[What follows is an untitled short story based on quests and themes in Oblivion. It originally started out to be a very short and silly story about the invention of the sandwich in Cyrodiil. It became something else and takes a serious turn after the humorous part one. I wrote it so that non-players could still enjoy it, and I took a few liberties with Oblivion lore.]

* * * *

Part One

Beowulf opened the door to the White Stallion Lodge, walked in, and flinched as he nearly ran into the back of Mazoga's blood-red, spiky Daedric cuirass.

"Mazoga! Why are you just standing around by the door in full Daedric armor? You know how I feel about Daedric armor."

Daedric armor and weapons were the best in the realm, but they had been forged in Oblivion, a dimension home to the Daedra, divine beings of less-than-benevolent disposition. The least benevolent was Mehrunes Dagon, the Daedric Prince of Destruction. In Beowulf's lifetime, Dagon attempted to invade Cyrodiil by opening gates to Oblivion all over the country. Beowulf was one of the key heroes instrumental in stopping Dagon, earning him the title "Champion of Cyrodiil." Thus he viewed Daedric armor and weapons with suspicion and only used them in the most dangerous of circumstances. Otherwise he preferred his own eclectic mix of armor and weaponry.

"I'm gonna go get me some Black Bows," responded Mazoga to Beowulf's question about why she was in full Daedric armor. "Tag along if you like."

The Black Bows were bandits active in and around Leyawiin County. The Count of Leyawiin knighted Mazoga and Beowulf specifically to combat the bandits. He also gave them the White Stallion Lodge, a rustic lodge just north of Leyawiin on the western bank of the Niben River. Beowulf owned several homes all across the country of Cyrodiil and was even the lord of a large castle, but he always considered the lodge to be his true home. He kept his best gear stored in the lodge. Mazoga, a tall, green-skinned, female Orc, lived permanently at the lodge, allowing her to carry out her single-minded pursuit of the Black Bows.

"Normally I would, but I have to spy on Weebam-Na to find out what that thief did with the Eye of Nocturnal. But first I'm gonna get me some dinner. Join me if you like."

Beowulf sat down at the table, sliced off some ham and cheese, and put the slices in between two hunks of bread.

"I tell you, Mazoga, this invention of mine--I call it meat-and-stuff-between-bread--is going to be the talk of Leyawiin some day, if not Cyrodiil itself. People are amazed when I show it to them. The Khajiit say that I'm a dumbkoff, which I think is Khajiit for 'genius.' Here, try it. What do you think?"

"I'm gonna go get me some Black Bows. Tag along if you like."

Beowulf sighed. "Right. Maybe later. For now I'm going to take a nap before I commence to spying on Weebam-Na. But thanks for asking."

Beowulf washed his meat-and-stuff-between-bread down with a bottle of ale and sighed contentedly before letting loose a loud belch. Then he stood up, took off his armor, and put all of his gear into a single sack--potions, vampire dust, books, scrolls, keys, dust bunnies, and everything he had collected while exploring dungeons and caves across Cyrodiil.

"You know, that's some sack. Too bad I can't take it along with me as some kind of ... bag ... of ... holding. Yes, imagine a portable bag that could hold all of my stuff. I could clean an entire dungeon out and not have to break a sweat hauling all of my swag back here or to a merchant."

Beowulf continued to think about such a bag as he drifted off to sleep. Soon he was frolicking through the eastern forests of Blackwood in the rain when he came upon a table in a clearing between two trees. On the table was a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, and a large ham. Beowulf sat down, as did a Spriggan (something like a dryad from Greek mythology) and a black bear. He sliced off some ham and cheese and put the slices between two hunks of bread.

He addressed the Spriggan: "Would you like a meat-and-stuff-between-bread? It's all the rage in Leyawiin County."

"No thanks," she responded, laughing seductively. "I'm a vegetarian. The bear, however, is an omnivore and wouldn't mind a snack before the main course. You, of course, are the main course."

The bear stood up, roared, and grabbed Beowulf's meat-and-stuff-between-bread. He devoured it in one bite, licked his snout, and growled menacingly. Then he suddenly and calmly sat down. Then he spoke.

"What? No mustard?"

A stunned Beowulf could only stammer out, "I ... beg ... your ... pardon?"

