Chronicles of the Ashen Mercenary

Howls of pain filled the dark abysmal halls, merged together with the wails of mercy and death, pounding of daedric steel, and the lifeless utters of its denizens. The sounds coming together to form the unsettling cacophony of Oblivion. The air was a mix of rot, freezing and undeath - the breath of Coldharbour and Molag Bal’s rein of terror.

Dragometh sat alone in his cell, back laid against the dark roughed wall and his arms hugging his knees and pressing towards his chest. The Nord silently sat in the chamber and sighed as he tilted his head back to lean against the wall. The touch of the voidstone against his body was freezing, but at this point he thought he could no longer feel anything. The mercenary turned his head to face his left. At a lone corner of the cell sat a figure - His chest rising up and down as he breathed, but his eyes completely blank and his tusks yellowed to the point of no decay. The Orc's torn rags revealed the thinned muscles that lined his bones, a shell of what Dragometh remembered of his cellmate fifty days ago.

"His name was Grog. He was soul shriven three days ago.”

The Nord let out a sigh of hopelessness. He tried talking to the Orc after the Daedric Prince of Death and Destruction had harvested his soul. His only reply was a blank stare into nothingness with the soul-less white eyes of his. Dragometh then turns his head to the other side, facing the black metal fangs that cut across the entrance of his cell vertically and blocked him of his freedom. His dull eyes looked beyond the cold steel bars, and stared at the deep blue flame flickering on top of the brazier, lighting up the cells as the faded cries of the prisoners echoed throughout the hallways, before Molag Bal harvested their souls.

Silently, the Nord faced up, leaning the back of his skull against the wall, and sighed. Soon afterwards closing his eyes. His memory faded as his time spent here continued along with the constant slaving of his dremora overseers and the torture carried out by the undead.

He remembered that one day though: It was after a contract with a merchant company where he had to escort a caravan. He remembered that detail as it was the smoothest job he had done - There were no casualties and bandits. In the Rift as the autumn leaves fell from the trees, three figured covered in an otherworldly black armour emerged from an azure portal. The one in the middle pointing at him and commanded in a thundering demonic voice as the other two charged at him. The mercenary raised his blades but was disarmed and dragged into the portal by the figures. Since then, he had been stuck here, for what almost seemed like an eternity, pushing and carrying crates of dark crystals, hearing the screams of death, witnessing the shattering of the prisoners' willpower and ultimately, their souls.

“You shall pay for your past. Take him!”

The words he heard as he was being claimed by the Daedric Prince. He cannot understand. He cannot remember his past, except of dreams of fire and the clashing of steel. He doesn’t even remember his name.

“What past?! What in Oblivion am I supposed to remember?!”

Dragometh could faintly hear a large blast echoing from the far end of the hallway. The Nord blinked from his thoughts. Looking out towards the bars, he heard the short clunking of armour pieces gradually getting louder. A small patrol of ten dremora knights marched through the halls, shouting in their otherworldly daedric voices.

“The Guilds have breached the East Wing! Quickly!”

Immediately, the mercenary got up from the floor and ran towards the bars. Gripping onto them with his trembling hands as he nervously peered through the bars. He heard the clanking of swords and the shouts of both men and mer growing louder at the end of the hallway. Moments just after another large explosion and the screams of what Dragometh assumed was daedra. The organised marching of steel resounded in the other end of the hallway as the forces of the Fighters Guild rushed through the entrance leading to the prison. One of them started shouting commands to check the cells and release those imprisoned. The prisoners, almost in response, grew louder in their cries for help and rescue. Dragometh remained silent as he watched the militia run towards the clamouring voices. Short explosive bursts filled the halls as the mages placed runes to destroy the daedric bars.

Just then, one of them stopped in their tracks and turned to face Dragometh’s cell - A Breton about his height with a shaven face and a determined look, wearing steel plated armour adorned with the red and gold signature to the Fighters Guild. The soldier looked at the mercenary for a second before turning to one of the approaching mages, raising a hand and signalling her to come to his position.

“This one still has a soul! Get him out of here! Quick!”

The mage adept, a high elf, nodded and crouched to the floor, then tilting her head up and raising her hand towards the mercenary.

“Please step back. It’ll only take a while.”

Immediately, the mage hovered her hands above the floor and chanted some Aedric spell. Immediately, a golden light formed in the space between her hands and the ground. Dragometh, upon hearing the Altmer, obediently stepped away from the gate. The mage took her hands away, and the floor right in front of the gate began glowing, consequently a blast followed and the bars were shattered. As the smoke cleared, the Breton soldier took out a sword sheathed to his side stretched his hand out gripping the sword.

“Can you still fight? We’ll need all the help we can get.”

The mercenary stared at the steel blade offered to him and looked down at his arms as he brought them up slightly. He twisted his wrists and clenched his fists. Taking the blade and lowering his arms, the aged Nord looked up at the Breton and nodded at him. He still had a bit of fight left. The Fighters Guild soldier gave a smile to Dragometh and unsheathed his own sword, his dark eyes looked at the mercenary with resolve.

“We’ll get you out of here. We’ll get you back home."

An aged Redguard sits by the corner of the tavern, sipping slowly on his steaming hot mug of Muthsera’s Remorse. Bored, he places the mug back down and leans back on his seat, arms folded. He then began to scan his eyes around the small confines of the inn he found himself in.

