The Elder Scrolls: A Tower of Brass [IC]

[The Armed Republic of Dutch Coolness]

THE ELDER SCROLLS: A TOWER OF BRASS

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OOC Thread

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"The Elves were dividing; some, like the Altmer, did their best to advocate "the will of Anuiel" and so embraced the chrysalis of the Convention; others, like the Chimer, refuted all orderings and aedric measures, following their prophet to "the Stone that is not a Stone that is." The most nefarious Tower, Walk-Brass, refuted even more, refuting unto dis-creation, but we shall come to its role in the present danger to Emperor Actual in a moment. It is but a lesser pawn to the greater evil:

The Tower of White-Gold, whose Stone is Chim-el Adabal, Amulet of Kings, whose masters are returning. I speak of course of the Ayleids, for which "sometimes" was not good enough."

- Nu-Hatta, from te Nu-Mantia Intercept

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Temple of the Ancestor Moths
Cyrodiil

"This is pathetic, Master Linerius." Linerius could not look upon the Dunmer that was berating him, for he had lost his eyesight long ago, but he imagined she was as ugly as her attitude was. "When your Elder Council asked me to go on this mission for your Empire, I sent word to your temple to prepare me a Megalomoth. Yet now that I am here, you tell me that not only have you not prepared one, you do not have one in the first place? You disappoint me, and you shame not only yourself, but also your order and your Empire." The Imperial, old and blind as he may have been, still struggled to contain the anger boiling in his Colovian blood. "With all due respects, mistress Andaeril, the Order of the Ancestor Moth has never grown such a mighty -" The mage, as expected, cut him off. "I am well aware. I am also aware that I myself have never seen such a creature, and that the order tasked with breeding them has long since gone. I care little for that. You grow ancestor moths. If you were any more competent, a Megalomoth would not have been out of your reach, especially not when it is vital to the continued existence of the Empire you serve under. I will admit, however, that I made a mistake in trusting that people such as yourself would at least be mildly competent." The Dunmeri woman remained silent for several seconds, and Linerius opened his mouth to speak. Again, he was interrupted. "You may take your leave now."

For a blind man, Linerius definitely was fast with finding his way out, read as his balding head was. A good thing, Satha knew. She could barely tolerate the man as it was, so for her to have to suffer his presence for but a second more... No, good riddance to that s'wit. Scowling, she looked up at the glass in lead windows of the temple's chapel. Even those failed at doing what they were meant to do - one could hardly say they looked good! On the other hand, the Temple's residents were practically all blind, which meant it probably didn't matter. Pathetic. As was to be expected of the Empire's ever-amateurish works. Still, she had work to do. Or well, she would have, were it not for the fact that the people she was supposed to be doing said work with had yet to arrive! Atrocious, is what it was, making a wizard of the Great House Telvanni wait like this! Putting the time she was now being given by having to wait to good use, she took out the parchment with a list of people on it that she'd be working with. Who knew, maybe she'd be able to remind one of their names! She scoffed as she read through it again. Not a single Dunmer would be arriving? Pathetic! Instead she'd be forced to work with an Argonian! A Mananaut that was also an Orc? Mongrel Bretons? A mongrel not-Breton? Satha hoped they were big, at least. The bigger the meatshield the better, after all, and that was a role she was sure they could fulfill just fine.

The same could not be said about the man that barged into the chapel. He was of average height for an Imperial, with a tanned skin, and clad in the dark leathers of the Oculatus. "The others have arrived, my la-" Satha turned around, her head tilted just a little. The others wouldn't be arriving much later, then, apparently. "Hmm? very well, send them in. And next time, do knock or otherwise announce yourself before entering, lest I accidentally incinerate yourself, which would doubtlessly be a most tragic event. Now, get to it!" The man paced off as quick as he had arrived to, indeed, do her bidding, although muttering some insults underneath his breath that he thought the Dunmer couldn't hear. She controlled her temper, instead simply scoffing again, before ensuring her robes were still free of dust in this old, dusty place, waiting for her accomplices to arrive.

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Outside, three carts, pulled forward by sturdy horses bred in not-so-distant Skyrim, came to a halt at what could be called the Temple's courtyard. The Temple of Ancestor Moths itself was a surprisingly busy place these days, the grand chapel, more akin to a fine Colovian church, looming above all, with houses big and small all around it, together with storehouses. A path led further up the slopes of the mountain, towards the Temple's expansive catacombs and other assorted underground quarters. Another cart moved past, headed for the Imperial City, loaded with the silk of the ancestor moths. The three carts that had arrived, however, began to unload - one of them being emptied of the crates with assorted goods it held, while the others had their passengers get off of them and onto solid mountain rock. They were a varied bunch, hailing from different parts of Tamriel and all walks of life.

The tanned Imperial in black leathers that had entered - and left - the chapel moments earlier stood waiting for them as they assembled, an unamused look on his face as he eyed every single one of the people that had just arrived. "You are expected inside," he stated bluntly and dryly, a hand gesturing at the chapel's doors. "Make your way there at once. You have work that needs doing." Following his own instructions, evidently, he turned and immediately went for the chapel once again, expecting the new arrivals to follow him as instructed. This time, he knocked on the doors, before swinging them open, standing at attention next to them, allowing the others to step inside first so that they, too, could meet that terrible, terrible Telvanni woman that they would be working with.

[Arvanon and Vortes]

The Imperial City
Cyrodiil

On a bustling day inside the Imperial City, one could be forgiven for not noticing all of what occurs on the large settlement's streets. Between birds flying overhead and pecking the ground, people of all races, man, mer and beast alike, walking along the busy streets and vendors selling their wares, enough existed in that circular city at the centre of the Imperial Province of Cyrodiil that none could notice all that went on within its high walls. Guards patrolled the streets, though they were somewhat limited in their ability to enact justice within the city, let alone discover insurgents, spies and foreigners whose sole aim was to cause trouble. There was only so much a guard could do, and what they could not do usually lay neglected.

It is into this vacuum of ability, between what the guards could do and what was literally impossible, that the Penitus Oculatus fit. Formed only a few years after the Oblivion Crisis, with the death of the last Septim Emperor, they filled the position of agents, spies and assassins, enforcing the Emperor's justice and keeping the peace within Cyrodiil and the Empire. One with a keen eye could spot them - they kept cowls and hoods over their heads, wore almost entirely black, even in civilian clothes, and held a badge of office within the lefthand side of their cloaks. Of course, the odd agent or two would come along wearing formal Penitus Oculatus armour, in some new minimalist style created by Titus Mede that many in the Imperial City still had yet to get used to. Something to do with hardy Colovians and their sense of honour and dignity. Some had already been reporting deaths by cold in the northernmost reaches of the Empire.

Alas, city guards came and went, but the Penitus Oculatus remained. That was one part of Sisk'r Galthees' life that he relished. Sitting at his stall all day was a good way to keep the Septims rolling in, but it was a bad way to pass the time. Watching people, though, was more his style of action. Fat ones, slim ones, ones that had fought in armies and had lost their own armies, or their leggies... Sisk'r grinned as the joke went through his mind, his sharp teeth revealed past his mouth.

