Hello once more. Vicc here again with another super late chapter. Guys and girls, I am seriously sorry about the lateness. I have been floored and I just haven't really felt much like writing. There's nothing else to say. I'll try to have the next chapter out far earlier but no promises. I'm getting a feeling that this story is finally starting to get some attention, based off of the traffic stats I'm seeing. Feel free to leave me a review, even if it's only hey, I read it and love it! Or tell me what you didn't like: I'm trying to make it as interesting as possible. Not much action went on last chapter but there were some character intros and developments to get out of the way. This chapter isn't really too action either, it's really more of a developing chapter to the next scene. I'm trying to get you interested in Ysvor, what happened to him, he fought in the Legion?, stuff like that. Same for Zhak. This chapter is also shorter because I couldn't really add anything else to it without it feeling like a run on. Oh, a little heads up, I finally give Ysvor a face this chapter! So, to all my readers, scroll on down and enjoy!

Ch. 3: The Hero Takes the Stage

Zhak could feel nothing around him. He felt no pain. He felt no fire. He felt no death. All he could feel was nothing, and nothing was exactly what he felt like. His body was tired, his attempts to move met with no resistance except for his own. He couldn't even bring himself to open his eyes. Am I dead? Is this all there is to death?

The Orcs are not known for their quick willingness to give up or surrender; Zhak was determined to not let these feelings best him. With a massive push of inner willpower, he fought his eyes open and finally defeated the fatigue clawing at him. His ghostly blue eyes saw only a vague pink image. Wisps of pink fluttered by his face, a fog of incoherent images flashing before him. They flashed so fast that he could not see them very clearly. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the images became radically clearer and revealed themselves to be his own memories. The images changed so fast though that he still didn't quite understand them.

He felt a headache beginning to throb in his skull from the rapidly changing clouds of would-be-smoke. He groaned and forced his body to roll over. He felt no shift in weight nor gravity but felt as if he had indeed rolled over. And below him, a scene of events quite similar were unraveling themselves. These images he quickly realized as being foreign and they were flashing much slower than his own memories.

He saw a small chapel full of people and sunshine. The scene flashed over to a close up of the chapel, or more accurately an elderly man in it. The elder was shaking hands with him. Curiosity dominated Zhak's mind and he wondered whose memories these here were. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind when the cloud projecting the images began swirling itself upwards, encompassing his body as he vainly struggled against some insane form of fatigue.

Zhak ran through the crowd of people, pushing his way past the townsfolk crying out for blood. He finally managed to break through and laid his eyes on a massive platform a full head higher than he. Zhak raised his arms but was suddenly distracted when he noticed they were robed and far smaller than he remembered. Zhak felt his mouth opening even though he did not wish to speak.

"Townsfolk of Kvatch, I beg you to be at ease!" the voice that vibrated Zhak's throat was not his deep and gruff tone, it was one far more elegant and rich. "Your cries for his blood will not aid the process!"

It was then that Zhak looked up on the platform. A lone figure stood, raised even higher by a stool. A noose hung fast around his neck, right above his blood red robes. The man, an elder Breton by the looks of him, held his head high with a proud glaze to his eyes. Zhak had seen this look dozens of times before: it was the look of a zealot, one so immersed in their pursuit of righteousness that morals did not apply to them. It was then that Zhak noticed the armed Imperial approaching the older man, a town guard by the looks of him.

"Theodane, for the crime of murder and treachery, you have been sentenced to death by the Kvatch council. If you have any last words, now is the time, filth." The crowd roared insults at the man following this speech, saying things akin to him not deserving last words. But the Imperial simply waved them silent patiently.

"Savlian, you give me this chance for a final goodbye to these accursed people. Well I say nay, I shant give them the pleasure." The crowd roared at the felon. He raised his voice to shout, "The fires of Oblivion shall soon burn this town to ash and Lord Dagon will crush your bones beneath him! I go now to the holy Paradi..." Savlian took this chance to kick the stool from under the raving man. The snap of his neck was quite audible and all was silent for a moment. Zhak heard himself mutter, "Damned raving cultists," as a shiver arched his spine.

Zhak felt a small timeskip before his eyes watered under the heavy assault of smoke and sulfur. His head snapped in dozens of directions as fire lashed out against everything around it. People ran in all different directions as the fires raged and Zhak's ears perked as he heard some kind of animalistic roars coming from a few alleys over. He coughed into his sleeve as he vainly tried to use it as an impromptu gas mask. "Into the chapel!" he cried, waving his arms around like a madman. Several people rushed by him, following his shouts for a chance at salvation.

