Abberon stared blankly out into the world, unmoving, unfeeling, and unthinking. He’d had so much pressure from within his mind for the past few months now. But then again, items of Daedric influence will do that to you. Nevertheless, he stuck through it up till now, defeating all who stood on his path, even as his mind began to crumble.
He had just finished service to the Daedric Prince Boethiah, having killed her last champion and taken both his armor and his place. His first meeting with Boethiah could’ve gone smoother, however, for the prince of deceit, conspiracy, treachery and sedition has no need for mortals who do not hold ambition. In his blind insanity to serve her, he offended her at the same time. According to her he was “uncertain of his purpose”, a phrase which echoed in his mind even as he slaughtered her cultists at her decree.
He stands there now, pondering within emptiness. He wants to please this Prince, but upon realization of his purpose, he suddenly felt forlorn. It was as if all the thoughts and words and voices in his head were shouting and shrieking noisily within his mind, and yet at the remembrance of old purpose’s past, fell silent in mourning.
Abberon had gotten absolutely nowhere.
He came to Skyrim for one reason: To spread the word of anarchy and make the people of the world realize that the Aedra and the Divines have forsaken them. And yet somehow he got sidetracked doing all sorts of missions for the Daedric Princes, losing sight of his goals to worship them. “Why did I worship them in the first place,” he said out loud to no one in particular. Of course, it was because they listen. They are here, influencing our world and the mortal beings that live on it.
He had no intention of ceasing his worship of them. He’d just remembered his purpose. It took Boethiah’s chiding and her continuing preference towards the independent that woke him partially from his lapse of insanity. And as he looked upon the world, he realized just how much nothing he’d accomplished. No one cared, and the few that did weren’t prominent enough to make it matter. Hell, he’s actually helped a good deal of people, especially on Solstheim where he saved a group by killing Hermaeus Mora’s previous champion Miraak. They even thanked the All-Maker, whomever that is.
In the end, he’d come to the conclusion that humanity could not be saved from their false hopes and beliefs. He’d realized how difficult it was for the first time to try to destroy worship of the gods. The very thought ate at his mind, like the sounds from the Black Books or the searing hunger of the Daedric Artifacts he wielded. Can I not awaken the world…? Even as he stood motionless, gazing out towards nothingness, he could not hold back the ache of weakness. Of being able to do nothing whilst the world carelessly believes in virtually nothing at all.
“Remember always this: As you will it, so it shall be…”
Boethiah’s final words to her new champion began to echo in his head. They echoed and echoed, growing ever so loud, matching the cacophony that already made its home in his mind.
As you will it, so it shall be…
As you will it, so it shall be…
As you will it, so it shall be…
As you will it, so it shall be…
As you will it, so it shall be…
As you will it…
He headed down the mountainside and set out towards his home, collecting any potential Alchemy ingredients along the way.
The morning sun slowly rose overhead, signaling the dawn of a new year, a new start. Roosters crowed and doors opened. The town of Riverwood was beginning to stir from a restful sleep. The children were brainstorming the next prank they would unleash upon the townsfolk, while the Riverwood Trader's business was booming. Hod was hard at work getting lumber cut, Faendal was making pleasant conversation with Camilla Valerius. The local guard came to the town with orders to look out for Dragons that may attack at any moment, but they still found time to sample some of the mead in the Sleeping Giant Inn.
And then the sun went dark. As a cursed essence engulfed it, the skies above warped, becoming blackened and cursed. All of the town was in a quiet uproar, looking upon the sky with a sense of dread. They knew it was a dark omen.
From the edge of town came a shriek of pain. Those that ran towards saw an imposing force clad in dark and demonic armor, in his hand was a wicked mace that dripped with the blood of his victim: Alvor, the smith. The townsfolk fled. The Whiterun Guards charged this enemy. But it was all in vain. They were tossed left and right. Those that did manage to get close enough were met with a bloody end as their skulls were pounded in, blood seeping out of the stump that once held their head. Even the guard’s arrows were worthless against his fortified armor. They were met with an end fitting to their cowardly tactics; he tossed each one off of a cliff.
Next came the townsfolk. Many begged and pleaded for their lives, demanding to know what they had done to deserve this horrid fate. The terror did not speak, and only ended their frail lives quickly and without pain. No one was safe. Not Hod who hid inside his home, for it went ablaze in an instant. When he ran out to safety he was met with a figure who quickly pushed him back in and sealed him in there, thus making the searing home his early pyre. The kids were simple. Chuck them a fair distance and they broke their necks fairly easily. If not, he'd just come over and finish the job. The animals had it far worse, as they were simply beaten to death.
Within hours, the entire town lay bare. Abberon walked away, checking his map. He searched for his next target: Maybe Rorikstead? He did not want to reach Whiterun just yet. Let them panic as they await their deaths. Let them feel the fear as their harbinger arrives with the answer. This is their faults. They believe in nothing, yet expect something to happen. They are beyond saving, so there is only one true solution that can truly save their pathetic and pointless existences.
Armageddon...
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