Watching people was one thing. Playing with them - now that was another. Sometimes, just for fun, as the thousandth customer in a day walked past and gazed over the apples in front of the Argonian, he would take his knife and subtly get ready to throw it. As they put their hand out to touch the apple, he throws. Usually, the person recoils their hands in surprise, allowing a still grinning Argonian male to take back the apple. The occasional person stands there in shock, and one person even tried to throw the knife back. Of course, he was a Penitus Oculatus member.

That was when Sisk'r Galthees' life changed for the better. Never mind his time in the Thieves' Guild, or his brief run-in with the Dark Brotherhood... With the full force of the Empire at his back, Sisk'r Galthees had flourished. Of course, his status did stop him from fully engaging in his old life of crime, but it was worth it. The gold flowed in nicely, and the missions he was given were pleasant enough. He enjoyed his time with them, even though he was a bit of a maverick in an organisation which valued order. Then again, that was what made him such an effective agent. He returned to the fruit stall in between times, wearing his normal clothes, picking out in his mind's eye who was Penitus and who was not, and watching for thieves or spies as they wandered past, only to be sent into a trap thanks to Sisk'r's alerting of nearby agents or his direct action. Sisk'r was valued by the Penitus Oculatus. He knew that. Sometimes, it seemed they wished they did not value him so much. Perhaps it would be much easier for them if they didn't.

Sisk'r noticed out of the corner of his eye a child making his way towards the stall. This should be fun, he thought to himself. The child reached out, careful not to let the Argonian see him. As he lifted the third apple out of the crate and into a well he made with his shirt, Sisk'r spoke.

"Are you going to pay for those, hatchling?"

The child stopped dead in his tracks. Sisk'r shot him a knowing smile, then balanced his knife between his thumb and forefinger. The child stepped back, returning the apples to the crate. Sisk'r jerked his head in a manner indicating for the child to move. He did so. Such a funny child, Sisk'r thought. He took one of the apples himself and bit into it.

However, as Sisk'r's gaze returned to the apples, he noticed a small off-white... Thing under the apples that had been returned. He put forward a clawed hand, and picked up the item. It was a note.

Two words adorned the front of the parchment, written in a deep red, perhaps intending to look like blood. Either way, the characters stood there on the page, clear as mud.

Moth Temple

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Temple of the Ancestor Moths
Cyrodiil

Sisk'r Galthees travelled on a cart with a number of companions with whom he had not made any real connection on the journey. He wore his Penitus Oculatus armour, a specialised set modified by the Argonian himself to accommodate for comfort, physiology and fighting style, with such useful implementations as a tail-hole, leather padding on the inside of the armour so that the wearing down of his scales, as was often done in high-agility situations with regular cloth, would not occur, and a small knife holder, which placed his knife right underneath his wrist, almost as a switchblade. But for now, he relaxed a little. As he exited the cart, he noticed the Temple of the Ancestor Moths. He smiled while he looked up. It was no White-Gold Tower, but it was impressive nonetheless. An imperial spoke to him.

"You are expected inside. Make your way there at once. You have work that needs doing," he said, a dry and humourless voice emerging from his flapping gums.

"Well thank you, but I think it's pretty ob..."

As he spoke, he realised the inappropriate nature of his words.

"I mean, uh... Thank you. I'll just go in."

And so, he entered the chapel. A strict-looking Dunmer woman stood at the end of the room.

Great, Sisk'r thought sarcastically, this could only go well.

[The Ik Ka Ek Akai]

Some old road forsaken by the Old Gods
Outsider capital territory

Rolling around at the speed of tedium and bureaucracy, the cart shook with every small bump in the road. The prisoner riding thereon felt an extreme boredom only sated by the compulsive need to berate the driver for each bump that disrupted her quiet sitting. That is, if she were able to. Long ago had she had a dirty rag tied firmly around her mouth, knotted and tucked- though this did not originate from the constant scolding and seething rage as much as for practical concern. The cart driver's arm had some small lacerations, his flimsy leather bracer had been torn off and lost at some point along the trip. Though she could not particularly voice why without muffling and distortion, the both of them knew exactly what had occurred.

Seeing a large building coming into view, she felt relief- they were, at last, at their destination. The cart came to a stop, and she stood- with some balancing done after taking her first stand in a while- and prepared to walk. The cart driver stood now beside the vehicle, meant to guard her but keeping himself at a safe distance. He pointed her to the right direction with a finger wrapped in a soaked red cloth, the only thing holding the poor man's finger together until he could get back to his base. As she drew near, he stepped aside to give himself a wider berth with which to avoid any sudden movements she might make, any tackle or kick could thus be avoided.

She approached the temple, her hands crossed and bound firmly behind her back. As her primary instinct was to strangle the guard that came to her, this was a little necessity, though it was also simple custom to restraint a prisoner in transport. She was needed on this mission, and by all means her wild and tribal ways would make it all too easy for her to escape back to her home should she go unrestrained- even the guards might not be able to stop such a creature, for the fear that the Reachmen could breed into others was awesome in its power and yet another reminder of her usefulness as an asset to the mission.

She approached the grand building, viewing everything at first with a sense of wonder. After all, the entirety was new to her- she had never seen such constructs before, the architecture and style seemed overall foreign. Then again, foreign is bad, is it not? Perhaps, she thought, it was okay since they were in their own land- aye, that would do. They were not in the Reach, so what land was there to reclaim? Even still, this was the empire that had attacked her people and taken her captive, so far be it from an acceptable situation to be poised here among these people and this structure.

Her initial wonder was turned to scorn as she viewed the situation around. Agents of the empire, each one a potential foe and a certain threat to her liberation. Would slitting their throats in the sleep be possible? She began to ponder just how much longer she would need be prisoner. She knew her place in this world- she was a hostage to be kept, her tribe would conduct no more bold attacks so long as she was under their power. The Empire was full of liars, cheats, and dishonest men, those who would never keep their bargains, and so would never release her. Their honeyed words were no match for the passion and righteous fury of the Reachmen, and never would they convince her to trust in them for a second. This was, above all, why she was not to be trusted on the journey to the temple- they knew she would fight back. She was a radical, an insurgent, a barbarian, that's what they always said, but she knew who she was and would never fall to their comments and remarks.

