Grips-The-Souls skidded a corner, knocking a pair of Black Soul Gems off a tower of books. His yellow eyes were fixed on the path ahead. He had no idea where he was going, but he needed to go somewhere. Anywhere away from that swirling mass of tentacles. Now he was wishing that he had invested more time in the Conjuration school, so that he could summon his own weapons. But now wasn't the time to grieve the loss of an ebony sabre. He needed to survive this.
He lost focus for a split second, and in that time, somehow managed to crash into another pile of books, all black, and without covers. He sat for a moment, shaking his head, and trying to get back on track. He stood, dusted himself off, and without further ado, ran off once more.
Another corner came into view, and as he turned it, he was met with a lightning bolt to the face. His murky-green scales glowed for an instant before he was blasted back with tremendous force. Now they were rimmed with black, smoke rising from his smouldering face. He narrowed his eyes, and the hooded figure stepped up to him, that dreaded book in one hand, and a reanimation spell in the other. It crackled like blue flame in the cradle of his palm.
Upon closer inspection, Grips-The-Souls could now see that his adversary was a high elf, with extremely pale skin, and if he looked closely enough, he could make out eyes of a sick green. Thin lips smiled at him, and the hood dropped, revealing snow-white hair tied back neatly.
The high elf laughed, and lowered an arm to the Argonian's aid, but when he reached for it, his hand was batted away, and a foot slammed against his horns. He was sent sprawling, and chunks of what he assumed were once on his head clicked as they bounced. Blood trickled down from his nose and mouth, staining his already tarnished scales a crimson hue.
Followed by a sinister chuckle, a voice, pompous and condescending in tone, reached him. “You really are a bold creature. Any hopes of escape you have, may or may not have been mitigated by my... let's call it expertise... in the initial layout of this realm. Yet, you hold high the hopes of outsmarting a champion of the Lord of Knowledge and Fate. Well, then, before you die, and I assure you that when you die your body will be put to good use, this is Apocrypha. The realm of Hermaeus Mora, as any scholarly type would know. But you, my scaly friend, are not a scholar. So you had no way of knowing.”
“You... you brought me here... Take me back...” He was gasping for air, and blood was now drying up on his face.
“You disgust me...” Another kick to the stomach was all it took for Grips-The-Souls to shriek in pain. He was sure that a few ribs were broken. “This is what you have come to, Argonian? A few kicks is all? Pathetic. You haven't even seen the least of the power I possess.”
“Who... are... you...?”
The high elf grinned a wicked grin. “I am Melandil. The finest necromancer alive. And soon, a necromancer dead. Do you understand my implication? Of course not. I'm wasting my breath. But soon, there shall be no breath to waste.” Melandil knelt down and rested an arm on the Argonian's shoulder. “But fret not. You shall be witness to the glory of what my master and I have established as The Second Great Oblivion Crisis! The works of Daedra have been set in motion, child. And there is not a thing you, or anyone, for that matter, can do to prevent it. Now, return to your precious Tamriel, and cherish what little time you have left with it.”
A purple light leaked through the gaps between Melandil's fingers, and Grips-The-Souls was pulled through a small portal. He was pushed and pulled back and forth, he was twisted and he was spun, turned, and then, he lay slouched against the Retching Netch Cornerclub of Raven Rock.
~*****~
Falthyr Eldryon was thrown across Tel Mithryn by the sheer force of Neloth's attack. The world spun, and the Telvanni wizard's voice reached him. “Now, where is your scheming sister, eh? I've known about your little heart stone project all along! Who do you think invented it?”
Falthyr spat blood and teeth. Crimson liquid trickled down his forehead and mixed with his eyes, clouding his vision. “She's escaped, Neloth... My life doesn't matter... not in the grand design of my master. He will bring me back...”
Neloth manipulated the air around him, and threw Falthyr against the railing; the only thing preventing him from falling to his death. But suddenly, beneath the commotion, at the base of Tel Mithryn, a portal appeared. Throbbing purple light danced on the walls, and a smile came to Falthyr's mangled face. “The works... of the Daedra are now in motion... Neloth... you'll be the first... to die...”
He let himself fall past the handrails, and that was when it closed. Neloth shook his head, then tended his wizard tower, and all the damage that had been caused by the conflict. He pondered on what Falthyr meant. What “works of Daedra” had he been referring to? All that was apparent to Neloth was that a storm was brewing. And that he would have to be ready...
Note: Sorry for the short entry. I want to keep all of you in suspense for the next act of our story. If this doesn't meet the requirements for length, then please comment and I'll fix it. If you enjoyed it, and you're in suspense, I know that I've succeeded, for in our next act, The Works of Daedra, the real action begins...
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