For the fiftieth time.

He has been waiting here for the past three hours, and within those three hours he had witnessed; a lovers quarrel happen between a Wood Elf maiden and a Breton boy at the table over at the other corner, a bunch of high elf bachelors whom celebrating their passing of the Mages Guild initiation tests make a drunken fool of themselves - turning one of their own into a chicken, and a beggar than pestered him for gold in whom proceeded to bore him with veteran war stories - something about the capture of Castle Alessia which he did not really care about, and had to toss him an extra coin to leave him alone for the night.

Amusing really, he thought, and it did help him kill the time, though it did not help with ending the boredom.

Then there is Marell, the barmaid of the Tavern and perhaps the next only thing he actually enjoyed in this place. Her slender figure, hidden so gracefully by her plain maroon dress and her faded apron. From the way she moved, her patrols around the floor to take orders and bills almost looked like dancing to him. That same boredom that now plagued him seemed to wash away whenever the Bosmer approached his table for his order with her sparkling green irises and her gentle voice. Tracing his eyes, his gaze landed on her back, and down to her posterior, as she arranged and cleaned the bottles and plates stacked neatly behind the bar counter. He could not help but wonder how a night, or “nights” if he is lucky, with her would be.

“You have been here for a long time. Mostly people don’t stay here in the Barbed Hook for this long,” Marell chirped.

“Unfortunately, I am waiting for a friend. A business associate, if you will. I don’t mind however, spending the time to know you better.”

Marell looked back and gave a polite smile at the Redguard’s glowing face. Before she got the chance to speak, the door creaked open and a hulking, masked figure came through the entrance and the door fell back shut as he continued to enter the tavern. The Bosmer made a quick glance at the towering man that came in - clad in black heavy steel with a darkened great sword sheathed behind him. She then hurriedly looked back to the shelves, pretending to busy herself with the bottles and plates that she had just cleaned.

“Drago my boy! You are late!”

“Samir."

The Redguard stood up from his seat and threw his arms open as a gesture of welcome. The figure replied in a raspy, low Imperial accent. He turned to his client and gave a nod, his emotion hidden by the empty brass face mask. Samir sat back on his seat, and Dragometh slowly took a seat right opposite him.

“I guess that Leonidas is hard to find. For a necromancer, he hides his tracks very well,” Samir sighed.

“Not well enough,” Dragometh reaches out for the leather pouch the hung from his girdle and emptied it out on the table, revealing a gleaming amethyst ring and a soul gem which let out a soft, low hum. Samir looked at the two items in awe and picked up the ring, holding it to his eye. He never thought he would ever see this in his hands.

“This! This is Leonidas’s signet! This ring has never left his finger!”

“But the finger has left his hand,” Dragometh quipped back.

Still in amazement, Samir took a moment to gaze at the beautiful gem adorned on top of the silver band. He then glanced down at the humming soul gem placed before him.

“This is - “

“Yes. As requested by the client. He must really hate the guy.”

Samir quietly nodded, placing the ring and the filled soul gem back into the leather pouch, and tucking it safely under his leather tunic. The Redguard was pleased, and amazed. He had hired at least four hunters for this target, with only two returning to abandon the search. Samir’s face glowed as he then pulled out a heavy coin purse and placed it in front of Dragometh.

“And as promised! Five hundred gold pieces for completing the contract on Leonidas Mortis. The Guild will be happy to hear about this. Our clients are slowly losing trust in us. This will help with our reputation.”

As Samir spoke, Dragometh grabbed onto the pouch and opened the drawstring. Looking at the many coins that filled the pouch, he tucked it back under his cuirass. The Nord took a deep breath, and grunted as he felt the pain on the right side of his torso. Samir noticed this and gave his compatriot a look of concern, but Dragometh raised his hand, not wanting to speak about his recent wound.

“I did stop by at a town nearby to get it checked before I came here. Besides, it was only a flesh wound. Though the High Elf’s tongue was sharper than the needle that stitched me up,” The Nord smirked.

Samir nodded and began to finish up the rest of his tea. Placing his empty cup down, Samir cleared his throat, picking out a couple of scrolls from his tunic and laying them on the table, each with a seal of the Guild that he was working for. Dragometh’s eyebrow perked as he saw the scrolls - the contracts, all on the table for his picking.

“You get first dibs on the jobs. The ones I have here are: an Orcish Clanswoman that needs to be brought back to Wrothgar for her arranged marriage, eliminating a group of bandits outside of Falkreath, and recovering a man’s family jewels in Sentinel…” Samir listed the contracts out briefly, hovering his finger over each rolled up parchment as he explained the gist of the jobs.

“How much for the one in Falkreath?”

“The town is only offering two hundred and fifty gold.”

“That is ridiculous. That amount is barely enough to pay for travel costs these days.”

The Nord sighed in exasperation. The gold he had just received was only enough to repair his armour and five days of supplies on the road. He needed more.

“Do you have any more?”

Samir took a pause and looked at the mercenary. He then took back the three scrolls, tucking them back in his tunic. He then fishes out a scroll of fine parchment. Placing it down on the table, it was neatly blinded by a string, held together by a deep red seal, bearing the iconic diamond insignia - Imperial.

“Well, there is this one."