Chapter 1:

                  The Brawl

It wasn’t supposed to be a deathmatch, Kiln thought as he unwrapped his bloody hands, the black soul gem shining dimly underneath. He had still yet to try it, but if Wylandriah's calculations were correct, he had something big in the palm of his hands, and nobody could challenge him. He pushed that thought aside, tucking the gem back into his wrapped hands, and rolled aside as his opponent, a colossal Nord berserker—his near-7-ft' frame towered over Kiln's much-smaller Breton-body—named Hragge with a ball and chain that swung idly at his side, approached. He roared, swinging the mace in his hands to gain momentum, and charging in to deliver a killing blow. 

No, it wasn't supposed to go like this—never was, in fact—but the rich Imperial donors had other plans. They wanted a bloodbath, and that’s what they’d get. A Stormcloak barbarian who’d survived the colds of Skyrim for years versus a lanky Breton knight who was so green he’d hardly grown hair on his chest. Okay, he was being a bit facetious, but you got the point. 

He’d been freed from his squiredom just a year prior, when he took the Daggerfall Oath, known simply as “the Silver,” and joined the ranks of hedge knights that made up the Argent Valor. What valor, then, was to be found in the Imperial Arena? Well, he needed two things to ascend to the rank of Sentinel—the golden-armored paladins that traveled Tamriel in search of honor and glory in battle, and that’s all he’d ever wanted—and that was practice and coin. He figured the Arena was just as good a place to get his practice as any. Plus, he didn’t mind getting his hands a little dirty, and what coin did “saving fair maidens” get him?

Still, he operated by a strict code: he did not kill unless it was to either save his own life or that of someone else’s. Anything less would have had him exiled to the Summerset Isles, and the Thalmor were not kind to strangers. Still, he hadn’t any control over this fight from the start. He’d a bad feeling since he stepped out of the pit. He should have called it there, if they would have even let him at that point. It proceeded normally, until the audience started calling for murder, and Hragge obliged. Even still, their cries were deafening. 

“Kill the bastard!” some of them shouted. “Make it slow! Make him scream!” Others echoed. Goddamn animals. Kiln spat. Still, they’d pay his tribute if he didn’t die, and that was a big “if,” at this point. A shiver ran down his spine as his opponent approached him with a grin on his face, ball and chain swinging imposingly from side to side.  

He took a deep breath, looking down at the gem encased within his hands. He just… needed… a bit… more charge-

BOOM! Another crash of the steel ball in the side of his head knocked him to the ground. His head violently made impact with the sand beneath, blood dribbling out of his mouth and staining it red. He wheezed, trying to gain some amount of strength, to no avail. This wasn’t a match anymore, it was a slaughter.

Hragge belly-laughed behind him, taking a moment to posture boastfully to the screaming crowd, who only got louder. They liked theatrics, and the man was known for his bravado. With that, the audience began to shout in unison, “kill him!” over and over. For a long moment, between their cries and his opponent's guttural laughter, he could barely hear himself think.

As he lay on the ground writhing for what felt like hours, he got an idea. It would be a long shot—he’d have to be quick, or it was all over. He couldn’t afford to fail. 

He watched the wind from up the lake drift over the sand, sweeping a handful into his palm. 

With that, he stumbled upwards once more, hoping to aggravate his opponent and make himself ripe for the killing. Hragge didn’t seem to notice, however, his attention still glued to the yelling crowd. He sighed. 

Gonna have to do this the hard way, huh?

“Hey, asshole!” Kiln shouted, attempting to grab his opponent’s attention. Hragge turned around slowly, turning his back to the crowd and shooting him a strangely inquisitive look, as if to say, “really?” 

