."
-----
Slowly, with a creaking groan, the massive doors of the prison-fortress opened for the first time in over a century. A dessicated, corpselike figure strode out, a gargantuan axe carelessly balanced over his shoulder with one arm.
Plucking one of the glowing black gems from his pouch, he casually crushed it, and black vapor rushed towards him, drawn in through his mouth in a quiet huff. In half an instant, he had changed utterly. Dessicated muscles had filled out, torn skin had healed over, a mane of dark hair had sprouted from his skull and fell down to his shoulders, and a faint shadow of it sprouted across his cheeks and chin. Dark eyes blinked at the light of the sun from above the clouds, and renewed lungs pulled in the sharp, crisp air even as fresh blood began to run in his veins.
He strode forwards, heedless of the great heights, and looked down through the clouds. At his feet sprawled the labyrinthine, blizzard-coated collection of dead ends, switchbacks, ruins, and caves known as the Pale Pass, and in the far distance, he could see the form of the White Tower. Something pulled him, however, and he turned away. Facing the opposite direction, he saw the towering peak of the highest mountain in Tamriel standing shadowy in the distance, a silent sentinel that seemed to call to him, like an island in a sea of clouds.
Turning his back on all that he had known, he began the long descent to the lower climes, and from there, into the land of the North. The land of Atmora. The cradle of Men. The home of his father.
Skyrim.
===========
The Nords are going to shit kine when they see some of the dragons Alduin is going to whistle up. And Eorlund isn't going to know what to think of these slabs the Dragonborn brings to his forge and uses to sharpen his weapons. . .
Also, there's a strong hint in the dialogue as to what song I listened to while writing this. TheRedKing can't play this game, because he already knows what it was.
Read and review, comments, questions, and criticism welcome.
But my muse insisted that this get posted first. And so it has.
========
"Lydia, calm down! Your mother will have my head if you don't behave!"
"Story! Story story story!" the little girl squealed as she held her arms out straight and ran in circles around the room. "I wanna story!"
The elderly man glared at her through his one good eye, but smiled as he did. "If I tell you a story, do you promise to go to bed quietly?"
"Yes grandpapa! Cross my heart!"
The old warrior settled down in his chair by the fire, nodding. "And which did you want to hear, then?"
Lydia cheerfully hopped into her bed and yanked the blanket up over her chin. "The Unknown Hero! He's the best at everything! Tell me that one please!"
The elderly man frowned, "Are you sure? You don't want to hear about Pelinel Whitestrake leading the slaves to freedom? It's a much nicer story."
Lydia crossed her arms under the blankets and pouted. "No! I don't want nice! Unknown Hero!"
"Fine, fine," her grandfather said, raising his hands in defeat. "I'll tell you the tale, as best as I can recall. But in return, you have to promise to go to sleep, all right?ö
The girl nodded her head vigorously. With a slight groan, the old man leaned over and picked up his lute from beside the chimney. Tweaking a few strings until they were in the proper tune, he nodded, and began his story, occasionally plucking soft tunes to accent his words.
ôLong ago, in the closing days of the Third Era, there was a hero. A man he was, and mighty indeed, though from whence he came, none are quite sure. Even as the Oblivion Crisis ravaged the lands of Tamriel, he appeared as though from nowhere, and wherever he went, he set right what was once wrong. Valiant he was, with skills unmatched, and none could best him, no matter the contest. He was no mere mercenary or hired sword. By force of arms and skill, he saved the FighterÆs Guild from the jackals that stalked it. With spells delicate, powerful, and untainted by witchcraft, he destroyed the menace of the King of Worms. And with subtlety and daring, he led the brotherhood of noble thieves, who mocked the opulent rich while protecting and feeding the poor.
ôHe arose from obscurity as the Oblivion Crisis unfolded, as though the gods themselves had sprung him into being, and wherever he went, the darkness was beaten back. Criminals were apprehended, the corrupt fell, monsters were slain, and foul cultists and necromancers both were routed and burned. He strode alone into the Gates of Oblivion, he alone dared to take the fight to their very doorsteps, closing the gates from within and slaying entire armies of demons. Together with Martin Septim, last true Emperor of Tamriel, he shed blood and tears to stem the tide of Oblivion, and turned it back at every front. Entire orders of knighthood stood in shame at his deeds, where they had fled the field in fear, and he alone was deemed valorous enough by the gods to champion forth as the High Crusader, and inherit the tools of Pelinel Whitestrake. At the end of all things, he stood alone at MartinÆs side, without company or order at his back, and together they turned back Mehrunes Dagon himself as he came to topple the White Tower, though it cost Martin his life to do so.