And here it was that she stood before the others, a barbarian among the imperials, a savage among the civilized, a warrior among the craven. She wore her native clothing, not the rags the prisons would provide- though, based on the state of her attire, one might never guess they didn't start as those rags. Draped in skins, she wore a grayish brown leather top that wrapped around and over one shoulder- it bore her midriff and a single shoulder, but that wasn't her concern until the cart driver tried to undo everything except her bonds. Over this was another layer of a rougher hide, fur protruding downwards and covering her ribs with a thin layer of warmth in an already mostly warm part of the world. At her hips was a leather skirt, and like the top is was very finely worked with all the skill of a traditional craftsman to enjoy suppleness, softness, smoothness, but most of all durability. Sharing its hue likewise, it wrapped around her form and fell to her shins, and just the same it too was covered by a fur wrap. Binding it to her hips was a series of three belts, two simple leather with a third made of rawhide running between them, tied at the front and leaving strings dangling down. At her neck was a choker of animal bones, followed by a necklace of bear teeth, and culminating in a wider collar of feathers separated by alternating wood and glass beads. Though her wrists her bound and hidden behind her back, those from an angle would see the supple gloves crawling up her arm and reinforced with a hard hide exterior wrapped around like a bracer. An armband decorated her left bicep, a tight coil of leather string with nothing attached. Covering her feet were tall leather boots, going past the knee, held up by rawhide strings and straps whose fur jetted outwards at regular intervals.

Her appearance was pitiful, if one knew what a wild Reach native should look like. Her face was dirtied, with some splotches of vague dirt and dust patching it. Her vibrant red hair fell down her back in curls, matted and tangled, lacking any of the elaborate braiding and beadstrings that the Reachmen frequently used. Her frame with thinner than one might expect, having been poorly fed, though her form seemed to be as fit as ever. The one thing that seemed intact was the glare she gave to each person that dared lay eyes upon her- the piercing dark brown of her eyes bore within them the hatred of a thousand dremora compact into one woman. Those eyes, those terrible eyes, were all the ways she could communicate summed into a single look.

She looked at the others and in her eyes was death, and the beastlike growl she let out was all-telling.

[Theodosiya]

Agent Reynaud Bellamont
Temple of Ancestors Moth
Cyrodiil...


He warily look at the carts. Few of his, "compatriots" are the kind of people he rather avoid or even outright kill in normal circumstances. Reynaud sighed, and rode the horse into the stall. Jumping down off the horse, he started to unload his equipment, and soon walked toward the Temple, already wore his full heavy armor, his eyes staring cautiously at the group.

Another agent, an Argonian, and from his gear, most likely the sort who hide and strike from distance. Reynaud hoped that the Argonian are loyal to the Empire, else things would go south. Another fellow Breton, a rogue. Of all things. Reynaud can't comprehend how a Breton could be a rogue, and somehow got recruited by the Blades. Maybe Blades can no longer rely on support from His Imperial Majesty Emperor Titus. And have to recruit lowlifes. Then again, everyone have their own purposes and skills in this life. He thought, and looked at an Orc. He smiles as he think about it, an Orc in Mananauts, like a Nord who is a battlemage. Or an Altmer who are a thief. Rare, but something to think about. Then he turns into his biggest worries. A Reachwoman. A real, battle hardened, very pissed off and dangerous Reachwoman. He starts to think that he now have to watch everyone back, in case the Reachwoman attempts something funny.

He walked a bit behind the group, focusing himself with the Reachwoman. Even now, with some guards around, he can't feel secure if he didn't keep an eye on the Reachwomen. Their reputation, reinforced by his own experiences, put him into state of high alert. His spear stands ready on his right hand, and his shield ready to protect his body and bash the Reachwoman if she dares to jump him and kill everyone. Then, he spotted their leader. A Dunmer, apparently from House Telvanni. Reynaud knew few Telvanni from one or two Penitus Oculatus mission near the Cheydinhal border. Many of them are the most annoying people he knew, and he rather avoid Telvanni Dunmers if possible.

[The Armed Republic of Dutch Coolness]

Temple of the Ancestor Moths
Cyrodiil

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Someone knocked on the doors - finally! - before they were opened. Satha turned around, her head tilted in mild curiosity. It appeared that the group she would be working with had, at last, arrived. The Dunmer herself was slightly shorter than the average of her people, and straightened her back in an attempt to appear at least somewhat taller. Appearances were, after all, everything with many people - short-sighted as they were. Blinded on one eye, with a large scar running across her face, her hair a patchy, almost white blond and stuck in a lousy ponytail, was most definitely not what one would call conventionally attractive. It mattered little. All they needed to do was listen to her.

Again, she straightened her robes. Fashioned from the finest silks available in Morrowind, it regrettably looked less fashionable than it had a hundred years ago, and even less so with the armor put on over it. A leather harness held everything in place, with chitin covering her right arm and shoulder, a belt around her waist holding several pouches, a good old void-mask and the sheath that, in turn, held her blade, fashioned from the finest ebony in the Velothi days long gone by. She folded her hands on her back as the group made their way into the chapel.

She narrowed her eyes at the Argonian that was the first to enter, eyeing him with some curiosity. She never was good with Argonian names, and even now she struggled to recall his name, that she had only read just before. Si-something, definitely. It'd do, for now. She wondered, for but a brief moment, if he had been among the s'wits that had dared attack Morrowind, but quickly came to the conclusion that, judging by the armor he wore and in whose employ he was now, he wasn't. The Oculatus wouldn't employ someone that had attacked a territory of their precious Empire...

...or would they? What appeared to be a somewhat battered Breton with red hair stood by the doors. Satha eyed the woman, almost feeling pity for her with the absolutely dreadful attire she was wearing. Truly savage - or rather, simply uncivilized. The mongrel Breton that decided she would rather not be called a Breton, then. She'd forgotten her name, too. The woman glared at her. The Dunmer gave a dismissive snort in response. "Do get inside, dear. I've heard some of the old priests around here say it's going to snow. You're not dressed for snow, and I do not want to be shouting at you all that way all this time. Come." Her voice sounded cold and unforgiving, and like the Dunmer was someone who was used to commanding people - and she was indeed. "...and do speak rather than growl, girl. Verbal communication is quite the innovative concept for you, I am sure, but do try your best."

Behind the silly, rebellious mongrel stood a figure clad in what appeared to be armor of an Orcish making. He wasn't the Orc, though, no - that wouldn't be quite right. Probably another one of those mongrel Bretons? They did have a loving for killing Orcs and sacking Orcish cities, after all. Yes, that had to be it. She called out to him as well. "That goes for you, too. If you can still move in... all of that. That'd be quite formidable."

[Theodosiya]

Agent Reynaud Bellamont
Temple of Ancestors Moth
Cyrodiil...

For the love of the divines... Reynaud thought as the Dunmeri spoke. "Yes, Ma'am" he replies, his voice slightly distorted by the mail coif, the mask and piece of cloth covering his mouth. "And yes, I'm very familiar with the concept of verbal communication, ma'am. Otherwise I won't be a Penitus Oculatus agent for ten years" he added, while adjusting his helmet slightly so his voice could be clearer. "Also, with all due respect, I'm not a Reachmen, ma'am. I'm a Breton, and I spend some time of my youth battling them in Bangkorai, when this Reachwoman" he gestured at the Reachwoman with the spike of his spear "still learns to swing a weapon or throw a spell" He lowered the spike point again. "And lastly, you'll be surprised at what I can do while wearing this much armor, ma'm" he growled as he spin his spear around skillfully, as if his armor weight nearly nothing.

