» Mon Sep 07, 2009 3:44 am To some it is little more than a legend, a myth. But to others, they dedicate their entire lives to finding it and would give everything to posses it. One such a person was an Orc named Murgol Burz-Mogduk who retrieved the sword from the corpse of its previous owner. Another who fell to its power was a Bosmer female named Aerin. Both are the only documented owners of the Sword. They felt such a connection with this weapon that they ended naming themselves after it;
Umbra.
When the Champion of Cyrodiil slayed Umbra and retrieved the black sword from the cold dead hands of the Bosmer, he returned it the Daedric shrine of Clavicus Vile, where it rested for more than 25 years.
Now relative peace reigns over Tamriel, with the Empire united under the banner of the ruling Elder Council, with the help of the Champion, all seems well. But a new threat rises, a great warrior, only known as Umbra has begun to make himself known in the homeland of the Breton, High Rock.
An Imperial, named Leon Jannus, a fellow friend of the Champion of Cyrodiil has been charged to investigate the claims of this so-called, "Invincible Warrior" and his "Magic sword" and if necessary to kill the one who wields and bring it back to the Imperial City Palace, where it will forever rest, never to be touched by mortal hands again.
Little does Leon know what he will be unknowingly dragged into, a swirling mass of plots and schemes, executed both by mortal and God, threatens to envelop Tamriel in an age of darkness and death...
The Chronicles of Umbra, Part 1, Chapter 1: A New Threat
Leon ran his sun-tanned hands threw his long dark brown hair. Wiping both water and sweat on his brown Foresters tunic, he continued forwards. His feet made a small tip-tapper sound as he hurried toward the Imperial Palace, the White Gold tower casting him into shadow on an otherwise clear and sunny and hot day, for which he was grateful.
The Imperial Watchmen nodded in recognition as they opened the doors to Green Imperial Way, but Leon just continued to walk forward, without comment. If it weren't for his minor badge of office he was obligated to wear on his long green cloak, he could be mistaken for a common mercenary, adventurer or even a Bandit. He wasn't what one could call hansom, but his rough weather-beaten features, had a open, welcoming feeling to them that many found comforting.
He was a rangy man, looming over most men at six foot six, but despite his slender body, he possessed a wiry strength that most men who travel the wilds can boast.
He ran his hands over seven days growth of his beard and stopping short of the steps that led to the Palace, he realised he must look a mess; his large black boots were caked with thick, almost black, mud. His tunic was rumpled and dirty, his cloak was torn and ripped in many places and his leather greaves were about the only clean thing he was wearing. His quiver of arrows was all but spent, save one arrow, and his steel short-sword was in need of serious mending.
He whacked his hands on his tunic and cloak, succeeding in getting a few grains of dirt and grit off. Shaking his head, he stopped outside the double doors into the Palace, emblazoned with the symbol of Akatosh, while the Palace Guards opened them.
The Palace was eerily silent for the one place that was responsible for the ruling of most of Tamriel. He continued up a flight of stairs after passing the Elder Council Chambers, and arriving at a single plain looking door, waited, then knocked three times.
A guard answered and enquired into his business on this floor, but was cut off by a booming voice shouting, "Anrou! If that's Leon there, I'll have your ears boxed for not letting him pass."
The guard stepped to one side and with a flick of his head, motioned to where a man stood in dull, but still fine regalia.
"Leon! Come, come, sit down." said the man, he gestured to a lavish red chair.
Leon saluted the man and then being less formal, walked over and shook his hand and slapped his back.
The man stood back and regarded Leon at arm's length, and burst out laughing, "I think I've seen goblins in better condition than you."
Leon only grinned back, and sat down in the chair.
He was one of the few men of low-birth to be seated with the Champion of Cyrodiil, and even fewer to be named his friend.
He was advancing in years now, four years passed his 50th birthday, but still held himself erect and most likely could still best any man with a sword. His iron-grey hair was cut short, falling in bangs across his forehead, which he always absently swept back with his hand. He wasn't as tall as Leon, but he held himself with honour and pride and often seemed taller among men who towered over him.
Glancing at the Champion, Leon didn't know what exactly his heritage was. It seemed as though he possessed both the fine features and strength in magicka of the Bretons, as well as the speechcraft and combat capabilities of the Imperials. In his mind, Leon concluded the Champion was both.
"So, Champion, what is it that calls me so urgently from my wood-wondering?" he asked, taking a goblet of wine from a waiter with a nod of his head.
"Leon, how many times do have to ask you to call me Arenar?" he shook his head, but continued, "Anyway, a rumour has reached me from High Rock that a man once again wields Umbra. Wether or not this man is an imitation of a greater power, or wether he stole the sword from the Shrine of Clavicus Vile, I do not know. But I intend to find out."
Leon looked at the Champion suspiciously, "You're sending me?"
"In short; yes. Marching a whole Legion into High Rock to investigate a single man would not sit well with the Bretons, or for that matter, the Orcs. I could hire mercenaries but they are unlawful and not trustworthy. I could send a detachment of Imperial soldiers, the Knights of the Nine or even the Blades...but they do not know how to act around normal people. They are soldiers and are easily spotted from among the common folk, and they all lack one thing: subtlety, and this my friend," He set his feet on a small brown table in front of him and stretched, "is why I am sending you."
"Why cannot you go? Surely they cannot refuse the Champion of Cyrodiil? Everyone in Tamriel owes you their lives."
"Bah!" He answered, with a wave of his hand, "It is all politics, my friend. If I leave, Ocato has no-one to talk to the people. No offence to the Council, but they are ignorant of how normal people work, and they see me as the bridge between the commoners and the nobles and higher placed men and women." The Champion smiled slightly, "And besides, I'm getting to old to go on adventures anymore, my knees couldn't take it."
He made a show of getting up dramatically and Leon only smiled, but rose also.
"Very well. When do I leave?"
"The day after tomorrow. Tonight when we dine I will fill you in on everything that I have come to know as fact, and the things that are still myth, but until then," he explained, putting a large hand on Leon's shoulder, "get some rest and clean yourself up. You look worse than me after I battled the King of Worms." he added, grinning.
Leon saluted the Champion before being escorted out by the guard named Anrou. If Leon had stayed but a few minutes longer, he would find a Redguard named Baurus walk in and sit down with the Champion.
Baurus glanced around, as if fearing he would be heard.
"The Reachmen are stirring once again in the mountains of High Rock. They too must be looking for it."
The Champion's face turned somber and something akin to fear flashed in his eyes.
"So, it begins."
