» Sun Jun 26, 2011 8:20 pm
Chapter 1
Death of a Sentinel: Opening of the Gates
For more than the world can remember, the Dragonfires burned, keeping Oblivion from touching the mortal world. Those faithful to that awful King, those who called themselves the Mythic Dawn, had always been ready to set their King free, always been ready to rule under him. 3E 433 marked a year that the Daedric Cult celebrated, as they landed and ambush for the three heirs to the Septim throne, slaughtering them and their guards, effectively destroying any possibility of the Septim Bloodline to continue. The Blades, scared for the life of the living Emperor, tried to move him into hiding, stumbling across the great Champion of Cyrodiil along the way. That fateful day when they traveled through the Imperial Subterrane marked what everyone thought an end to the Septim empire. The assassination of the Emperor, despite the best efforts of the Blades, had been successful. The Amulet of Kings, which had been the true shield between Nirn and Oblivion, had been separated, allowing Dagon to open up his gates and allowing his hellish forces into the world.
Dagon believed that the main focus of such an invasion should be pointed at the heart of Tamriel: Cyrodiil. He himself, among other of his top generals, were spearheading the attack on the Colovial Highlands as he dispatched his other Valkynaz Generals to lead the attacks on the other provinces.
Xatonovo, a Valkynaz General under Dagon’s command, was to lead the assault on the Black Marsh, an area which he believed would be easily taken. With no real, professional army, and only feuding tribes, he believed that when Dagon opened the gates, he would meet little resistance, and all that he met would be easily quelled. Knowing that the Argonians had not banded together in thousands of years since the Battle of Argonia, hunting down individual tribes would be easier than attacking a large, professional army. Xatonovo believed that he could have the Marsh fall within the year, and move his forces West, where no doubt the troops in Cyrodiil would meet heavy resistance when faced with the Imperial Legion.
***
Within the planes of Oblivion, an endless storm of fire and lighting raged in the skies, never subsiding, never relenting. Black stone and blood-red pavement lined the grounds before the General’s Tower, with awful flora dotting the landscape. Among the jagged rocks, a tower, jet black, jut up against the horrid red sky like an awful thorn. Molten-orange veins raced up the tower, pulsing with the life of the Sigil. Lesser Dremora wandered about the area, making preparations for invasion. Excitement bubbled among the ranks, excitement for the blood and slaughter to come.
Inside the tower, three Markynaz Captains walked the damned hallways, almost shadows against the jet-black walls. Here and there a red light gave off a sickly glow, reflecting off the Dremora armor. Neither of the three wore their helmets, all Markynaz Captains were assigned to wear, for they were not in the line of duty…yet.
Markiz, one of the captains, stood taller than the other two. His stern, red-and-black face befitted any devil, and he kept his head shaved. He honestly thought that hair was ridiculous. Two black horns jutted out of his temples, curving a bit before ending in an awful point. He walked with a sense of arrogance, like most Dremora high in society do, which radiated off of him like a hot oven. He walked taller than the other two, one being senior and the other being younger. His reputation as a Markynaz Captain was impressive, most thought, and his successful campaigns had led most to believe that he would soon receive the honor of becoming a Valkyn, one of the honor guards of Dagon himself.
Through the hallways the three marched, each carrying enough weapons to make an Ansei nervous. Finally they reached an opening, an antechamber. Demonic benches lined the sides of the room and a sickly chandelier gave the room a haunted red light. At the end of the room lay the double-doors that would lead them to Xatonovo. Flanking the doors stood two Kynval, standing at attention. They gave brief nods of respect as they opened the doors for the three to enter.
As the three entered the doorway, Markiz sneered. Xatonovo stood like an angry bear, hands on desk, awaiting their entrance. Markiz had no respect for the general. His arrogance had always been his downfall, and his numerous blunder had made him the laughing stock of the Valkynaz. That is why he had been assigned the Black Marsh, no doubt. They expected a bigger resistance from Elsweyr than the Marsh. Xatonovo looked fuming, but he always had that kind of face. Xatonovo was almost half a head taller than Markiz, who stood a bit taller than the other two captains, and he took them in all at one glance.
“You took your sweet time.” The General remarked angrily. The two captains began to murmur slight apologies as if they didn’t mean it. Xatonovo didn’t seem to notice. Markiz kept silent.
“It is in my best interest to split you all up, so you can take all different regions. I want to be done with this quick, so we will all attack at once, not letting the lizard-folk breathe until they have fallen. At the beginning we will not have as many Gates to let through our troops, but the longer the Dragonfires are cold, the more Gates we can open.” The other captains nodded in agreement. Markiz stood still, a sneer still carved on his face.