Satisfied with his demonstration of his skill, he returned into ready stance. "As you can see, ma'am, I'm ready for duty" He stand upright.

[The Ik Ka Ek Akai]

"Fnm?" The savage inquired, forgetting for just a moment that anything she'd say would be entirely unintelligible without the listener having an unnatural and outstanding affinity for filling in the blanks between what few sounds she could muster. She felt her bindings, searching for the knot, but was unable to reach it effectively- she could, with her very fingertips, feel the hard and stuff bump that she could only assume was the thing holding it all together. After a big of wiggling- trying to get, if at all possible, in a better position to undo it herself, she heaved a sigh and advanced to the temple.

As she approached the Dunmer, who gave her the impression of detachment and quite the opposite of passion for any given thing, she looked her in the eye. The aged elf did not seem intimidated, and likewise was all too eager to send insults while Verica could not respond in turn. Mumbling incomprehensible words of complaint, she intensified her gaze briefly and then backed off- making sure to keep her distance from the Bretons of the room. Those pomps from Daggerfall were of the most insufferable sort, lacking any sense of practicality, directness, or courtesy, losing all in favor of courtliness, ceremony, and pretense. The one so blatantly appearing as an imperial paladin with a showy silver blade had been bad enough, but the other inexplicably wore Orcish plate that he likely gained through being dishonorable as was their custom, but he felt the need to flourish and show off. Verica thought to herself just how long of a journey this might be and shuddered at the thought, being crammed into a cave somewhere with these fools.

Once the man had finished his flourishing, she rolled her eyes and let out a loud groan. Was this truly to be her fate for the foreseeable future? This would, indeed, be quite the long adventure.

[Arvanon and Vortes]

Agent Sisk'r Galthees
Temple of the Ancestor Moths
Cyrodiil

Sisk'r noted the stern-looking Dunmer's look of suspicion towards him. Likely it was in reference to the Argonian invasion of Morrowind. Even Sisk'r could understand that the opportunistic nature of the An-Xileel's actions were fairly despicable, even if they did successfully drive back the Daedra with the help of the Hist. Sisk'r identified much more with the Empire than that nationalist faction. Regardless, he wondered if this Dunmer was close with the slavers. She was a Telvanni, and they held slaves in very recent history. There was no reason why she couldn't have been a slaver. Sisk'r narrowed his eyes, remaining cautious.

Sisk'r glanced over to the others who had followed him in. He noticed the Reachwoman. She was gagged and bound, grabbing at her bindings. Sisk'r could not suppress a short laugh - in the Westernmost regions of Skyrim, the Reachmen were terrifying witches and guerilla fighters. Here was one that looked to be in captivity. It was an interesting sight, to be sure.

Then there was a Breton. He looked almost as feral as the Reachwoman. He held a spear, which he had twirled around as a demonstration of... Well, something. Sisk'r yawned. His demonstration, while indeed appearing complex, was fairly... Dull. Sisk'r wondered if this one knew anything about stealth. He concluded that he did not.

There was one more, who had remained very silent through the trip and as they entered the temple. An Orc. Sisk'r knew that Orcs enjoyed speaking, even just to hear their own voices. But, Sisk'r disregarded this, even if he found it strange that an Orc was a member of the Imperial Mananauts.

Sisk'r looked around once more. They were all such a disparate bunch. Some were civilised. Others, it seemed, were not. Sisk'r smiled.

"So. We're here now," Sisk'r said as a break in the conversation emerged, "Hurray, you brought us all together. Well done."

He looked again, and it seemed as if an introduction was in order.

"I am Sisk'r Galthees, by the way. Fruit merchant, citizen of the Empire... Oh yeah, and an assassin in His Imperial Majesty's service. I'm quite a busy lizard, so if we could please get to the business at hand? Why are we here?"

[Theodosiya]

Agent Reynaud Bellamont
Temple of Ancestors Moth
Cyrodiil...

His eyes turned toward Sisk'r. "I'll be more careful if I were you, Sisk'r. An agent of Penitus Oculatus should be more, cautious when he disclosed his identity. One should use aliases when operate, and hopefully your customers don't know your true name" he speak in serious tone he rarely use. "That said, if one wants to trust his compatriots, one should know his or her compatriots identity. I'm Reynaud Bellamont. Or rather, Agent Reynaud, Agent Bellamont, whatever. Point is, you're not the only Oculatus agent here" Reynaud sighs, collecting his memory, before he speaks again, "And as far as I know, we're going to be sent in a top secret level mission that warrants His Imperial Majesty attention himself. Even my superiors didn't know one hundred percent about it. Which means that the secrecy level must've been very high. All I know, is that people gonna die, many of us might not come back, the very existence of the Empire itself is at risk and we're facing Aldmeri Dominion. I guess this must've got something to do with them, since reports have coming in, and I could confirm it, that the Aldmeri Dominion agents have infiltrated in numbers never seen before. Some of them works with bandits and marauders I kill or apprehend. I have my own speculation, but let's just wait for official briefing from our leader, ok?"

[Arvanon and Vortes]

Agent Sisk'r Galthees
Temple of the Ancestor Moths
Cyrodiil

Sisk'r turned to look at the Breton, smiling as he spoke. Once he finished, he turned back around to the others in the room. "Is this one going to say something, or just talk?" Sisk'r could tell - this Breton thought highly of himself. Nothing overtly wrong with that, of course, as long as it was tempered by ability, intelligence or duty. Sisk'r could see none. In fact, he was beginning to think rather lowly of this one.

"Anyway," he continued, "I was hoping out Telvanni friend here might be able to tell us more. Given that they are standing at the front of a room of summoned Mananauts, agents and... Whatever this one is," he gestured towards the Reachwoman as he spoke, "And given that we were all seemingly summoned by this Dunmer, it would stand to reason that this Dunmer would know the reason for our summoning, or at least illuminate this partially darkened topic."

[The Armed Republic of Dutch Coolness]

Satha's eyes narrowed her eyes as the Breton man, clad in armor as he was, span his spear around for a bit. She scoffed. "If I wanted you to brag about the length of your spear and your skill in wielding it, I would not have you brought inside of a chapel, and most definitely not with a whole group of people that you may have accidentally hit with it." She ended with a snort, before following it up. "Your claim to being more veteran than any of your compatriots is laughable and I shall not allow it, lest you sour my mood even further. I am Satha Andaeril of the Great House Telvanni, and while your ancestors were considering throwing your great great grandmother off of the nearest cliff for her mongrel nature, I was already learning of things that will forever be beyond your ken, and this whole Third Empire you are all here to serve was still a very novel concept. You may all henceforth address me as Muthsera or Serjo Andaeril. If any of you dare strike one another I shall have whatever is left of you sent back to the Imperial City as I do not tolerate people that waste my time." The unamused stare that followed at nobody in particular seemed to indicated that she was very, very sincere about that.