"Mustard, my good man, mustard. That's a cracking good invention you've got there, but it cries out for some mustard. Just a little brown mustard with seeds would give the sandwich a delightfully pungent finish. And for Cyrodiil's sake, don't tear off hunks of bread like some Orc barbarian--slice it into half-inch slices. Oh, and if I were you, I'd use S'jirra's potato bread."

S'jirra was famous for her potato bread. Early in his heroic career, Beowulf retrieved her jumbo potatoes after they had been stolen by an ogre. The bread is always in demand as she makes it in small batches in the fireplace of the Faregyl Inn, an inn owned by her fellow Khajit, Abhuki. (The Khajit are a feline humanoid species. Along with the Argonians, a lizard humanoid species, the Khajit are sometimes called "Beastfolk." Both races were once slave races.)

"Say, that's a fine idea, Mr. Bear. You're a genius, or as the Khajit would say, a dumbkoff."

"I don't think that word means what you think it means, but I'll take it in the spirit in which you intended it."

"I have no idea what you just said, but thanks all the same for the advice--and for not eating me! By the way, can you tell me why I'm not wearing any pants?"

Just then Mazoga appeared behind Beowulf's chair and boomed: "I'm gonna go get me some Black Bows. Tag along if you like."

Beowulf woke up in stark panic and stood upright on his bed. Mazoga was standing at the foot of Beowulf's bed, smiling her toothy smile.

"Mazoga! What's wrong with you? I was fast asleep. And I said I had other things to do. Go ahead and chase after Black Bows--I'll join you some other time. I've got that Weebam-Na business to take care of and--wait a minute! Quick! Give me a piece of parchment and a quill--I've got a recipe to write down. And do we have any mustard seeds in the cupboard? Never mind, I can get some in the Imperial City if I have to."

Beowulf lept into the main room of the lodge and rummaged through a crate for several moments before finding a quill and some parchment. He sat down at the table, sending dishes and food flying everywhere. Then in big letters, he slowly scrawled out a recipe:

Meat-and-stuff-between-bread
Ham.
Cheese.
S'jirra's potatoe bread.
Brown musterd with seads.
Spread musterd on 2 half-an-inch thick slices of bread. Slice ham & cheese into thin slices. Put slices in between bread. Eat.

"Oh this is going to make me rich. I see a whole chain of meat-and-stuff-between-bread shops across Cyrodiil. But I'm getting ahead of myself--I need to secure some potato bread. Hey Mazoga: I'm gonna go get me some potato bread--taaaaag alooooong if yoooouuuu liiiiiike."

Beowulf roared with laughter as his "witticism," and took all of his gear out of the sack that had amused him earlier. He first put on his Forgemaster's Smock, an enchanted blacksmith's apron that gave him stamina; next he put on his Bladeturn Hood and other various mismatched, but powerful, armor pieces. Then he equipped an Ebony longsword and Lord Kelvyn's Bulwark shield. With his red hood and apron, he looked like a member of an evil blacksmith cult.

"Alright my lodge companion," he began jocosely, "I must needs sally forth to the Faregyl Inn in the Great Forest to procure potato bread from S'jirra, who, though perhaps not a fair maiden, nor overly particular about her feline breath, is one fine baker and a friendly face. Farewell and anon!"

As Beowulf walked past Mazoga and exited the lodge, he heard: "I'm gonna go get me some Black Bows. Tag along if you like."

Beowulf winced. "That girl has a one-track mind, even for an Orc."

Part Two

Beowulf smiled as he approached the Inn of Ill Omen, an inn just to the southwest of Faregyl Inn. Years ago, when travelling north on the Green Road he spotted an Oblivion gate not too far from the inn. Before entering the gate, Beowulf rushed to the inn to warn its occupants. Manheim Maulhand, the innkeeper, upon seeing Beowulf, bellowed: "Well I'll be a spotted snow bear, a customer!"

"Excuse the intrusion, innkeeper, but an Oblivion gate has opened nearby. It's best that you and your customers evacuate immediately until I close the gate."

"What customers? No wants to stay at an inn called the Inn of Ill Omen, and who can blame them? But I can't bring myself to change the name--besides, I like the sign."

Beowulf grinned at Manheim's unflappability. "Alrighty then. Tell you what; after I close the gate and kill the hordes of evil monsters pouring out of it, I'll come back here and we'll get drunk. My treat."

