Master of Many Stories
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Cyrodiil, Tamriel | 19th of First Seed 3E 433
OOC | IC
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?
Out of all of the shitty situations you have found yourself in over the years, this one certainly takes the cake. Your cell was all but comfortable, but you were fed and clothed. It could be admittedly worse, but your outlook was bleak. You had been interred in the city's prison for a number of months now, awaiting your trial.
You sit up on your cot in your cell and look around, the scent and sight of your imprisonment striking a pang of introspective thought as you recall what led you to be in chains. In the next cell over, you hear a man sobbing to himself. You knew him, intimately, at this point. A Breton by then name of Sam, Samuel Gwent. He was an unassuming man, easily into his late forties, and on the verge of portly with a bald spot atop his head with a wreath of hair, turning it to an island.
This was the third week he has started to cry himself to sleep, and it was starting to get on your nerves. Whether it was because your only conversational partner was a drunkard who was unsuccessful in choking on his own tongue as he cried the days away, or simply because you dislike the company of others, is of no consequence. You were just about to raise your voice and call out to him when his sobs begin to turn into giggles, then unadulterated laughter. His laughter turned quickly to a mad cackle and this only provoked you further.
"Haha! The time of revelry has arrived! It is time to drink, to be merry, to bathe in the sanguine blood of my friends!"
His words put you on pause and even more so when you heard his cell door open. He moves to stand before your cell and offers you a wild, toothy smile.
"Well, ol' chap. It's been a blast, sitting here in this decrepit cell with you, but I have chaos to bring! But, don't worry! Someone will be coming for you soon."
Before you have a chance to respond, Sam turns on his heel and hums his way out of the chamber, leaving you to your thoughts - alone. You shake your head after a spell, and decide to let sleep take you with the bliss of silence.
You start in the middle of your rest, something was wrong. Your hair stands on end on your arms, the tickle in the back of your neck, the twitch of your nose. Something was here and a threat. Then, you smelled it, heard it.
Inside the prison, 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.
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 prison 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.
You were lead out of the prison and away from the city, towards the entrance, where you were faced with 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.
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.
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.
"This is where your story begins, my child. Everything that has lead to this point has been for this. Be strong, be ready."
The voice carried through your ears, through your head, yet no one spoke. A whisper to you, from another far off. Whomever you had heard was watching, but now was not the time to reflect: now was the time to fight, now was the time to escape - and find something to do all of this with. Hard to do so in rags and chains.
((OOC: You are in the Deadlands, on the Plane of Oblivion. Your current location is in one of the Spires of Torment, with the other prisoners.))
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