“Do your worst.” Was all he said, spitting on the ground before him. Once more, Hragge turned towards the crowd, holding his hands up and rotating his body to address all sides of the stands, before finally directing his full attention to the center stand, which was adorned in red and gold Imperial banners, the royal dragon-sigil in the center of each. Beneath the awning, in a large stone throne, sat the Emperor of Tamriel himself, who now stepped out of his seat, approaching the bannister, as if intrigued by the events of the fight. His Penitus Oculatus bodyguard entourage quickly jumped to attention, following after him. With the simple flick of a hand, however, they stood down, and he continued, towards the ledge, his old body stumbling into view. The sunlight clarified his wrinkly and worn features, which told the story of a man, possibly in his early 80’s, who’d seen war and famine, power and betrayal, life and death, Oblivion and Aetherius itself. He’d been a battle-hardened, steel-tested warlord in his time, having fought in nearly every combat during the Great War—and he had the medals to show for it—and taking advantage of the ensuing power vacuum to secure his family the throne. He’d watched sons die, armies razed to the ground by monstrous enemies, and demon-lords banished back to the pit from which they came. But now? All he did was rule from his penthouse in the White-Gold Tower, which rose higher than any other structure in all of the Cyrodilic Empire, with nothing but his servants and his dice to keep him company, so naturally he visited the arena from time to time to watch the fights. It was usually a mere scuffle between pit-vipers, but this time? He was in for a full-on, old-school brawl. A bruiser with a dualmace and a hedge knight with nothing more than a wooden shield and a silver sword. It was sure to be the fight of the year, and now? It just got even more interesting. 

Hragge looked to the Emperor, holding his hands up even higher, as if in complete submission to his will. His Grace, Titus Mede II, answered with a simple gesture, holding his right hand out, forming it into a fist, poking the thumb out and then cocking it to the side. He looked around to the crowd inquisitively. Hragge’s eyes—and Kiln’s too, as this simple gesture would decide his fate—stayed glued to the Emperor. The crowd got louder as Titus scanned over them, shouting even louder this time: “kill him! kill him! kill him!” They wanted blood, and perhaps they’d be getting it, but Kiln had other ideas. 

“Do it you fat bastard. Kill me!” He shouted, but Hragge didn’t flinch. The ball still swayed silently from side to side in mid-air as the air between them tightened. Slowly the cries died down, as the Emperor held his other hand up, as if to halt them. The people obliged, quieting to near-silence in a matter of seconds. He dropped the hand and all focus was on his right hand, the thumb still cocked to the left. 

“Do it!” Kiln shouted, interrupting the silence momentarily. The Emperor smiled, raising the thumb upwards, hesitating slightly, the people shouting cries of wrath, before lowering it all the way down, facing the ground. His smiled contorted into a grim look of stoic coldness as he turned and resumed his seat at the throne. For the first time all evening, Hragge didn’t laugh. He merely grumbled, then turned around to face his prey.

“Time to end this little game, piggie.”

He said in his thick Nordic accent, turning around… to see Kiln was already gone. He looked around confusedly for a moment, before a voice broke the silence: 

“What a shame, I had so much fun playing-” Kiln muttered as he darted out from between the man’s legs, and tossing the pocket-sand into his eyes, which were widened in surprise. Hragge screamed in pain, raising his hands to get the sand out of his eyes, which inadvertently brought his own mace up to hit himself in the cranium, knocking him back slightly. 

“Bastard!” He yelled, spitting in his hands and attempting to scrub his eyes violently before his opponent could react, but it was too late. Kiln reappeared with the sword he’d dropped earlier in the combat and slashed it across the Nord’s chest, causing bits of blood to pour down his stomach. He shrieked, launching the ball and chain blindly at the air before him and missing with every careless swing. Kiln repeated this motion, slashing here and there, attempting to weaken his opponent before he could fully incapacitate him. That was when he was finally caught by the ball and chain, which impacted with his hands, knocking his sword out of them. 

“Shit!” He yelled, and attempted to leap for it, but he was too slow. Hragge, eyes bloodshot but clear once more, kicked him violently in the chest, his steel boots breaking a few ribs and knocking him to the ground. 

Once more, the large man towered over him. 