"Sounds like a plan," boomed Manheim.

Thus began a friendship nearly a decade old now.

"That was a long time ago. Let's see if the old man can still drink me under the table."

Beowulf dismounted and tied his horse. He walked in expecting Manheim to be behind the counter ready to bellow out a greeting. But no one was behind the counter or in the inn's main room. Nor was a fire burning, and Beowulf realized that it was quite cold in the inn.

"Manheim? You there old friend? You have a customer."

Beowulf walked to the counter and gasped as he looked behind the counter; Manheim was lying face down on the floor. Beowulf lit a torch and tried to rouse his friend. A knife wound in Manheim's back precluded his revival. Beowulf fought back his tears and screamed in rage. Suddenly he heard rustling downstairs. Unsheathing his sword, he walked carefully down the stairs and opened the door to the basemant rooms. He could see a dark figure at the end of the hall, motionless and quiet.

"Identify yourself or by the Nine I'll run you through with my sword."

No answer.

Beowulf charged, first trying to identify the figure by the light of his torch. The figure moved without a sound and flipped over Beowulf's head. Before Beowulf could turn around, the figure had run up the stairs and out of the inn. Beowulf followed, adrenaline giving him a great burst of speed. Exiting the inn, Beowulf could hear fighting; after his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, he could see an Imperial Legion Forester fighting with a lithe figure wearing a hood and a full suit of leather armor. Before Beowulf could assist the Forester, the figure plunged a dagger into the Forester's chest. The Forester fell and the figure turned to face Beowulf, who was in a full charge towards the figure.

Beowulf swung too wildly, and the nimble figure ducked with ease. Beowulf cursed his rashness but recovered quickly. The figure did a backflip to put some distance between himself and his attacker. It was then that Beowulf recognized the figure as a member of the Morag Tong, a guild of assassins sanctioned by the Empire. In fact, he knew this particular assassin.

"I ... I know you, don't I? Didn't I let you out of prison a few years ago?"

The figure took several seconds to answer, as if it were trying to remember.

"Yes."

"You were tasked with killing the Drothmeri Commander."

"Yes."

Several years ago while exploring eastern Cyrodiil, Beowulf stumbled onto a plot to overthrow the Imperial Empire. The plot was organized by a rogue wizard searching for a powerful artifact in ancient Elven ruins. While he searched, the unheard-of Drothmeri Army guarded the dig site and trained for an invasion of the Empire. Beowulf infiltrated their base and eventually found an imprisoned Morag Tong assassin. Assuming correctly that the assasin had a writ from the Empire to assassinate an enemy of the Empire, Beowulf freed him. Beowulf later found out that the assassin had killed the commander of the Drothmeri Army.

"OK, you did the Empire a service by killing the Drothmeri Commander, just as I did when I killed the rogue mage. Now why did you kill my old friend Manheim? What possible threat was he to the Empire?"

Again the figure took time to think.

"None."

Beowulf was astounded. "None?"

"None."

"You killed my friend for no reason?"

"Yes."

Beowulf was torn by his desire to run the assassin through with his blade and his desire to find at least some reason for his old friend's death.

"And the Forester? No reason for killing him?"

"None."

Beowulf cocked his head as he formed a hunch about the figure's motives.

"You're not by any chance under the influence of ... Hist sap?"

"Yes."

Beowulf gasped.

"Can you help me?" asked the figure helplessly. "I'm ... confused."

Beowulf staggered back in shock. Then he hung his head in dismay. It all came to back him. Long before he was the Champion of the Arena, long before he was the Hero of Kvatch, long before he was the Champion of Cyrodiil, and long before bards composed songs about his heroic deeds--he was a cold-blooded killer.

Deep in the swamps of Argonia grow giant spore trees known as Hist trees. The Argonians use the sap of the Hist tree in their religious rites, but for most races, Hist sap is a powerful hallucinogen that induces bloodlust.