The Dunmer's eyes fell on the barbaric mongrel. "Hmm. I suppose you won't be of much use to us gagged." Shaking her head, she stepped closer towards her, before moving a hand to undo the absolutely disgusting rag that was tied around her mouth. Careful not to touch the woman's filthy skin, she pulled it off and discarded it on the floor in front of her - those silly blind Moth Priests would clean it up for her in time. She most definitely wouldn't do that, herself. It was far beneath her station.

"Now then," Satha began as she turned and walked back to where she had been standing originally, "as to why we are all here, my scaled friend..." Her eyes lingered on the Argonian for a moment as she turned around and looked at the others again, very much lacking in kindness. "...we are here by order of the Emperor, in the case of the most of you, or the Elder Council in case of a few others..." This time, she shot a brief glance at the Orc present. "As you are all aware, in recent years a group known as the Thalmor have overthrown the governments of the Summerset Isles and Valenwood respectively, reforming the Aldmeri Dominion of old. They have severed all contact with your Empire. Your superiors believe that they are seeking an ancient and powerful weapon - although we do not know about the exact details of what this weapon might be - that was thought to be lost to the ages. They don't want to see it in their hands, for it is likely it'll be turned against your Empire. Thus, we have gathered here to put a stop to that nonsense. If there are any questions, I suppose you may ask them now."

[Faal Lot Himdah]

Temple of the Ancestor Moths
Cyrodiil, Tamriel, Nirn
Jo'taba, Master of Rawlith Khaj, Rain style

---

There it was, the Temple of the Ancestor Moths. Hidden in the Jerall Mountains, north of Cheydinhal, and a pain to get to, especially when it started to snow. But that didn't matter to Jo'taba. Jo'taba preferred to take his time, and push through hardship. Jo'taba liked the scenery, liked discovering new corners of Tamriel. Jo'taba would not have gotten the same pleasure from riding a horse drawn cart. He planned to arrive as the carts were arriving, but due to getting distracted along the way, he was going to arrive late. As he approached he noticed the guard by the chapel. Of course as he approached he noticed them looking at him, analyzing him, and trying to determine if the unarmed and unarmoured Khajiit was a threat.

When they ultimately asked who he was and why he was there at the Temple, he just explained everything. How he was ordered to come to this place on this date. How he had a job to do. How he preferred walking than riding. And of course, his name. After a minute or so they allowed Jo'taba entry, but he didn't enter right away, instead he just stood at the door and listened. He could hear a faint voice, and so he determined it was best not to interupt them. As such he opened the door just enough for him to slip in and entered the chapel and stood at the door and listened to Satha speak.

"That narrows it down." Jo'taba spoke and approached the rest of the group, "Jo'taba is sorry for being late, Jo'taba meant to arrive at the same time as everyone, but he got distracted. Anyways, Jo'taba needs to know if the Elder Council or Emperor have any idea what the Thalmor are after."

[The Ik Ka Ek Akai]

The dirty rag taken from her mouth, Verica made an unladylike noise and spat a chunk of bloody meat in the direction of the Oculati. Giving a wolfish grin with teeth that, though regular as anyone's, seemed sharp as fangs in that moment, she began to tug at her bindings once more, "By Hircine were I not a hostage here, and were my kinsmen safe, I would tear the throats from these men with by teeth and return gladly home and enjoy the sweet liberation of cleaving and sawing your soldiers through alongside my warrior-brethren, turning your legions to a pile of corpses until the day we reclaim our lands!"

She began to properly struggle. Clearly, she had not made a good case for herself, nor did she intend to- their opinion of her was of no importance, and her being assigned to this mission was in itself a near guarantee of her safety among them. "I know the treacherous nature of your empire, and I trust none of you for a moment- I could not get a cart ride without complication; nay, I shall be watching my back as surely as you all should watch yours and, when this is all over, I shall take my leave of you well before your damned legion can react to hold me any longer!"

Finishing her statement by spitting what blood remain in her mouth onto the ground adjacent, "I do not respect any of you, I do not respect your gods or your ways, but I am compelled by the hangman's rope binding me and the cruel sword of the empire at the back of my kin. This is my sole loyalty to this...bunch." she refrained from issuing further insult, deciding instead to end her statements, "I am Verica of the Sparrowheart clan, and all that is in my name is what I respect." Just then, a newcomer came through and asked a question himself, to which she nodded, "Point me to where we go and let's be done with this terrible quest."

[Arvanon and Vortes]

Agent Sisk'r Galthees
Temple of the Ancestor Moths
Cyrodiil

As the Dunmer's eyes fell onto Sisk'r, he smiled, a somewhat sarcastic look in his eyes. "Perfectly clear," he replied in response to the Dunmer. However, as he was about to speak, a Khajiit entered the Temple. Sisk'r turned around. "Well, look what cat just got dragged in... Is that the phrase?" He smiled again, eyes narrowed, before turning back to the Dunmer. "I suppose these 'Thalmor' believe the weapon to be in Imperial lands. As such, the Empire believes we can get to it first?" He rubbed his lower jaw, showing his thought process as he did it. "What a strange set of circumstances. I have seen increased Altmer activity in the Imperial City. Anyone else seen anything important?"

As the Reachwoman spoke, Sisk'r lost interest. Verica seemed to be another who thought of herself far too highly. Perhaps it was a Breton thing, he thought as he half-listened to the woman's raving. Her struggling seemed violent. Perhaps she would be useful, but either way, she would be a difficult ally to keep. If she was an ally at all...

[Rodez]

Agent Severian Thierry
Temple of the Ancestor Moths
Cyrodiil

A slight breeze tickled the darkened pines as a lone figure, hooded and mounted, ascended the Colovian hills. There was no sound but the wind and the soft plodding of the horse, and then, faintly, the rasping of a chain-mail hauberk against the rider's leather cuirass. A silver longsword, finely etched with ancient Ayleidoon lettering, hung from his belt. Leather riding boots, worn from mud and faded from sun, reached up to his knees. No helm graced the rider's head; eyes as green as emeralds carefully analyzed every face that came into view, while a full mouth was pulled one way around a short brown beard in a sort of permanent half-smirk. The same brown hair sat atop his head, arranged in small curls that somehow managed to look presentable despite a clear lack of combing. A few flecks of grey showed here and there.

Severian Thierry glanced up the slope to see a long-tailed figure be waved through the doors of the temple by a guard. A Khajiit. So I am not the first. That was as he preferred it. There was something about arriving to meet strangers first that was at once incredibly awkward and deeply annoying. Severian carried no identifying marks of the Empire; no Blades agents did.

