#oblivionoc

🌄 Fredas, 14th of Hearthfire, 3E 433

(Cheydinhal – Rythe Lythandas’ Studio)

The morning in Cheydinhal was overcast, mirroring the unease that settled in my chest. Tivela Lythandas, a woman of grace shadowed by worry, approached me with a plea: her husband, Rythe, a renowned painter, had vanished without a trace. The city guards offered little assistance, their hands tied by bureaucracy or indifference.

Determined to help, I accepted her request and entered their home. The air inside was thick with the scent of oils and canvas. In Rythe's studio, an unfinished painting beckoned—a landscape so vivid it seemed to pulse with life. As I reached out, the world shifted.

I found myself within the painting, the colors around me swirling in a surreal dance. The sky was a tapestry of hues, and the trees whispered secrets in brushstroke patterns. Rythe stood nearby, relieved yet anxious. He explained that a magical brush, stolen by a thief, had trapped him in this realm. To escape, we needed to retrieve it.

Our journey was perilous. The painted world was inhabited by trolls, their forms distorted by the artist's imagination. Armed with turpentine-coated weapons, we confronted these beasts. Each battle tested our resolve, the creatures' strength formidable even in their painted forms.

After a series of harrowing encounters, we located the thief's corpse, the brush clutched in his lifeless hand. With it, Rythe painted a portal, allowing us to return to the real world.

Back in his studio, Rythe expressed profound gratitude, gifting me the Apron of Adroitness—a token of appreciation and a symbol of our shared ordeal.

🌄 Loredas, 13th of Frostfall, 3E 433

(Cheydinhal → Harlun’s Watch → Swampy Cave → Cheydinhal)

I had scarcely finished one contract when Burz gro-Khash called me in again.

“More disappearances,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Harlun’s Watch, south of here. Villagers vanishing without a trace. Go see what you can find.”

The road led me through leafless trees and early frost. Harlun’s Watch was small, quiet, and wrapped in unease. Drarana Thelis met me near the well, eyes hollow from sleepless nights.

“They go out looking for the lights,” she whispered. “Blue ones, flickering in the marshes. And they never come back.”

She pointed me toward Swampy Cave, where the lights were last seen. It was little more than a damp cleft in the ground—but I could already see the truth. Will-o-the-Wisps floated near the entrance, their ghostly glow haunting the trees.

Inside, the truth turned savage. The cave teemed with trolls, their foul stench saturating the stone. I fought them room by room, Dawnsunder and Sunglade striking true through the dark. Midway through the cavern, I found what we feared: the body of Eduard Denile, crumpled beneath claw marks. There was no hope left for the missing.

I cleared the rest of the cave, ensuring no beast would claim another soul.

Back at Harlun’s Watch, Drarana received the news in silence. “We feared it,” she said, tears brimming. “But at least now... we know.”

She handed me a simple band—the Mind and Body Ring, enchanted to strengthen resolve. A quiet thank-you from those with little left to give.

I returned to Cheydinhal that night, heavy with thought. Burz grunted his approval and handed over the payment. “You’re doing good work,” he said gruffly.

I nodded. Not all victories gleam in sunlight.

🌄 Fredas, 12th of Frostfall, 3E 433

(Cheydinhal → Lord Rugdumph's Estate → Eastern Hills → Cheydinhal)

After returning to Cheydinhal, I reported once more to Burz gro-Khash. His greeting was as terse as ever, but his concern was plain when he handed me the next assignment.

“Lord Rugdumph gro-Shurgak,” he grunted, “claims his daughter’s gone missing. You’ll find him at his estate northeast of Lake Arrius. Try not to insult him—he’s nobility.”

I set out at once, curious what sort of noble required Fighters Guild intervention. The estate was quiet and isolated, its walls standing proud against the chill of Frostfall. Lord Rugdumph met me in the courtyard. His manners were gracious, if... unorthodox.

“Mine offspring, Rogbut, hath been abjected,” he announced solemnly. “By ogres, no less. Taken from us in dire horror and evil!”