From around the corner came two people running for their lives. Zhak watched helplessly as a giant, crocodile-like monstrosity rounded the same corner before snatching one of the fleeing persons in its grotesque muzzle. Zhak felt anger swell inside of himself and he stepped forward, gas mask dropped in favor of something more aggressive. As the monstrous Daedra tore the person apart, Zhak sent a ball of condensed and arcane lightning at it. The result was the beast being blown to chunks during its last meal. Zhak noticed the street was almost empty save for a few stragglers, who he urgently rushed forward.

As they neared the door, a sudden hail of arrows fell down onto the bloody and crumbling street. Like some sort of demented rain, the black arrows slaughtered the remaining townsfolk before they could reach the safety of the chapel. Zhak cried out in anguish and rushed to shield them with his magic only to be pulled back into the church by a familiar guard. Zhak struggled against this guard, crying out that those people needed him. He literally fell to the floor in a heap as the heavy, oaken doors slammed shut and their barricades fell into their places. Hot tears rolled down his face as the guard knelt next to him.

"Brother Martin, there was nothing you could do to save them."

Zhak snatched away from this guard, the truth in his words only making the stinging in his chest worse. He walked over to the area of the chapel where the nine chapels lay. He looked at each in turn before resting on Talos, the man-god.

"You who used to be one of us, you have forsaken us in our hour of need." Zhak turned to face the entire chapel full of townspeople. "What in Oblivion is going on here?! Does anyone know why our city suddenly lies in ruins and ash?!" A guard stepped forward.

"Brother Martin, I am from the eastern gate. This attack is one of Oblivion, several gates have opened up around the city. This was a planned attack." Zhak slumped down into a nearby chair, his hand covering his eyes.

"Theodane, he knew. He helped them plan this!" He cried. "Dammit, we have to do something!"

"But what? We are few, and most of that is common folk. We have little in terms of fighters." The guard had set down in front of Zhak, obviously concerned of the people crowding them listening in.

"And what would you have us do, Mellian?" Martin demanded. "Sit on our arses and await a rescue that will not come?"

"The Legion will not abandon us." Mellian spoke. "When news of what has happened here spreads to the nearby cities, aid will come. We must wait, these demons cannot set foot here, not in this holy place." Martin sighed, forcing himself to see the wisdom in these words.

"The Daedra may not but these traitors will." He said, standing as he spoke. "Let's see about getting this place fortified somewhat; we must keep these people safe. Oh, and Treyon, see about the donated food stores. Let us pray we have enough to outlast this disaster."

Zhak felt the now familiar tug of the memory changing again. It seemed that this time, only the time had changed. He still saw the inside of this chapel. Only, this time, it was under siege. The large, oak doors were being periodically hammered, the collection of survivors desperately trying to hold them shut. Zhak saw another guard running past, bellowing orders as the large windows were being shattered under a barrage of arrows.

Zhak ran to one such window, his hand already gathering magical power. He shot a fireball in the time it, presumably, took the assailants to reload, listening to the explosion with a satisfied smirk. He was rewarded with dozens of arrows filling the one gap. He simply waited until the arrows stopped flying in and chunked another fireball.

Around this time, the oak doors were slammed with a much greater intensity than anything before. Martin watched on the verge of panic as the hinges strained under the enormous pressure. Another shot like that would break them. Every able bodied man, woman, or child ran to the door to help keep it shut. A second blast came, but the door still stood.

In the heat of the moment, everyone seemed to have forgotten about the broken windows. They were swiftly reminded as a hail of arrows peppered the defendants from behind, sending many good men to their deaths. It was a lose-lose situation for the survivors: they could hold the door and be shot down, or let the Daedra lovers in and try to fight them off. A third blast to the door took their choice from them; with a screech of breaking metal, the hinges gave way and the doors were blasted away.

As the survivors stumbled back to their feet from being knocked askew by the blast, several crimson robed figures poured into the glaring hole in their defense. The orange and blue sparks of summoned armor and weapons briefly shaded the scene, a dramatic touch to be sure. The two forces met with a resounding clash of steel on summoned steel. Zhak summoned himself a shortsword even though he lacked the proper training to put it to good use.

One figure clawed its way through the throng of victims, an axe arching towards Zhak's head. Zhak merely blasted him aside with a bolt of lightning before meeting the next one's blade with his own. The figure kicked at him, sending him back before looping the blade over his head. Zhak rolled to one side as the blade fell down, narrowly missing his head. Another bolt of lightning took care of that one.

Zhak was worried now about his supply of magical power; how long could he hold out in this fight before he ran dry? Outside of magic, he had almost no physical skill with any weapon. He ducked another blade and punched his own through the person's gut. Zhak wasn't sure why or how, but he could feel an almost immediate shift in the struggle.