Beowulf first encountered Hist sap early in his heroic career when he was working his way up the ranks of the Fighter's Guild. A rival guild known as the Blackwood Company had been using Hist sap to bolster the strength and courage of its members. Beowulf was tasked with infiltrating Blackwood Company to expose its practices. Pretending to be a recruit, he was assigned a mission with three other Blackwood Company members, all of whom were made to drink Hist sap. The four made their way to Water's Edge, a small village on the banks of the Niben River that had been overrun by goblins. The four killed all of the goblins outside, and Beowulf was ordered to go inside the houses to finish them off. He entered the humble cottages and killed the goblins one-by-one. Oddly, they did not fight back ...

A day later, members of the Fighter's Guild found Beowulf passed out in the streets of Leyawiin and took him to Modryn Oreyn's house. Oreyn had ordered Beowulf to infiltrate Blackwood Company. After Beowulf told his story to Oreyn, Oreyn sent him back to Water's Edge.

Beowulf found a farmer standing over human corpses.

"My poor Biene. Poor, sweet Biene. What kind of monsters would do this?"

Beowulf knew Biene Amelion. He had helped her pay off her father's gambling debts. The farmer was Biene's father. Beowulf was the monster who had killed his daughter.

"You!"

Beowulf turned pale.

"You're the one who helped my sweet Biene. You paid off my gambling debts. But tell me--who could have done this?"

Beowulf staggered back into the road, fell to his knees, and vomited into the river. After shakily getting back on his feet, he ran south in a full sprint to the White Stallion Lodge, less than a mile away from Water's Edge. Filled with rage--rage fueled by rightful indignation, not Hist sap--Beowulf put on a full set of Daedric armor and equipped himself with a Daedric hammer. He ran to Leyawiin, entered the city, and charged straight towards the Blackwood Company headquarters. He smashed the door with his hammer and entered. Several Blackwood members tried to stop him, but they were no match. He made his way to the basemant where he found a Hist tree hooked up to a distillery. He killed the tree's caretakers and then sabotaged the machinery, destroying the tree as a result.

He went back upstairs and was confronted by Maglir, a former member of the Fighter's Guild who had defected to the Blackwood Company. Beowulf once covered for Maglir, who defaulted on a contract. Beowulf completed the contract--a somewhat dangerous quest for a missing science journal lost in a cave--and allowed Maglir to take credit.

"You fetcher. You guild rat. I had a good thing going here before you came along. I had money and respect. Now it's all gone, and I'm going to kill you!"

Maglir attacked feebly with his iron short sword. Beowulf easily dodged the wood elf's attacks, and in one powerful swing, brought his hammer down on Maglir's helmet. Maglir fell dead. Modryn Oryen and several members of the Fighter's Guild arrived, but there was nothing for them to do. Beowulf sat on the floor and wept. Oreyn put his hand on Beowulf's shoulder.

Oreyn hated it when people consoled the bereaved by telling them "it will be alright." Some things will never be alright. So instead Oryen said, voice cracking, "I know, my friend. I know."

Part Three

"You're confused?"

"Yes."

"Do you know how you got here?"

"No. I think I was in the Imperial City. I was staying at an inn on a boat ... the ... the ..."

"The Bloated Float Inn?"

"Yes."

"I'm familiar with it. I was asleep in one of its rooms when it was hijacked by thieves and put out to sea."

"I remember reading about that. I ... think I was there waiting for my next assignment. I was ... drinking with an Argonian. He told me that he had something that could make me into a better assassin."

Beowulf swore under his breath.

"That would be the sap of the Hist tree."

"Yes. He said something like that."

"OK, look, I'm going to help you, but I need you to drop all of your weapons on the ground. Slowly. And I know you must have several hidden away."

"Yes."

The assassin pulled several weapons out from every limb of his body and dropped them on the ground.

"Now remove your armor--I know it must be enchanted."

"Yes."

The assassin removed his leather armor.

"Now step away from the weapons, turn around, and put your hands behind your back. I'm going to tie your hands and feet just in case you're still under the influence--or lying."

"Yes."

"And by the Nine Divines, if you've killed S'jirra at the Faregyl Inn, not even Mehrunes Dagon could save you from my wrath."

"I understand."

Beowulf bound the assassin and set him on his horse. Then he mounted the horse and headed to the Faregyl Inn, fearing the worst but hoping for the best. Beowulf sighed with relief when S'jirra came bounding out of the inn.

"Wulfie!" yelled S'jirra, using her affectionate nickname for Beowulf. "Is this my gift--a tied-up, half-naked Dark Elf? A little odd, but I guess it could be fun."

