__________________________________________________ An Empire in Ruins Cyrodiil, Tamriel | 19th of First Seed 3E 433 __________________________________________________ The Oblivion Crisis had been foretold, recorded in the Elder Scrolls of eons past. From the fires of the Deadlands, the kyn of Mehrunes Dagon will walk Mundus and bring siege to the realm. Emperor Uriel Septim VII will die, the Mythic Dawn will spread like a plague across the land. One lone hero will rise from the fires smelling of death and brimstone...but it is not you. The Scrolls spoke of another. Yet you...you have something about you that makes you unique. But I wonder...do you have the strength to walk the lands of Cyrodiil and vanquish evil in the name of all life on Mundus? Or will you fail and bring death to yourself? __________________________________________________ You awaken in your cells, mold growing in the corners and along the cobblestone around you...moisture condensing and dripping from odd places. You are in Vivec City, the dreams you had spoke of Cyrodiil, a land too far off to even comprehend being in at this present time. But why did that voice speak out to you? Her voice was familiar...but was it really feminine? As you ask yourselves all these questions, blissfully ignorant to the chaos that is now ensuing around the Cantons; reality snaps you to. Fires envelop the halls and the screams of the unworthy echo through your heads. The scent of charred corpses and burning flora assails your nostrils just as cackling fills the cell-block halls. Dremora. A squad of the servants of the Princes moves through the halls, moving from cell to cell, searching. Each of those they stopped at with an occupant, they touched the bars and simply melted them before stepping in and dragging the occupant out by whatever they could grab. The screams. They were so constant, so soul-rending...so very much close to home...as you, too, are pulled from your cells and dragged off. Your struggles are pitiful and shrugged off, carelessly forced up flights of stairs outside of the underworks of the Redoran Canton you found yourselves in just moments prior. Before you, and all around you, the city was aflame. Lining the coast were a series of brimstone arches, cresting twenty feet in height with the legions of Dagon pouring free. Oblivion. The Crisis had been foretold. The whispers, they made sense now...but this revelation was empty in its gains. No, you were brought towards the Foreign Quarter, where the bridge to the land faced a massive portal, thrice the size of those dotting the coast around. Something inside beckoned...something inside thrummed. It is where you were brought. Fire. Death. Ash. Oblivion. The Dragonfires have fallen dark. The world is at war. Death calls to those around and Dagon will walk these lands. You are certain of this, as to your own deaths. You become even more certain of it as you are dragged further into the bleak layer you found yourself in: spires with insidious bridges spanning between them, massive gates dividing forces with portals to Mundus in each division, and the screams of those being tormented and slaughtered creating a crescendo to the orchestra that was the war being waged. Another cell. Sitting in one of the spires connected to the central, the sobbings and ramblings of those captured around you. Divines seemed to have blessed you this day, though. The Dremora were not as keen as they should have and one of the captured managed to smuggle in a lockpick and worked tirelessly at his cage and did the impossible: he got out. After all, the simulacra of the Daedra are not infallible to mortal interaction...no, mortality has a greater chance than they give them credit...and now it is being used to your advantage. A dozen were freed, you included. It is time to fight back, to escape. But how? That is where the story really begins, here in... An Empire in Ruins. Character Application (Move your mouse to reveal the content) Character Application (open) Character Application (close) Name: Race: (No Dwemer, Daedra, or Falmer [ancient or otherwise]) Gender: Age: (Non-Elves live roughly Human standard. Elves generally live to 3-500 without magic, 40 is the average for becoming an adult.) Background/Occupation: (Where you indicate what your character is good at) Personality: History: Rules are as follows: Iwaku Standard. Take adult content to PM's. No godmodding or powergaming. If you are unsure as to what that is or if your character may be questionable in that regards, ask. No Unicorn characters. Meaning, no 'I am perfect with everything I do and can do everything.' Seth'sit: GM'y characters. Whisket: Reserved, probably some Dunmer asshole. Slot 2: Open Slot 3: Open Slot 4: Open Slot 5: Open