It took patience to decipher his words, but the meaning was clear enough. Lady Rogbut had gone wandering, and ogres had seized her somewhere east of the estate. He begged me to “exterminize” the brutes and return his beloved daughter home safely.

I followed the rough trail into the hills and soon found her—surrounded by three hulking ogres, their bellows echoing across the rocks. I struck fast and true, Dawnsunder and Sunglade guiding my defense. When the dust settled, Rogbut stood unharmed, though she seemed wholly unimpressed with the ordeal.

“You’re here from Father, aren’t you?” she sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

The escort back was uneventful. Lord Rugdumph wept with relief and offered me a reward: an heirloom blade he called Rugdumph’s Sword. I accepted it with a respectful nod, then returned to Cheydinhal to report.

Burz merely grunted his approval and passed me the coin. “Not bad, Defender. Let’s see if you keep it up.”

🌄 Turdas, 11th of Frostfall, 3E 433

(Anvil → Bruma → Sedor → Bruma Chapel)

The chill of the Frostfall morning did little to numb the sting of recent events. Upon reporting to Azzan in Anvil, I was met not with commendation, but with reprimand. The tragic outcome at Forsaken Mine, where Viranus Donton met his end, had repercussions beyond grief. Modryn Oreyn had been expelled from the Fighters Guild, and I, too, faced consequences. Azzan informed me of my demotion to the rank of Defender, a decision reflecting the gravity of the situation. He advised that by undertaking and successfully completing a few contracts, I might restore my standing within the Guild.

With resolve to atone and prove my dedication, I accepted the next assignment. Azzan briefed me on a pressing matter: the theft of the Stone of St. Alessia from the Chapel of Talos in Bruma. This sacred relic, believed to be blessed by Saint Alessia herself, was of immense importance. I was to travel to Bruma and consult with Cirroc, the chapel's priest, for further information.

Cirroc received me with a mix of hope and desperation. He recounted how the Stone had been stolen under the cover of darkness, and suspicions pointed towards a group of thieves operating near the Ayleid ruin of Sedor. Determined to retrieve the relic, I set out towards the ancient site, navigating the treacherous terrain that led me to the crumbling edifice whispering tales of a bygone era.

Inside Sedor, the air was thick with the scent of decay and danger. I encountered K'Sharr, a Khajiit thief and the sole survivor of the group that had stolen the Stone. Cornered and desperate, he confessed to the theft and revealed the Stone's location deeper within the ruin.

Battling through the remaining defenses, I finally laid eyes on the Stone of St. Alessia. Its ethereal glow illuminated the chamber, a beacon of hope amidst the darkness. Carefully, I retrieved the relic, feeling a surge of reverence and responsibility.

Returning to Bruma, I presented the Stone to Cirroc. His eyes welled with tears as he accepted the relic, placing it back on its rightful pedestal within the chapel. The townsfolk gathered, their faces alight with gratitude and relief.

🌄 Middas, 10th of Frostfall, 3E 433

(Oblivion Gate near Skingrad, north of Meridia’s Shrine)

It was north of Meridia’s shrine that the sky burned—a wound upon the land that no prayer alone could close. I entered the Oblivion Gate with Dawnsunder in hand, but left the familiar weight of my old mace behind. Something in my spirit told me I would not return unchanged.

Inside, the realm of Oblivion stretched before me: rivers of fire, iron towers, Daedra lurking in every shadow. I pressed upward, guided by both duty and the thought of forging a new tool for mercy—a weapon as unyielding as the faith I carry.

At the summit, in the Sigillum Sanguis, I found more than just a Sigil Stone. Resting near the blazing pillar was an ebony mace, its head cold and dark even in that infernal heat. I claimed it, feeling a sense of destiny coil around my arm. Before taking the Sigil Stone, I searched The Punished—finding only trinkets—but it was the ebony mace that felt meant for me.