S'jirra expected Beowulf to laugh, but she knew in an instant by looking at Beowulf's countenance that something was wrong.

"What's wrong?"

"It's bad S'jirra."

"How bad?"

"Manheim ... Manheim is dead."

S'jirra paused for a few moments. "Don't joke about things like that."

"I wish I were."

"He's really dead?"

S'jirra paused again, and attempted to blunt her feelings with a joke, as she often did.

"I bet he died drinking--I always told him that drink would be the death of him. Oh well, more potato bread for the rest of us."

"It's more complicated than that."

"How complicated?"

By then, Abhuki, the innkeeper, and Alix Lencolia, a frequent resident, had come out. Beowulf told them the story. S'jirra growled with feline fury.

"I'm gonna kill this Dark Elf trash! I'm gonna gut him with my claws and feast on his entrails!"

Beowulf grabbed S'jirra by the shoulders.

"Listen to me, S'jirra. He wasn't in his right mind when he did it. Crazy as it sounds, he didn't know what he was killing."

"But Wulfie," S'jirra protested mournfully.

"Now listen--you need to do something important for me. I want you to go to the road and flag down the nearest Imperial Legion patrol soldier. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Beowulf. I ... can do that," she replied, choking back a sob.

S'jirra ran to the Green Road and began looking for an Imperial Legion soldier.

Beowulf carried the assassin into the inn and downstairs to the basemant. Leaving him tied up, they barricaded him in one of the smaller rooms, and returned upstairs to the inn's lobby.

"I can't believe it," said Abhuki. Manheim's really gone?"

"I can believe it," replied Lencolia. The Morag Tong are nothing but thugs, even if they are sanctioned by the Empire. I don't think he needed this "Hist sap" to go around killing good folk--that's what happens when you dedicate your life to killing."

"This isn't about politics," Abhuki scolded him. This is about that horrid poison those smelly swamp lizards keep bringing into Cyrodiil. They may be able to handle it, but it turns non-Argonians into killing machines. The Empire should ban the stuff and turn any Argonian who brings it into Cyrodiil into a pair of shoes!"

"You say that about all Argonians, Abhuki."

"And I mean it, Alix."

"Now that's no way to talk about your fellow beastfolk."

Beowulf winced and recalled the old saying, "Oblivion hath no fury like a female Khajit scorned."

Abhuki pounded a fist on the table. "Beastfolk! Beastfolk! How dare you use that word around me and lump us Khajit together with those tree-licking lizard freaks. Just because I'm not human doesn't mean that I'm a beastfolk, you fetcher. As far I'm concerned, you humans are all beastfolk. Did you ever think of that?"

"Abhuki, I'm sorry. I went too far."

"You're telling me. Beastfolk my furry tail."

Alix looked away and suppressed a chuckle. Beowulf decided to intervene.

"Look, while we're waiting for S'jirra to return, why don't we make a toast to Manheim?"

"Now that's the smartest thing that's been said at this table in a long time," replied Abhuki. "In fact, let's get rip snortin' drunk. That's how Manheim would have wanted it."

"I'll drink one--or maybe two--with you, but I need to be sober enough to tell my story to the Imperial Legion."

Beowulf held himself to two cheap ales. Not long after his second ale, S'jirra returned with a soldier from the Imperial Legion.

"Greetings citizens, this Khajit had an interesting story to tell, and I've been to the crime scene at the Inn of Ill Omen. Which one of you is Beowulf?"

"I am."

"Start from the beginning."

Beowulf told him the entire story.

"By the Nine, I've heard rumors of this sort of thing. We can only pray that this isn't the start of a trend. I knew the Forester he killed. I don't know how I'm going to break the news to his wife. Alright, I'd better take him to the Imperial City. Your word as Champion of Cyrodill carries full weight, so if you say he was under the influence of Hist sap, the court will believe it unconditionally. There will still be consequences--he killed a soldier--but I don't think he'll do hard time. Of course, once he realizes what he's done, he won't need prison to do hard time."

"I don't ... doubt it," said Beowulf grimly. "Listen, I'm still worried that he may be under the influence of the sap. Let him sleep it off, and you can take him back in the morning. In the meantime, I don't think any of us will be getting any sleep tonight, so you're welcome to help us mourn--and celebrate--an old friend. Tomorrow you can take your prisoner to the city, and we'll bury our friend."