He looked up quickly to see a large, hulking man in ancient and golden Dwarven armor cutting the red robed attackers down like wheat in a field. The scavenged, Daedric longsword the man carried rent the summoned armor apart as this mysterious addition cut a bloody path through the battle. Zhak also noticed several more guardsmen had joined their fight. Did these men come from one of the gates?

With the reinforcements, the battle quickly ended. The red robed attackers lay in bloody pools around the chapel, a line of destruction clearly showing where the golden savior and his entourage had fought their way through. The mysterious man was currently walking amongst the survivors, asking each one questions that Zhak couldn't quite make out. He decided to give the man his thanks regardless and approached him.

"Hail stranger!" He beckoned to the man. Zhak felt his heart skip a beat as the stony face turned to look at him, not even the man's eyes could be seen from this angle.

"Are you Martin?" a deep and thick voice asked. Martin raised a brow at this man's directness.

"Why, yes. Yes I am." The man nodded and reached up to remove his helmet.

Their savior was a Redguard lad, no older than twenty-five and with fairly short, braided hair. The man shook his braids a few times before flashing a cold smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"My name is Akhahan, Brother Martin. I was sent here to rescue you by your father."

Zhak felt the memories beginning to die away, coming out of his mental state in these strange clouds. He was not alone this time, another figure floated near him. This new figure was donned in a simple and tattered blue robe, a golden katana at his side shining with magical light. Even though he had never seen this stranger, Zhak had already guessed at who this person was.

"My Emperor, what is going on?" Martin, for it was indeed Martin Septim, Emperor of Cyrodiil, laughed at the question.

"Zhak gro-Nurzhuk, I am here because of you." The Emperor told him. After seeing he did not understand, he continued. "You see, I am dead. I have sacrificed my mortal form to stop this bloody invasion of Dagon's. Akatosh himself possessed my body and struck the devil down. The boundary between worlds has been restored."

"I still do not understand why I am here. Am I dead as well?"

"Yes and no, Zhak." Martin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You are a very special case, unprecedented in all of history. You were indeed struck down in Oblivion; you were killed. But the boundary between planes dissolved with your dying breath...Usually, when a mortal dies in Oblivion, there soul is claimed by whatever lord presides over the realm. Arkay claims those from the realm of Mundus, sending them to a collection of afterlives that depend upon religious beliefs. But you, you were special. Technically speaking, you had no godly figure controlling the area where you 'died' for you died between realms."

"I…think I understand what you're saying." Zhak said, religion had never been his strong suit. Martin smiled at him in a bemused fashion.

"Basically, you're dead and nobody can claim your soul. It falls upon me to decide what to do to you then."

"Why you? No disrespect of course."

"None taken. You see, in that moment when Akatosh possessed me, my body and my soul became part of all realms. I was given a taste, a small fraction, of the god of gods' power. In layman's terms, I am the god that claimed your soul. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do now." Zhak spoke, rubbing his arm as the notion dawned on him that Martin had full control over him.

"Good. Now, I could have done a variety of things. I could simply have sent you to Malacath for him to do with you as he would like, I could have left you in the Deadlands, or several other options. I have left you here, in your state of limbo, for your mortal work is yet unfinished."

"You mean, I have a destiny?" Martin nodded.

"Yes, a large one at that. Of course, I cannot tell you what it is but I can tell you that it requires you on Mundus once more. Now, I do believe it's high time for our friend to attempt his summoning."

"Summoning? Wait!" Zhak cried out as Martin began to disappear.

"Farewell for now, Zhak. We'll meet again one day and until that day, remember that I shall always be watching over you. Farewell!" Zhak lunged out to grab at the man, still confused as to what this entire situation was about. But it was to no avail, he felt himself warming up as his mind, or rather his soul, left this world.

Ysvor sat on the lumpy excuse of a cot that took up nearly all of his cell space. He had sat here, in this position, unmoving since Rikki had made her proposal. He had sat here, staring at the twin moons as they traced their path along the sky. His window was small, sadly, and they would soon drift out of sight. And with them, his mind would be decided.

He had asked himself many times now a simple question. And each time he had given a simple answer. Why was he afraid to accept the Empire's offer? A clean slate, ridding himself of all of his bounties, starting over again. It all sounded so good, perhaps too good. Ysvor had replayed this sequence of thought so many times now that his brain was constantly running through a list of pros and cons.

He could not shake the feeling that something was going on, something he wasn't being told. Something that could change the Empire forever. Rikki had mentioned a place on the East Empire Council. He was certain that that was an exaggeration but even with that considered, whatever reward he would receive would still be huge.

As Secunda drifted out of sight, Ysvor turned his mind to his old, Legion days. He remembered his first day of training, the absolute torture that it really was. They had run a full three miles in heavy, plate armor before being forced through a designed training course, still wearing the armor. Ysvor had been one of the lowest scoring trainees, he had cut down several civilian targets in addition to a very high time of completion.

