» Thu Jul 22, 2010 7:29 am The Umbra Sword was enchanted by the ancient witch Naenra Waerr, and its sole purpose was the entrapment of souls. Used in conjunction with a soul gem, the Sword allows the wielder the opportunity to imprison an enemy's soul in the gem. Naenra was executed for her evil creation, but not before she was able to hide the Sword. The Umbra Sword is very choosy when it comes to owners and therefore remains hidden until a worthy one is found.
-Tamrielic Lore
Chapter 1
13th Frost Fall, 2E553
Even in the high Wrothgarian Mountains, the wails and roars of the Witches Festival could be heard from the woodlands below. Hundreds of wizards, warlocks, mages, and sorcerers had gathered, as they did every year, to revel in the darkest aspects of their various talents. Daedric and Undead minions were summoned by the score. Creatures and people were warped beyond recognition. The abominations created in that forest would stalk Tamriel for generations to come.
But what was happening in the forests was nowhere near the blackness occurring in the mountains.
As cold, biting winds whipped across the rough, forested peaks, eight dark-robed figures made a steady but rushed progression into the heart of the mountains. They had departed days before, each member starting from a different city of High Rock, then meeting up at the foot of the mountains. This was the final leg of their journey, and it was imperative that they made it before the night was done.
As they continued their ascent, the trees surrounding the trail grew thicker and darker. The stars and twin full moons above them were soon obscured. Eventually even the noise of the Festival died away, leaving only the sound of an occasional scuffle in the bushes, or the wind blowing through the leaves. While quiet at first, these sounds began to grow louder and stronger, almost to the point of the eight travelers being deafened by the overpowering cries of the forest.
While in this maelstrom of sound, the first spiders began to appear. At first they were too small to spot, even if they had been in the daylight that never reached these deep woods. But as the eight neared their destination, the spiders became larger. First, the size of a fist. Then, the size of a man's chest. Eventually the spiders grew large enough to dwarf a Bosmer. Even those huge spiders scurried quietly in the dark, rarely staying in the group's sight for very long.
They were the keepers of this trail, meant to keep out any who weren't supposed to come, and to welcome those who were expected. The eight were expected.
As they came to a clearing in the forest, the moons and stars became visible again, and all sound seemed to die. Even their footsteps seemed muted as they approached a large stone dais in the center of the clearing. They didn't pause to admire the intricate stonework of the dais. The ornate carvings of twisted plots of six and murder that wove along the sides of the platform were as familiar to them as a wall tapestry. The great mosaic work of a giant, black spider that was the floor was as routine, if somewhat more sacred, than a tiled floor.
The dais was the shape of an irregular octagon, with each of the spider's legs ending at a corner. It was at these corners that each of the robed men and mer took their places. Once in place, they walked to the center of the stage, setting down a single nightshade flower before returning to their positions at the ends of the legs. In unison again, the cast a set of weak fireballs at the small pile of nightshade.
As the flowers quickly burned, the eight began to chant. "Cess, Yoodht, Neht, Neht, Iya, Neht, Geth?" as the chant continued the flames grew taller, changing in color from orange and red to a dark blue and purple. "Web, Ekem, Bedt, Seht, Payem, Iya, Neht, Neht, Ekem, Roht?" the flames became nearly black, rising to the height of a man, the smoke taking a humanoid shape. "Meht, Ekem, Payem, Hefhed, Ayam, Lyr, Ayem."
With the completion of the chant, the flames disappeared, leaving behind a black cloud of smoke that slowly formed into a feminine, almost human shape. Her skin was a colorless grey, though most of it was hidden beneath layers of black robes that suggested a seductive form was hidden beneath them. A hood that rose to a tall point was pulled over her head, reminiscent of a witch's cap. Out of her shoulders sprang four arms, two of the clasped in front of her as if in prayer, the others raised high to her side, almost like wings. The only color about her was a bright red hourglass shape that adorned the front of her robes.
Mephala opened her dark eyes, looking pleasantly at the eight gathered around her. "My loyal Weavers?" her face turned to a scowl. "You are late. We don't have much time before sunrise."
"We apologize," said the elder Nord man who stood in the center of Mephala's gaze, "the Witches Festival is more out of hand than usual this year. Many of the roads were blocked, even before sunset."
The Daedra made an inhuman hiss, a long, sinister tongue licking the air before returning to her mouth before she smiled again. "No matter. Our business tonight is simple." Voice seemed to resonate from every part of her body, as if the movements of her lips were just for show. "Have you done what I asked of you last year?"
"Yes," came the voice of a small Breton girl who now faced Mephala's scrutiny, "the temple to Ebonarm has been properly desecrated, as you requested."
"And the warrior-priests?"
"The prime suspects." The Breton smiled triumphantly.
Mephala returned the smile. "Excellent work. Just what I would expect from my Weavers. Now, how your next task?" her smile turned cruel, "I want a gift. A tribute of your loyalty."
"What sort of gift would suffice?" asked a middle-aged Imperial who stood behind her.
A moment of silence followed as Mephala turned and slowly approached the man. "My dear Weavers," her voice seemed soft and pleasant, but the eight heard the syrupy seductiveness of her voice, and flinched as every word dripped with poison. "You are my most loyal, most wise, and most? indispensable of my servants." One of her hands softly stroked the Imperial's face. Had she not been the darkest of all the Daedra, he might have been softened and drawn in by the sound of her voice.
As it was, he was stiff as a board. He was in a snake's coils. As if to remind him of this, Mephala's soft stroke turned into a harsh grip, forcing him to stare into the inky blackness of her eyes. "If anybody knows what I want, it would be you." Her serpentine tongue slipped out of her mouth to lick the Imperial's face, then moved down to his throat. "Or am I overestimating you?"
"No, cunning Webspinner," he said, trying his best to keep his breath from rushing in and out, to keep his pulse from racing.
Mephala smiled at the vain attempt. "That's good. I would hate to think of you as? disposable."
She released him and moved back into the center of the dais. "It seems our time is up." Sure enough, the sky in the east was beginning to lighten. "You have your task. I will return next year, and I expect my web to be properly spun."
As the sun peeked over the horizon, the Daedra Prince Mephala evaporated away into a cloud of smoke, dissipating into nothingness as the mountain wind swept it away.