"I graciously accept, and since I'm now off-duty, I'll take an ale and a beer and maybe some wine ..."

Part Four

"So get this--I deliver a basket of potato bread to Manheim when some idiot Wood Elf, wet behind his pointy ears, storms into the inn and announces proudly that he's there to kill Rufio. 'I'm joining the Dark Brotherhood and I must kill the old man Rufio to be initiated into its dark ranks! Where is this old man, publican?'

"So Manheim comes out from behind his counter, goes up to this idiot, and says 'You're not killin' anyone today, you son-of-a-wisp'--and then punches him in the face. The idiot went out like a light. Manheim tied him up and gave him to the Imperial Legion Forester."

The party roared with laughter.

"It's kind of strange to say," said Beowulf, "but I'm glad that Rufio didn't live to see what happened today. I can't imagine how terrified he would have been."

Rufio was a lonely old man who had a permanent room at the Inn of Ill Omen. No one knows how Rufio came to live at the inn, but Manheim took care of him and was fond of saying that although he complained about not having customers, he in fact always had a customer in Rufio.

"The world could use a few more Manheims,' said S'jirra. "The man was unflappable. During the Oblivion crisis, I was a nervous wreck. But he went on about his business as if nothing was wrong."

"That's how I met Manheim--and the rest of you. I came to warn him about the Oblivion gate seething and glowing within shouting distance of his inn, but he didn't care."

S'jirra concurred. "Mehrunes Dagon himself could have ripped the top off of the inn and stood over Manheim in all of his evilness, and Manheim would have said: 'Oh look, a customer.'"

The party again roared with laughter, especially at S'jirra's near-perfect imitation of Manheim.

"To Manheim!"

Everyone raised a glass.

"To Manheim!" shouted all.

A mournful, bone-chilling scream came from the basemant.

"BY MY ANCESTORS, WHAT HAVE I DONE? WHAT HAVE I DONE?"

The scream was followed by sobbing.

"I think," said the Imperial Legion solider grimly, "that the Hist has worn off."

Beowulf walked down the basemant stairs, unlocked the door to the makeshift prison, and untied the prisoner. Then he put his hand on the assassin's shoulder.

"I know, my friend. I know."

Part Five

Beowulf was preparing his horse for the trip back to the White Stallion Lodge, when S'jirra came bounding out of the Faregyl Inn, waving a scroll in the air.

"Wulfie! Wulfie! I can't believe it! Manheim left me the Inn of Ill Omen!"

"Makes perfect sense, S'jirra. You've got a thriving potato bread business in need of some space, and he had no one else to leave the inn to. Now you've got your own business--two businesses in fact--and I can't think of a better proprietor."

S'jirra wept openly.

"That son-of-a-wisp. Even dead, he's full of surprises."

"So tell me," chuckled Beowulf, "you gonna change the name?" Beowulf grinned, knowing full well the answer.

"I'd sooner kiss an Argonian's swampy fungus feet, Mr. Champion of Cyrodiil."

S'jirra watched Beowulf pack his horse.

"So. I see you're leaving us behind."

"Well I'm leaving. But I'll never leave you behind."

"Ooh, aren't you a smooth one. You learn that fancy talk from Varon Vamori?"

"He might've given me a few lessons in smooth talk."

"You come visit us more often--and bring Mazoga with you. That girl needs to take her armor off once in a while."

"Agreed. And don't worry--I'll be back so often, you'll get sick of me."

"I'm already sick of you, you scoundrel. Listen, when you retire from your life of heroic derring-do and saving our collective tails over and over again, you've got a permanent room at the inn. It's not as fancy as that castle you have up north, m'lord, but tell me there's a more beautiful spot in all of Cyrodiil."

"I can't. And I promise that if I ever retire, I'll make my home right here."

"I'll hold you to that promise. Now go on--get out of here before I start weeping like a newborn kitten."

Beowulf mounted his horse and waved goodbye to his friends. Then he raised his hand in mock toast, and shouted: "To Manheim!"

"To Manheim!" roared back his friends.

Beowulf spurred his horse and headed south on the Green Road, tears in his eyes.