That was the day he had first met Ebon. Ebon had been a full blooded Imperial, a legionnaire through and through. He had outpaced all save the sergeant on the long run and even went so far as to snatch the best performance on the course. A record setting performance, if he recalled correctly. That day, Ebon had reached out to him as he lie in the mud, close to exhaustion. That day, Ebon had urged him onward, pushing him like nobody before had ever done.

The legacy of his actions in the Legion were still talked of today. Ysvor and Ebon had been a super team; unbeatable as a squad. If Rikki spoke truth, the Emperor today still took note of their actions. Ysvor shook himself sharply as he realized his mind had wandered.

The moons were all but gone now. This offer of Rikki's was too good to be true. But even a fake offer was better than his three month stay in this jail, not counting the add-ons from his various other criminal misdemeanors. Ysvor stood up and walked himself over to the bars.

"Guard, please call the Legate for me. I have her answer."

Ysvor rolled his massive shoulders as he was finally set free from his shackles. They had been those aggravating ones that connected the hands and feet. And, being a seven foot tall giant of a Nord, the shackles had been badly short. Rikki was animatedly speaking to him, no doubt describing their mission and plans but Ysvor wasn't listening so far. A certain part caught his attention.

"Did you say we would ambush them outside of Darkwater Crossing?" Rikki nodded. "I have a friend that lives around there. May drop by for a visit."

Rikki stopped abruptly, forcing Ysvor to stop as well. She turned to look at him with a cold fury in her eyes.

"This isn't some vacation." She spoke icily. "We're going to end a war, not chat up some old friends." Ysvor raised his hands in surrender, no point making a scene.

"Apologies, Legate. I do understand the seriousness of the situation, somewhat."

"Perhaps I should clarify it some more for you?" Rikki asked as they reached the corner of the armory. Ysvor stepped through first, his eyes scanning for his bone white katana. Rikki's voice carried in from the hall. "This is a top tier assignment. Ulfric Stormcloak is a priority target, his capture or death comes before any of the Legion's other duties in Skyrim. He will be heavily armed himself as well as surrounded by at least two dozen men, his royal guard." Ysvor had finally found his armor and quickly began to put it on. "Need I remind you several of them are former legionnaires? They will have top-notch training and will be highly dangerous. Do not take this situation lightly."

Ysvor grumbled a little as he finished putting on his greaves.

"Fine, fine. Excuse me for dismissing them as nothing but farmers. Rikki, be honest, if your assignment is so dangerous, why aren't more Legates joining us? All I see mobilizing are your men, no other legions." Rikki stood in silence as Ysvor began working his chestpiece on.

"Damn your intelligence, Legion trained you too damn well." Ysvor smirked as he buckled the inner straps. "Ulfric has a unique ability. It's an ancient, Nordic magic known as the Voice. Not many in Skyrim still practice it outside of the Greybear-"

"Yes, Rikki, I know about the Voice. I am a Nord you know?" Rikki huffed.

"As I was saying. Ulfric was trained to use this magic. He used it to blast the late High King, Torygg, to pieces."

Ysvor stopped putting on his bracers at that news. He wasn't aware of the fact that Skyrim had no High King for now. He understood the importance of this mission now.

"Lemme guess, with Ulfric having this power and his influence here at home, the Empire is concerned of him being elected the next High King." Rikki nodded. "Well I'll be damned, no wonder you requested my help. Pulling the big guns out on this one, huh?"

Rikki was obviously upset that Ysvor had figured out their real mission. She grumbled some more before storming off. As Ysvor was belting on his sword belt, he heard her call to him.

"Meet us by the gate at eight o' clock sharp. We leave as soon as everyone is ready."

Ysvor turned to look at himself in a makeshift mirror. The first thing that stood out about him was his eyes. They were a starry silver color, something nearly completely unheard of. He had just been born with them that way. His oddly colored eyes moved first to his warrior's Mohawk. He noted that it was growing a tad bit long. Ysvor would have to trim it when he next had a chance. His fingers rose to trace the long and thin scars across his left cheek, a memento to his violent childhood. The scars were three in number, stretching from his ear to the corner of his mouth. He absentmindedly stroked his jet black goatee as he remembered the day he acquired said scars.

With a wistful sigh, his hands found his helmet. He stared into it, thinking of all the battles he had been in, all the times this armor had saved his life. The damned thing had cost him a small fortune to get but boy had it been worth every Septim. He finally donned the last of his armor and checked himself once again. The tower of obsidian he had become was a fearsome sight. Turning away, Ysvor strolled out of the room, an unseeable smirk on his face and a swagger to his step. Let's go kill a king.