ôHe was hailed as the Champion of the Empire, of Cyrodill, of all Tamriel. Skilled warrior, Archmage, protector of the people, and Master of assassins, he was all these things and more. His was the spell that protected, the shield that defended, the blade that drove forward, and the knife in the backs of the wicked. The people loved him and sang his name as he walked the streets, and he was considered a living legend, blessed by the gods.
ôAnd yet, for all that was good, there was a darkness brewing. Thieves, who lusted for his treasures. Wizards, who longed for his secrets. Warriors, full of themselves and hating their betters, who sought to prove themselves against the mightiest sword in the land. Politicians, with envy and fear in their hearts for influence that was not theirs, and power they could not control. And demon lords, wicked in their ways, who saw this man and desired to see his end, and reclaim what they saw as theirs.
ôIn a single night of treachery and foul conspiracy, all that he had done, was undone. The names and faces of the betrayers are lost to us, but we know that at least three were those he called dearest friends, and one he trusted with his life. But it is also said that on that dark and terrible night, the gods themselves made their will known. For in that night, the betrayers discovered the final secret of this mighty man. Death itself would not take him. No matter how hard they struck, how much they cut and chopped, or what magic they brought to bear, he would not, could not, die. Unable to slay him, who was so blessed by the gods, they instead cast him out. They threw him down into darkness, they plundered his wealth and knowledge, and they struck all knowledge and memory of him from this earth. Records were destroyed, books were burned, friends and confidants were slain. It was a terrible, black purge, an attempt to erase his very existence from history.
ôAnd yet, as hard as they tried, they were doomed to find that it would never be enough. Destroyed his history may have been, and lost his name was to the sands of time, but we the people remembered him and his deeds, and whispered the story to each other in the darkness of the night. We remembered, and the gods remembered, and that was enough. One by one, the traitors died, by accident or treachery upon themselves. And in the end, they died in vain, for the legend of the Unknown Hero lived on.
ôAll the days of his life, he walked without fear. All whose lives he touched, were made better for knowing him. As he returned goodness with good, so too were his justice and retribution unfailing. He was a prince amongst warriors. A king uncrowned by blood, but blessed by the gods. We know not his face or name, but we remember his story, he who fought so hard so that the mortal realms of men and the fair lands of mer might endure. He is the Hero of Kvatch, the Blessed Blade, Averter of the Oblivion Crisis, and friend and companion of Martin Septim, last of the Septim bloodline.ö
The elderly Nord leaned close to his granddaughter, who had fallen to sleep earlier in the story, and whispered softly as he tucked the corners of her blanket under her. ôAnd it is said that he yet endures to this very day, that man who cannot die, and that he will one day escape from the traitorÆs trap, and bring salvation and light to these lands once more. And so we remember, and so we recite the tale, the Legend of the Unknown Hero.ö
The elderly Nord placed his lute on the table next to the fire and stood up, stretching. He quietly made his way outside, and leaned on the wooden railing of house. The aurora burned brightly across the hold, and the illuminated silhouette of Dragonsreach looked like a vision of Sovngarde itself.
The old bard shuddered, and drew his furs about him, though it had nothing to do with the cold. He had slain a band of Foresworn long ago in defense of Whiterun, back in his summer of youth. A witch had tried to curse him with an enchanted dagger, but he had turned it on her, and buried it in her throat before she could complete the spell. He had lost his eye, and kept his life. But ever since that day, he thought sometimes that he could see things, with that dead eye. And as beautiful as the sky always was, all he could see was an approaching, impenetrable darkness.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
ôThe nature of the soul is not knowable. Every wizard that has attempted it vanishes without a trace. What can be known is that souls are a source of mystic energy that can be harvested.
ôEvery creature, living or dead, is powered by a soul. Without it, they are just lumps of flesh or piles of bones. This animating force can be contained within a soul gem, if the soul gem has the capacity. From the gem, the power can be used to power magical items.
ôCenturies of experimentation has demonstrated that there are black souls and white souls. Only the rare black soul gem can hold the soul of a higher creature, such as a man or an elf. While the souls of lesser creatures can be captured by gems of many colors, they are all categorized as white soul gems. Hence the division of souls into black and white.