They were a damaged order, the Blades. Not broken, but battered. They were far smaller than before the Oblivion Crisis, which of course had caused them to fall out of favor with the Elder Council and later Titus Mede, after he seized power in the Imperial City. No longer did Blades guard the Emperor and his kin; that fell to the Penitus Oculatus, who enjoyed official bodyguard status and far more vast financial and military resources than their older cousin organization. Although they still operated effectively in virtually every corner of Tamriel, gathering intelligence on the volatile fringes of the Empire was beginning to become a thankless task if you served the Blades. Severian had a bad habit of regarding himself as a man born too late. Too late to serve the Emperor during the glory days of the Blades order. Too early to see its demise. Just in time to see its numbers gradually decline and recognition for the Agents who gave their lives practically dissipate. Severian sometimes wondered if his decade with the Blades would end up being another failed episode in life, like his earlier stint with the Thieves Guild. But the Blade had his orders. He was ready to do his duty for the Empire, as always. It had been a long voyage from his posting in Gilane to Anvil, and even longer ride from that port to the Colovian Highlands. Severian was ready to see this through to the end.

A few more minutes took Severian to the summit and thence into the courtyard of the temple. But as he tied his horse in at the stables and strode up the stairs to the guard, it became clear that a number of voices were emanating from within the temple. Severian winced. Late it is. That was not how he preferred it.

When the Oculatus agent challenged him, Severian stated his name and offered his orders direct from the Elder Council, signed by Blades and Imperial notaries in Hammerfell, from whence he had been brought. There was some huffing, a muttered curse for his lack of punctuality, but the doors were opened all the same.

Severian strode into the dim chamber. A small group was gathered around a smallish-looking Dunmer woman in the middle. Presumably my future compatriots, he thought. And what a crew. As he drew closer, each individual came into focus. The Khajiit he had seen earlier, in loose robes. An Argonian, perhaps a thief, or more likely, an assassin. A knight in full armor, who looked to be a Breton bigger than most. Almost impossible to see when the fellow's in the tin suit. An orc, decked -oddly- in the attire of the Imperial Mananauts. Lastly, a bound woman - who looked to be most unhappy under such constraints. Nord? Breton? No, Reachwoman. Severian felt a momentary twinge of sympathy for her. She was a mongrel just like him, even if she was a barbarian.

The shadows of the hall passed quickly. Severian stepped quickly into the torchlight to greet his new companions. Wholly green eyes analyzed each new face just as they had the guard. "Severian Thierry's the name," he announced simply. He was curious if they took him for an Imperial rather than a Breton; he bore the first name, chiseled face and aquiline nose of Cyrodiil, but carried a surname, complexion and hair from High Rock.

[The Armed Republic of Dutch Coolness]

Temple of the Ancestor Moths, Chapel
Cyrodiil

First an Argonian, and now a Khajiit. Truly, the Empire was going through some dark days, for one of those skooma-consuming fiends to be enlisted in its ranks on a mission of such importance! And he was late, too! Satha decided to not even bother acknowledging the overgrown cat. Instead, her gaze shifted to the mongrel that she had only just ungagged. Ungrateful as people such as her tended to be, she used this valuable opportunity to spit out some bodypart of some person she did not know, before going on a rather primal tirade that was most uncalled for.

"If it is any consolation," she scoffed, "my respect for you is about as much as you and your people deserve. The Daedra your people worship are almost all the fool's gods, and the one human Divine your people have been known to praise no doubt serves only as the embodiment of what are your people's lustful ways, like the half-beasts you are." She snorted. "Perhaps that is why you are dressed in such filthy hides as you are. No matter. If you do not manage to prove more useful to this little endeavor, I can assure you that your terrible quest will not only be more terrible than you can imagine, but also far more short lived."

Happy to have established her by far superior position by now, Satha looked around the chapel again, turning around and moving further backwards as she began speaking once more. "The Aldmeri Dominion's agents know as little about this weapon's whereabouts as we do. They know one or two things more, perhaps, but that is about it. We do not know if it is in Imperial lands, Dominion lands or, Azura's mercy, the Black Marsh. Dominion agents related to... this were recently seen in the area, near an abandoned fortress. They were nowhere to be seen on further investigation, but Imperial battlemages discovered that they had made a portal after seemingly not finding what they were looking for." The Dunmer turned back around, hands still neatly folded on her back as always. "They will be providing us with a portal shortly, one that will allow us to go exactly where those Dominion spies went. We cannot pinpoint where exactly we will be headed, but it is to the west of here, at the very least." She narrowed her eyes at Severian for a moment, before continuing. Another latecomer. "Unless there are any questions, I suggest we proceed at once."

[Theodosiya]

Agent Reynaud Bellamont
Temple of Ancestors Moth
Cyrodiil...


A Khajiit. In a group with Argonian and Dunmer already in it, a Reachwoman, two Bretons and an Orc... Perfect receipt for disaster. And even before the quest started, his shield are already covered in blood. When the Reachwoman spat a finger at him, he was already prepared and quickly raised his shield. He's tempted to retaliate, but after a while thought that would be pretty childish and petty too. He won't lower his standing with the others just to duke out a petty feud with a Reachwoman. What's matters now is to make sure he could at least trust the rest of the group and finish the mission . Speaking of which...

"Serjo Andaeril, you mentioned that we will prevent the Aldmeri Dominion and Thalmor to gain this weapon. While I have my own speculation and theories about this weapon, there's two things we can do, according to my opinion. Either we destroy it , or gain control of it and turn it toward them. Should circumstances present itself and we could technically control the weapon, should we do it, or should we destroy it?" Reynaud asked.

[Faal Lot Himdah]

Temple of the Ancestor Moths
Cyrodiil, Tamriel, Nirn
Jo'taba, Master of Rawlith Khaj, Rain style

---

"That is a pharse, yes, but it probably would have been more appropriate if Jo'taba dragged one in here." Jo'taba said with a smirk while looking at Sisk'r, "As for if Jo'taba has seen any increased Altmer activity, that would be a no. Jo'taba spent the past month deep in a ruin presuing one of Jo'taba's passions."

"Jo'taba doesn't like this..." The Khajiit said and looked at Satha, "If the Dominion know just one thing more about the mystery weapon then us, then they are one large leap ahead of us. They would know what to look for, and we would just be following. Even if they have an idea of the whereabouts of the mystery weapon and not what the weapon is, the Dominion would still be ahead of us. Jo'taba also doesn't like how this one plans to lead us to a place that we don't know where it is. We could end up in the wilderness or in the middle of an Altmer city. There is another thing Jo'taba doesn't like... the behaviour of this one... But Jo'taba shall put up with to complete this job, so Jo'taba may return to Jo'taba's passion."

Finally, Jo'taba looked to Reynaud. "Depends on the weapon. Some things do not belong in the hands of man, mer and other mortal races. That's what Jo'taba believes anyway."

[The Armed Republic of Dutch Coolness]

"We shall see about that when we actually find out what this weapon is, and when we get our hands on it. It could be an amulet, it could be an entire ruined city used to channel some sort of magic. We do not know, and as such it is pointless to go ahead and plan for what may or may not be the case - as it'll likely be vastly different, regardless!" Satha shook her head a little, before she began taking a few steps forward. "As such I suggest we proceed to the mission at hand, seeing as there are no questions... I have 'secured', so to say, the undercroft of this chapel for us to use for the moment, where we can do whatever we please without any blind old fools barging in on us all the time."