The final trial was the pillar of fire itself, crowned with the Sigil Stone. Flames leapt high, hungry and deadly; one wrong step would mean oblivion. I braced myself, reached through the searing light, and seized the stone. The tower quaked and burned around me. I leapt, and the world exploded into white.

When I came to my senses, I stood again on Tamriel’s cool earth, the Oblivion Gate now a smoking ruin behind me. In my hands, the Sigil Stone blazed—its power wild, its core pure fire. In the quiet that followed, I knelt in the grass, the new ebony mace before me, and began the rite of consecration.

With prayer and steady hand, I set the Sigil Stone into the mace’s dark crown. The weapon pulsed with sacred heat, its surface inscribed now with runes of both destruction and mercy. I named it there and then: Ignis Sacratus—Sacred Fire.

From that day forward, Ignis Sacratus has been more than a weapon. It is a symbol—a reminder that true strength is not found in steel alone, but in the soul willing to pass through fire and emerge with purpose renewed. May its flame bring justice where hope is faint, and mercy where wrath is not enough.

🌄 Tirdas, 9th of Frostfall, 3E 433

(Chorrol → Redguard Valley Cave → Castle Chorrol → Weatherleah)

It began with a meeting beneath Chorrol’s weathered stone. Fathis Ules, a Dunmer merchant with eyes as sharp as his words, sought me out in private. “Years ago, Albert Jemane stole something of great value from my associates,” he said. “I believe the item now lies in Redguard Valley Cave, guarded by ogres. Bring it to me, and you’ll be well compensated.” He offered no details—just coin and a veiled urgency.

Curiosity and a sense of duty drove me to the cave. The ogres within proved fierce, defending their den with primal fury. Deeper inside, among scattered bones and shattered crates, I found a longsword—its craftsmanship far too fine for such a place. The hilt bore the crest of Chorrol: the Honorblade. Suddenly, the weight of the quest grew heavier.

Standing in the cold, torch-lit chamber, I weighed my choices. Fathis’ gold would be easy to claim, but the sword was more than a lost relic; it was a piece of Chorrol’s heart, a symbol of leadership and legacy. To give it over in secret felt wrong.

I returned the Honorblade to Castle Chorrol, placing it in the hands of Laythe Wavrick, the Countess’s loyal steward. His gratitude was profound, and in thanks, I was awarded the Escutcheon of Chorrol—a shield that gleamed with the pride of the city.

Last, I visited Weatherleah to speak with the Jemane brothers. Guilbert listened in quiet sorrow as I told them the truth about their father’s theft. “It pains us to know,” he said, “but Chorrol deserves its Honorblade.” They pressed a small gift of grand soul gems into my hands, a token of their appreciation and perhaps, their hope to begin anew.

🌄 Morndas, 8th of Frostfall, 3E 433

(Chorrol → Forsaken Mine)

Modryn Oreyn summoned me with a grave expression. "A Fighters Guild team, led by Viranus Donton, was dispatched to clear trolls from Forsaken Mine," he said. "They've not returned. I need you to find out what happened."

The mine lay south of Leyawiin, near the Lower Niben. Its entrance, marked by a skull-adorned door, hinted at the horrors within. Inside, the air was thick with decay. I found the bodies of Ariente, Ashtus Chenius, and Cartrus Gavinius—Fighters Guild members, fallen in duty.

Deeper in, more corpses: Cargas Laftrius, Mattius Wotrus, and Lashana. Among them, a Blackwood Company soldier, his presence raising unsettling questions. Trolls lurked in the shadows, their savage attacks relentless. I fought through, determined to uncover the truth.

In the mine's depths, I found Viranus Donton's body. Clutched in his hand, a bloodied journal detailed a grim tale: the Fighters Guild's mission was disrupted by the Blackwood Company, leading to chaos and death.

Returning to Chorrol, I delivered the news to Modryn. His face hardened. "The Blackwood Company has crossed a line," he growled. "I must inform Vilena Donton of her son's fate." He advised me to seek other contracts in the meantime.