ôWhite souls are far safer than black souls, although not as powerful. Beginning students of Mysticism should not dabble in black souls or black soul gems. Even if one were to ignore the guild strictures against the necromatic arts used to power black soul gems, it is dangerous to the caster to handle them for long. If the gem is not precisely the size of the encased soul, small bits of the caster's soul may leak into the gem when it is touched.ö
- Souls, Black and White, A scholar's look at the souls of man and beast
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Deep inside a prison fortress, high atop a forgotten mountain pass, there was a cell. Inside that cell, there was a ragged, vaguely male bundle of withered flesh and rotted clothing that, once, might have been called a man. It's flesh, such as was there, was tattered and pale, with dark red muscle dry and exposed to the open air through the rips and tears of the skin. It was quiet. It was hideous. And it was very, very still.
At first glance, any who saw it would claim it a corpse, and a long dead one at that. But closer inspection would reveal that it was most certainly alive. A circle of fire burned on it's neck like a brand, glowing ever so faintly in the darkness, and the skin inside the circle was black as a starless sky.
There was a creaking groan from far above, and with a rushing noise, a body, clothed in the manner of an adventurer, fell down and landed next to the huddled figure with a clatter. A man, clad in armor, looked down through the square of light for a moment, before drawing back, satisfied. A distant ray of sunlight lanced down as the hatch far above was closed, and for an instant, a small metallic object glittered.
Slowly, deliberately, the huddled figure, which had not moved in decades and had not flinched at the sudden noise, reached forward and plucked the object from the stone floor. He held it up to his face, viewing it with empty sockets that could still see, and the exposed muscles of his cheeks slid upwards in something that could be generously called a smile.
It was a lockpick.
-----
The massive demon stepped forwards, hefting itÆs gargantuan axe. Equal parts toad and man and the size of a three story inn, each step it took shook the prison, and controlled lines of destruction could be seen through walls and corridors, marking it's chosen patrol route. A belt of thick leather and metal cord wound about it's waist, studded at intervals with black glowing crystals, and around it's neck hung a massive key on a rusty chain necklace.
ItÆs lips split, showing rows of blackened teeth, and as it spoke, a sigil of Oblivion burned on its tongue.
öCrownless One. The Princes deigned me contain you. For this purpose, I was permitted to be bound by Men and Mer. Return whence you came."
The shriveled corpse effortlessly twirled the rusted blade with shocking grace, and flexed his fingers, fire and light beginning to drip from his free hand.
The demon smiled and licked it's lips, sigil pulsing in the darkness. "So be it. I do not enjoy this, but the united will of the Princes is absolute."
-----
Slowly, with a creaking groan, the massive doors of the prison-fortress opened for the first time in over a century. A dessicated, corpselike figure strode out, a gargantuan axe carelessly balanced over his shoulder with one arm.
Plucking one of the glowing black gems from his pouch, he casually crushed it, and black vapor rushed towards him, drawn in through his mouth in a quiet huff. In half an instant, he had changed utterly. Dessicated muscles had filled out, torn skin had healed over, a mane of dark hair had sprouted from his skull and fell down to his shoulders, and a faint shadow of it sprouted across his cheeks and chin. Dark eyes blinked at the light of the sun from above the clouds, and renewed lungs pulled in the sharp, crisp air even as fresh blood began to run in his veins.
He strode forwards, heedless of the great heights, and looked down through the clouds. At his feet sprawled the labyrinthine, blizzard-coated collection of dead ends, switchbacks, ruins, and caves known as the Pale Pass, and in the far distance, he could see the form of the White Tower. Something pulled him, however, and he turned away. Facing the opposite direction, he saw the towering peak of the highest mountain in Tamriel standing shadowy in the distance, a silent sentinel that seemed to call to him, like an island in a sea of clouds.
Turning his back on all that he had known, he began the long descent to the lower climes, and from there, into the land of the North. The land of Atmora. The cradle of Men. The home of his father.
Skyrim.
===========
The Nords are going to shit kine when they see some of the dragons Alduin is going to whistle up. And Eorlund isn't going to know what to think of these slabs the Dragonborn brings to his forge and uses to sharpen his weapons. . .
Also, there's a strong hint in the dialogue as to what song I listened to while writing this. TheRedKing can't play this game, because he already knows what it was.
Read and review, comments, questions, and criticism welcome.