“Gilavathari, you will take the Southern area, notably Blackrose, Lilmoth, and Soulrest.” the senior one nodded. He had had the most experience, and so it only made sense that he would be assigned the most cities.
“Ndetheth, you will take Stormhold and Thorn.” the younger nodded, knowing that he might encounter Dunmeri as well as the lizard-folk.
“Markiz,” Xatonovo said, giving him a ice-cold look, “you will be in charge of central Argonia. Helstrom and Archon. Do not fail.” Markiz was still unphased, already seeing the burning cities in his eyes.
“I myself will lead the assault on the west. Gideon will fall.” Xatonovo said, pride filling his voice.
“Now prepare. Begone.” He said finally, ushering them out. Gilavathari and Ndetheth exited quickly, but Markiz hesitated before leaving, giving him a stare full of hatred. Soon Xatonovo will fall and he would gain his rightful place as Valkynaz.
***
Xatonovo gave a sigh of relief after the doors closed. Markiz…I need him dead. the general thought. He stood taller than the rival Captain but had short, gray horns and a head full of purple hair. Shaggy and uncut, it went down to his shoulders.
He planned on Markiz being killed, rushing out into central Argonia like the fool he is, finding himself in deeper waters than he previously thought. Central Argonia was not key to controlling the area, the Second Empire had taught him that. Markiz rarely studied up on his enemies, though. He still very much doubted that any Argonian tribe alone was going to put up much of a fight, and he still expected no resistance in any major city.
A single window stood idly in his room, overlooking a massive field of rock and brimstone. He looked out of it, surveying. Six Daedric Seige Crawlers stood in mid-construction, teams of engineers running about like ants on a stomped hill. Soon he would give these crawlers to the Captains, keeping two for himself. His massive army would soon be ready, fearsome warriors standing in demonic rows, hoisting awful weapons and terrifying armor.
Yes, the Argonians would fall beneath red steel and black iron. Finally honor would be when he watched the Marsh burn to the ground.
***
Olakee stood up upon a mossy rock, overlooking a mirky pond. Large stick in hand, he had yet to taste the sap of the Hist. The young Argonian surveyed the pond, as if he was looking out upon a massive army. He tried to stand up as nobly as he could, opening his mouth to address his soldiers.
“Soon we will have glory!” he began, shouting into the jungle. He emulated a massive cry of response that sounded something like a loud exhale. He smiled in spite of himself, then straightened quickly. Dignified generals were not allowed to smile! He straightened himself, and began to speak about glory, battle, honor and respect. Each time he breathed, he pretended that his army shouted happily in response, ready for war. He often played like this, just a ways from his home. The only real listener was a colorful bird that perched in a low tree, eyeing him uneasily.
The sun was setting, casting an orange glow on the surrounding sky. He would have to leave soon, it wasn’t safe to be alone in the dark. Not even for the strongest of warriors. Olakee cleared his throat, offering an odd gurgle to the bird, who flapped away in haste, as if frightened. Olakee frowned at the colorful bird, and started to wrap up his speech. He stopped short when a terrifying crack burst through the sky, as if thunder had just rocked the marshes. His head whipped up to inspect the coming storm when he realized the sky was cloudless. The sun was still high in the sky, which was odd given that it was orange. Red-hot cracks began to run through the sky, and Olakee began to stare in wonder and fear. He suddenly realized that he wanted to hide behind his father and his tribe and the elders. He wanted to hide amongst the Hist trees.
Leaping off of his rock, he ran as fast as his panicky legs could take him. They felt weak, yet he ran with a speed that surprised even himself. Another crack of thunder exploded in his ears, and he stopped short. A large door, or what looked like a door stood in front of him. But, it wasn’t really a door. It looked like a pond that had up-raised itself, standing vertically without moving. The pond-door seemed to be a mirky, filmy orange, surrounded by black stone full of red cracks. He stopped, unable to move, mouth gaping. He dropped the stick he held in his hand, feeling fear he had never felt before. He took one step back as something seemed to materialize from it’s murky surface.
A demon. A devil. Some man with a black and red face, clothed in a black robe. He carried a staff cut from wood that seemed to be covered in embers. He gasped in horror as the devil fixed his eyes on the little Argonian. It began to speak; it began to speak in an awful tongue in what seemed to be three different voices. Olakee turned, beginning to run as fast as he could, tears streaming from his eyes.
The Dremora offered nothing more than laughter as he leveled his staff against the young Argonian.
Fire filled his eyes.
Olakee didn’t make it far.
Author's Note: Too excited to get this off the ground, I was hasty in my editing. Please point out anything I might of missed. Feedback is welcome, and is wanted. Thanks for the time, I hope this opens a lot of doors to work with.
bliviongate: 