She snorted at the Khajiit as she, indeed, moved towards the stairs leading down towards the undercroft, as was typical to be included in a chapel here in Cyrodiil. "I really do not care about whatever passions you indulge in in those dark, dank ruins you apparently spend most of your time in. You may not like any of this, but it is all your Empire can do - and someone has to do it. It is why you were brought here, and as such it is exactly what you shall do. We can end up in the wilderness, yes, or in one of those Altmeri cities. They are said to look quite magnificent, really. But it doesn't matter. We shall be on our way shortly, so if you would all put in some effort and follow me..?"

Descending the stairs, the Dunmer opened the heavy door leading into the undercroft, candles making sure one could actually watch their step in the chapel's depths. "...if you see any ghosts or something of the likes, do tell. I've learned that your ancestors here aren't quite as benevolent as my own." At the center of the undercroft stood two hooded figures, clad in the armor of the Legion - Imperial battlemages both, awaiting the group in silence. Satha turned around, impatiently waiting for everyone to arrive.

[Sulania]

Ysolet Shatter-Shield
Vigilant of Stendarr
Cyrodiil, Temple of the Ancestor Moths

---

Widow. Monk. Vigilant. These were the words of one Ysolet Shatter-Shield. Born in the lands of Skyrim, Ysa was not used to the warmer lands of Cyrodiil, or the ways or their people. Though her travels with her late husband gave her preparation, she always preferred the frostbitten land of her origin. Though she'll never miss the food, with the cuisine of Cyrodiil so much more. Definitely beyond that which she could find in Windhelm, or even High Rock for that matter. Which is why she always found it peculiar that she would go back to that of the sweet roll. Oh, the delicacy of a sweet roll, the constant snarks from the guards of her home about the rates of sweet roll theft going through her mind every time, she herself probably accounting for half of it.

She enjoyed her small morsel out by the doors to the grand Temple, knowing she was already late for whatever meeting is taking place. She was called by the Vigilants to go with the group for some grand quest, as the Vigilants often took it upon themselves to seek out and destroy all that is of the Daedra, a calling she of course follows. Though, given its inception, they have a tendency to force themselves into every operation of the Empire in some way, officially or unofficially. Just so happens that she was chosen for this holy mission, and as such she would fulfill her duties. Her duties only delayed by her sloth, of course, which itself was due only to the fact that, as she was already running late, she had no desire to hear it from the man inside, whom she had heard rumors was a most unpleasant one. She didn't care what he thought of her, more that she just didn't want to hear his inane babbling at her for her lack of punctuality.

As she finished up her sweet roll, she took account of her belongings to ensure she was ready to enter when she did. "Bow, arrows, potions..." She said, ruffling through her pouch looking to make sure she had all that she needed. "A few septims for the road..." She continued taking account before taking a pause to look at her ring, caressing her bond of matrimony lovingly before gathering herself and proceeding into the Temple, with no word to announce her arrival.

While she had little care for the mission, her duty being to root out all that is Daedra and purge the land of its evil, she knew that her secondary duty was still to the Empire. And she would have to fulfill both duties, as is the obligation of the Vigilants of Stendarr. She hurried behind the group descending the stairs, maintaining a distance from everyone else so as to avoid any confrontation that would prove uncomfortable. Her only real interaction being the slight glance of annoyance she gave to the Dunmer leading them, founded really only on the rumors she heard of that one's own sense of manners.

She, of course, was sure to pack an extra sweet roll for whatever long meeting is intended by this Dunmer man. So she proceeded to take it out and eat as she further descended with her fellow compatriots, following the Dunmer.

[Faal Lot Himdah]

Temple of the Ancestor Moths Undercroft
Cyrodiil, Tamriel, Nirn
Jo'taba, Master of Rawlith Khaj, Rain style

---

"This one mistakes Jo'taba's displeasure due to a lack of information for an unwillingness to complete Jo'taba's assignment." Jo'taba said asn he followed Satha into the undercroft, "Jo'taba prefers working on more information as Jo'taba can prepare properly. But Jo'taba does admit, going in with no information, delving into the unknown, can be a rush. However, Jo'taba does also believe that caution must always be exercised with the unknown. But normally one can safely predict what the lies in the unknown with enough awareness and knowledge. But this is no normal unknown, and this lack of information can turn deadly fast. That is why Jo'taba does not like this. Though, some of these ones may not understand what Jo'taba speaks of, but perhaps they do. Jo'taba knows not how these ones think, or what these ones have been through."

[Sarejo]

Gurash gro-Morgul
Temple of Ancestor Moth, Cyrodiil

The aging orc made his way through the paths of the ancient settlement around the Temple of the Ancestor Moth, the ornate, yet practical, robes marking him as a member of the illustrious Royal Imperial Mananauts flowing around his body. He had eschewed the large helmet also characteristic of the uniform, in favor of having his head open to the air, feeling the crisp air on his increasingly balding head.

He made his way to the Temple of the Ancestor Moth, and found a group of people already waiting there, an eclectic mix of Men, Mer, and Beastfolk, himself no exception, that seemed oddly varied for a group supposedly supporting the interests of an Empire ruled by men. He slipped in quietly, almost in the ways that he had when he had been late to class attending the College of Winterhold, merely observing the group, as they discussed their mission, apparently to find a weapon, despite not knowing its whereabouts, its power, or even what it looked like. He thought he would make a comment, but he elected to continue his observance instand and glean more information to narrow the search for answers in his own head.

[The Armed Republic of Dutch Coolness]

Refraining from speaking to her companions for the moment, Satha instead focused her attention on getting the group out and about. Caution was always advised, sure, but to stress the point that much... tut-tut. Only the less inquisitive of people would do that, no? Wafting with her hand at the pair of Legion mages that stood at the ready, she silently instructed them to get to doing what they'd been brought here to do. She patiently waited as she observed the two channel their spell, reality seemingly starting to warp just a little in the empty space between them, the air shaking until suddenly, with a rather loud, roaring noise, reality split asunder, a black hole, surrounded by purple flames, now illuminating the undercoft. The battlemages visibly struggled with keeping it up. The Dunmer gave them a nod, before stepping forward, and through the portal, very much expecting the others to follow her lead.


Unknown Realm of Oblivion

---

Darkness was all Satha could see for the moment. Everything around her was black. And then it wasn't. She blinked. Though hazy, she could see the rough outlines of a path. At the end, a light. Their destiny for a moment. She looked around her again. Everything was still dark, but it had taken shape - the blackness forming a forest of silhouettes bordering the hazy purple path. She took a step forward, and her mind suddenly felt heavy, as if something was starting to force its way inside of her head, a pressure applying to it from all sides - and yet it didn't. AE GHARTOK PADHOME, a voice thundered, dark and malevolent. AE ALTADOON! The Telvanni gasped in shock at the suddenness, and it was then that she realized that she wasn't breathing. Was she dead? No, she wasn't. AE ALTADOON! Was she breathing? No. The logical thing was, thus, to concentrate and breathe - despite the nuisance of this thundering voice in her head.

