Heroes Assemble

Heimskal turned and headed off between the bookshelves. After a moment's pause, Markolai retrieved his helmet and followed the mage. Their path took them out of the library and into a maze of hallways.

“I should warn you, she might not be fully friendly when we first meet,” the Nord said, ducking between two statues into a narrow corridor.

“May I ask why, and while on the subject, who is this person?” the Breton asked, following his host into yet another hallway.

“You'll see who soon enough. But she's tough, and she knows Daedra.”

With that the two walked through a high doorway into some sort of greenhouse, whose center boasted a thick tree bursting with small pink flowers. Heimskal approached the tree, walking around it clockwise until he found his goal.

“Here it is!” he exclaimed, bending down and disappearing behind a thick root. The Dragonborn followed, finding an opening among the roots which lead to a small passage. He caught up to Heimskal just as he reached the tunnel's end, opening up into an alien landscape.

The setting sun was obscured by a curtain of leaves, trees whose thick, branching trunks could be seen in every direction. A curtain of vibrant green moss covered everything, and the ground was a rolling mass of smooth boulders and rich soil. Markolai pushed some vines out of his way as he took it all in.

“Is this... Akavir?”

The Nord nodded absently. “She should be around here somewhere...” he muttered, looking around. Seeing a wisp of smoke curl past a tree in the distance, he started off over the tumultuous terrain. Making their way to the source of the smoke, the two found a small camp in the shade of a large stone, a rough mat beside a smoldering fire. No one else was in sight.

“Strange,” Heimskal had the chance to say before being knocked against a large root. A boot came down on Markolai's calf, forcing him to his knees. Another kick to the back of his head left him on all fours. The Champion, now back in a fighting stance, received a flurry of blows before his legs were swept from under him and he hit the ground hard. When his eyes came back into focus, he found a golden katana pressed against his neck. Above him stood a Redguard woman with a savage look in her eyes.

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” she said, putting more pressure on his neck.

“A friend! Friendly! Not someone requiring a cut throat!”

The woman appraised her catch. Her hair was sleek but untamed, her clothing displaying spartan functionality. She wore a cuirass of some chitinous material, her waist and arms protected by finely crafted leather inlaid with a steely metal. Her left arm held her sword, and bore a leather pauldron. Her right shoulder had a spiked pauldron reminiscent of Morrowind's bonemold designs. Her pants were a warm brown leather, armored as well. One of her boots rested on the Nord's chest, and he was uncomfortably aware of its hard treads.

“I don't have friends. And people don't just show up to talk to me.” Looking at the brass warrior rising to his feet, she added, “if you even are a person.”

The Breton put his right hand over his sword and gave a small bow. “I am the Dragonborn, Centurion of the Empire, scholar, inventor, and guardian of Skyrim. You may call me Markolai. My companion is Heimskal, Hero of Kvatch, Champion of Cyrodiil, and a man of many faces.”

“What brings you here, Markolai?”

Heimskal, carefully moving the sword away from his neck, replied, “that would be me, actually. Long story, but I was able to work out a shortcut from Tamriel, you see, wanderlust actually falls under my domain, and to be quite honest I've been keeping track of you for some time, Nerevarine.”

The Redguard's eyes shot back to her grounded victim, and his hand withdrew from her blade. “No one has called me that in quite a long time.”

“On that note, might I add you're looking very good at two-hundred something.”

Dryly, the Nerevarine replied, “Yes, the Corpus was great for my complexion. For you, I'd recommend it highly.”

The Centurion, placing himself adjacent to the two others, interjected, “let's nobody kill anybody just yet. Lady Nerevarine, I've introduced myself and my companion, for my sake would you care to return the favor?”

The Lady's shoulders relaxed slightly, and Heimskal happily noticed a decrease in pressure against his pulse. “I am the Captain Sha'ar Rizad, or Shaarizad as you may tend to say it. I am Nerevar incarnate, corsair and defender of Morrowind. At least I was. Care to explain why you crossed continents to find me?”

Markolai nodded. “Now is as good a time as any to explain. I believe that a large Daedric force, not hailing from any known realm of Oblivion, is preparing to invade Nirn.”

Heimskal, now free of Shaarizad's boot, interrupted. “I know best of all that should be impossible!”

“If this was an attack of conquest or subjugation, I would be inclined to agree. However, this seems to be more like an evacuation. Furthermore, they are using a novel angle of attack.”

Shaarizad sheathed her sword. “And what might that be?”

Markolai looked at the darkening sky through the canopy. “From above. A direct attack down from the Void. I do not yet know what sort of force could even attempt such a maneuver. And as I said, even if this is an attack force, I have the distinct impression they themselves are fleeing from something. What that could be, I haven't got the slightest idea. But it worries me.”

“Well I'm convinced.” the Nerevarine quickly broke camp, strapping a golden spear and a bow made of some pale wood across her back. “I assume this attack could come any time now?”

“The first one, yes.”

Heimskal, getting back on his feet, added, “there's to be more than one? We can take my rabbit hole back, I think.”

Putting two fingers in her mouth, Shaarizad let out a piercing whistle. “Not with my pet you're not. We can take my way back.”

The madman frowned. “What's that? Pet? What's your way?”

The Dragonborn walked around to the other side of the mahogany desk so he was face to face with the Mad God. “It's a nice place you've got here,” he commented, eyes following the movement of a fibrous centipede with nursery rhymes running down its back.

“Get to your point, lad, before I have your feet off for trespassin'.”

“Gladly. There is a situation developing, and I need your help.”

Markolai noticed a minute rise in Sheogorath's brow. “And why is my help you're needing, eh? If it's my tea recipe, you'll have to ask my assistant. And if it's your feet, you'll have to ask my permission.”