She didn't know how to. Satha had forgotten how to breathe. Cursing to herself, and to that blasted voi - GULGA MOR JIL HYAET AE HOOM. She forced herself to make a run for it, as fast as she could - and with whatever that presence was that was weighing down on her mind, that was far from as easy as it ought to be. Still, she struggled onward. The light got closer, the bright, shining white a true beacon in the literal darkness she found herself in, while the voice got louder and louder. HERMA-MORA-ALTADOON! It told her, whatever it meant by that - AE ALTADOON! She reached out the light, and the darkness vanished.


Unknown location, Tamriel

---

The Dunmer fell down on the ground with a loud thud, a small cloud of dust sent off into the air. She gasped for air, her eyes opening wide as she quickly struggled up onto her feet, before looking around her. There was sand all around her, like that of a desert, yet there was greenery, too. Shrubs, trees, and other assorted flora dotted the landscape and the hills in the distance. In front of her, ancient, crumbled sandstone pillars, inscribed with ancient inscriptions, overgrown with vines, and stood in a shallow lake. For the moment, she had not a clue as to where she was. Where she was. Her companions. Blinking, she got up on her feet and looked behind her, the same bright light she had seen moments before there to meet her - but nobody else was there yet. Surely they'd arrive, too, right..?

[Sulania]

Ysolet Shatter-Shield
Vigilant of Stendarr
Cyrodiil, Temple of the Ancestor Moths

---

The Dunmer leading gave the nod for them to perform their spell. She could feel the ripples through the air as the mages prepared their spell, and was shook when the loud thunder roared, feeling the vibrations spread through her body. Nonetheless, she used her resolve to stay firm, continuing to eat her sweet roll as her face looked deadpan as the portal formed between the mages. She knew what it was almost immediately, as she was taught by her time with the Vigilants. She knew it was a portal, one brought from the depths of Oblivion itself. "Daedra..." She muttered to herself, showing huge amount of anger towards what was being displayed before her. They were using profaned magic, the works of evil. Before she could say anything, their leader already made her way through the portal.

Her face contorted in anger, knowing that her resolve would bring her through the portal, no matter how profaned it was. She ate the rest of her sweet roll in one huge swallow, wiping the crumbs on her robes and grabbing her amulet of Stendarr. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained, so they say." And with that, she pushed herself forward through the gates and into the profaned realm of Oblivion.

Oblivion

Walking through the portal almost caused the Vigilant to keel over in pain, as she looked around she could barely see anything. Incomprehensible whispers filled her ears, in words that she could not comprehend. She looked out seeing nothing but blackness, and so she screamed out to who was whispering, or she would have. Upon attempting to yell, nothing came from her mouth. She brought her hand to her throat as fear began to show in her eyes. She looked to her back and saw a path form, with a grand light at the end of the darkness.

Knowing what she must do, Ysa pushed herself towards the end. Every step towards the portal the whispers grew louder and louder, until they grew to screech through every member of her being. AE ALTADOON! It shook every part of her being, causing her to falter and look to her surroundings. At the beginning where she was she now saw a new being, a shadow, a silhouette of some sort. It was gigantic, imposing in size. What appears to be shadow tentacles coming from it. Squirming, writing, reaching out towards her. To see its eyes was to see into what was utter blackness, as if to peer into the void itself.

Ysolet, seeing this monster before her shook her to her core. AE ALTADOON! Ysa ran towards the light, to salvation. She could feel the monster on her heels. Its tentacles, its horrible writhing tentacles reaching towards her. AE ALTADOON! AE ALTADOON! They grew louder and louder

Until silence.

She reached the light, only to have her stop at the silence. She looked back, making the mistake of her life. Face to face was this dark being, no more illuminated by the light of the portal as it was in the darkness. A whisper. "herma-mora-altadoon"

And with this, she was pushed, or perhaps fell or tripped, into the light.

Unknown Location, Tamriel

No matter how she went into a portal, she fell to the ground with a loud thud. Ysa opened her eyes, blinded by the new light of the sun, almost as if she never had seen it before. "By the Divines..." She muttered, pulling herself to her feet. Looking around, seeing the world around her. She landed on a dry patch of land amid what appears to be a small lake.

She peered over the amazing landscape, standing in awe for the beauty that laid before her. The mountains and greens and sands were more amazing than anything she had seen in her travels. The stone pillars that laid before her was something that puzzled her, yet amazed her at the same time. Was it a shrine of some sort, or some monument. The pillars were adorned with inscriptions in a language beyond her own understanding.

Ysa looked towards their Dumner leader and made her way towards her, pulling out another sweet roll from her pack and beginning to eat it, before looking at Satha deadpan. "Never was told we would be working with the Daedra."

[The Ik Ka Ek Akai]

Dastardly place in bastardly region

Verica followed her new boss down into the deep dark, keeping an eye out as she had said for any spooky scary things lurking in the dark. She did not expect anything, lo and behold there was nothing lurking there that she could find. The warrior felt, in truth, a bit disappointed- such would've at least given a little fun to an otherwise unfortunate situation. There was, however, a period of great excitement to be had in a very short time. Verica watched with great curiosity as the mages took stance and prepared their spell.

A great crackling thunder filled the room, making the Reachwoman want to cover her ears- unable to thanks to her captors- and so she was forced to watch as reality itself was torn asunder. A mass of great violet flames erupted forth, seeming as if to make the room colder, and a terrible portal of pitch blackness the likes of which should never be known to mortal men opened before her very eyes. She stood in awe of the horrifying thing, unable to summon words to define it, but known in her deepest heart that it was not good nor to be taken with the slightest triviality. Before she could speak a single word, the Dunmer had crossed into it and disappeared. Turning around briefly to look at where she had been, then back to see where she would go, she took a deep breath to muster herself and went in. She needed to scream, but could muster no word. She needed to cry, but could muster no tears. The only thing she felt was a crushing pain in her chest as her air began to run out, and she forced herself to stand and make her way to the portal.

There were only a few steps left, but each one felt as if writhing in pain. Each single movement send a burning through her veins. Each step felt as if being held down by a troll. Struggling against every fiber of her being, she pushed and pushed until finally the light overcame her. It all felt euphoric to be returned to the world of the living, or at least a closer approximate, after such an ordeal.

The world of the living, or at least a closer approximate

Verica fell upon the ground, heaving and gasping to get air back into her system. She felt shaky, her breathing starting to turn likewise, and a few tears began to drip into the dirt below her as she recalled the ultimate horrors she had seen in the dark place. She let this go for a little before realizing that the others would be there in no time, and so she swallowed her sorrows and began struggling, awkwardly maneuvering her body and quite showing off her flexibility and athletic potential by twisting into a position that she may actually get herself back to standing without the use of her hands or any sudden jerking motions. Trying to wipe her face with her shoulder, she simply spoke aloud:

"You...you never said anything about....that"