“Actually,” the Dragonborn replied, putting his helmet down on the desk, “I came here looking for the Hero of Kvatch.”

For an instant, a smile flickered across the Madgod's lips before disappearing into a stony facade. “A two hundred year old coot? And what makes you think he's here?”

“I read it in a book. I've read many books.”

“Well that's a mad thought! Never trust a book, I say.”

The Breton looked at all the shelves around him. “Still, you did say, the last time we met, that you were present for the whole... 'sordid affair'.”

“Ha! My word you should trust even less, my shiny friend. But what was it you wanted of the old Champion, hmm?”

Markolai, unamused, lent the madman a piercing stare. “I wanted to tell him that there's a massive threat heading towards Nirn.”

“Nirn? Not my department.”

“And I require the skills of someone who is experienced in fighting Daedra.”

“So you come to a Daedric Prince? Not smart, lad.” Sheogorath stood and drew himself up, seemingly taller than before. He leaned forward towards his visitor, placing his hands on the desk. “If you want a madman's advice, stay out of it. If the threat's as big as you say, I expect there will be some new hero come along that's just stupid enough to stop it. Worked on you.”

“A fair thought. The Elder Scrolls, however, disagree.”

Again the Mad God's brow wavered. “Is that so? Talked to 'em, have you?”

“My... associates and I have dealt with them enough. If there was such a hero, a prophecy would be known.”

“So you honestly mean to say there's nothing about it in the Scrolls?”

“That seems to be the case. Why that is, I know not.”

Sheogorath returned to his seat, pensive. “I'm of two minds, my clockwork companion. You see, I'm a Daedric Prince! It's simply not my place to be running around saving the day! I cannot help you.”

Markolai was about to object when he heard another voice behind him-

“...I, on the other hand, think I could.”

The Dragonborn turned around to see a Nord standing before him. His age was hard to pin down, his platinum hair hung almost to his shoulders and his beard formed a narrow triangle. His robes, bearing striking workmanship in several shades of blue, marked him clearly as a mage, but the design looked somewhere between Nibenese and Akaviri. When he spoke again, his voice carried some of Sheogorath's flavor with the distinct roughness of a Nord. “After all, does it really surprise you that the Mad God would have multiple personalities?”

Markolai glanced back to Sheogorath's green velvet chair to find it empty. Looking back to the Nord, he said, “So you are the Champion of Cyrodiil?”

“And the Prince of Madness. And the Grey Fox. 'n I was a robot for a while... that was an odd one. But not all at once. You can call me Heimskal.”

“And you will help?”

Markolai needed help. This did not happen often; he occasionally requested assistance, but as he saw it, every person who helped him was putting themselves in danger. He was smart enough, however, to recognize a problem he couldn't handle alone. And for this problem, he knew exactly who he would need.

Damn.

He pulled a book from his pack, a heavy tome with an intricate black binding. He retrieved his helmet and gloves, laid the book on a work bench, and opened it. A black rot spread across the pages through which putrid tentacles reached out and wrapped around the inventor, and he closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw the ground covered in pieces of parchment, scraps of text barely visible on ruined pages. He stood up to see the walls around him were stacks and patchworks of books, making a hallway that branched and extended into the darkness. From these stacks came a whirlwind of paper which parted to reveal a withered old man, staring blankly into a book. The old man looked at the interloper with a disgruntled sigh.

“Back again, Dragonborn? I thought you had disavowed Hermaeus Mora. Again.”

“I'm not here for that, Septimus.” Mora's chamberlain was a grim reproduction of the real Septimus Signus, whom the Daedric Lord had killed when he outlived his usefulness. This Septimus huffed and walked off into the stacks. Taking a moment to get his bearings, Markolai turned down a different hallway. After a short walk – at least it seemed short, but distance is relative in Apocrypha – he found his destination. The stacks were more chaotic here, and from them frenzied whispers could be heard. At the end of one hallway stood a book taller than Markolai himself. Advancing past a flurry of leatherbounds and frantically wailing manuscripts, he grasped the book's purple cover and pulled it open. Mammoth pages swept past his face, revealing a page offering only a single word: ENTER.

Pushing forward now, the book opened into a doorway to a great hall. This was another library, but one very different from Apocrypha. Bookshelves stretched up for many stories, occasionally twisting into brambled trees from which books hung like bats. Paper birds flew by on an invisible breeze, and errant tomes snapped at the inventor as he walked past. Then he came to an opening in the shelves, with a large desk at its center. In a velvet chair, facing away from Markolai, was a white-haired figure.

“Now, this is a surprise! I can't say I expected to see you again, 'specially not in me own library!”

There is a great issue, which does not exactly serve our purpose here, in regards to cosmology. The question begs nonetheless, however, how can the infinity of Aetherius contain the infinity of Oblivion? Well, if Oblivion is infinite every direction we can see, Aetherius is infinite in one more. Outside of comprehension, the aether contains oblivion. Furthermore, when Magnus and his children fled, they did not leave flat holes on the edge of Oblivion's sphere, as we are told. Rather, the holes they created were of a greater order, exiting Oblivion by moving sideways, at a right angle to all direction. If the “sphere” of the aether extends into another direction, so do the “circular” holes to that realm.

The pertinent point being, if you could observe from far above this world, you wound see Oblivion goes on in all directions, and throughout it find perfectly spherical bodies of light. These (w)holes in Oblivion are the absence of nothingness which is magic. Orbiting many of these (w)holes which we call stars are their dead brethren, thought-gods of Mundus which did not escape into Aetherius, becoming solid masses, the many plane(t)s.