“Any last words?” He said, spitting blood on the ground next to Kiln, who was now coughing… and laughing. 

“What the hell’s so funny?” He asked, kicking him over to face him. “Huh!?”

Kiln wheezed. “Oh, it’s just…” Another cough. “You forgot to cut out my tongue.” 

Hragge looked confused, contorting his face into a grimace. That was when Kiln unveiled the soul gem he had kept wrapped beneath his palm. It shone dimly in the sun, with dark violet hues emanating like waves from the black base. The big man tilted his head like a confused wolf pup, before widening his eyes, and–

But it was too late.

With a deep breath, Kiln closed his eyes and whispered: “Oraakyōn!”

A black, ashy mist drifted out of his mouth as he spoke the words, slowly rising upwards towards the sky. The wind picked up, faster than it ever had, and the sand beneath their very feet began to lift, as if touched by some ancient magic. A deep grumbling emanated from the sky, before completely surrounding them. In an instant, the entire arena was covered in darkness, with streaks of violet pulsing here and there. Then, slowly but surely, everyone but Kiln began to look upward, including Hragge, who seemed to be transfixed by what he saw. 

Soaring in the skies above the arena, descending from beyond the clouds, was a massive black dragon. Its wings spanned the length of the arena, and its head was nearly the size of a large carriage. It had a serpentine body, with two large wings that flapped back and forth, its back-claws scraping against the side of the arena, as it lowered itself just in front of Hragge, who remained deathly still.

Kiln took this opportunity to dash aside, hiding behind a rock and out of sight. The ancient beast landed with a thunderous THUD! and began to address the Nord—who seemed so small now in comparison—in Dovahzuul: “Hië dra’a tarin dii insah? Yiėk fiint chuul sulēyk se fin thu’um, rakkåh.” It grumbled, a deep shade of red gathering in its stomach.”

 “Zu’ul Oraakyōn, fin ėk bah!” Its words shook the ground around them, as the crimson glow illuminated its body and rose into its throat. “Yol’TUR’Shül!!!” It shrieked, blood-red flame erupting violently from its mouth and completely engulfing a still-transfixed Hragge.

When the smoke had cleared, nothing but ashy remains were left in his place, with melted bits of steel here and there where the large champion just stood. Kiln peeked out from behind his rock, attracting Oraakyōn’s attention, who grumbled affectionately. 

“Daah’we, Oraak,” He spoke, carefully and slowly, as he crawled from his hiding place. “You are free.” 

The Beast seemed to understand and, with a final roar, flapped its wings and drifted upwards, dissipating into ashy shadow as it exited the arena, and blowing away with the wind. He looked down at the empty soul gem in his hands, and then to the pile of embers that was once Hragge. He felt a tinge of remorse, but tried to remind himself that it was all in self-defense. Sure, the dragon was a bit overkill, but it was all he’d had at his disposal. He wasn’t even sure it’d work. Guess Wyla was right after all. He shook the thought off, limping forwards towards the middle of the arena as the light returned to the place. Most of the crowd seemed shocked, only appearing to see him standing next to a vacant dustpile. Chaos ensued, as people looked to each other in confusion and shock, and others screamed, “witchcraft!” in horror and disgust. One person, however, stayed completely silent. 

For a long moment, the emperor’s wrinkly face stayed perfectly unfazed. Then, he stood up from his chair so fast it toppled backward and immediately B-lined it out of his box. Moments later, Maegorr, the Arena-boss, appeared from the belly of the pit, trailed by a half-dozen guards who quickly passed him and detained Kiln. He didn't even try to fight back, he just wanted to sleep. Maegorr approached, golden elvish mail shining in the sunlight, until he was spitting-distance from the young knight. He detached and removed his right gauntlet, letting it fall to the ground, and raised his palm towards his left ear. Kiln could tell that, above all else, he’d ruined the “fairness” of his game, which clearly warranted punishment, but more than that, he’d upset the Emperor, which was a far worse crime.

He was met with a swift backhand, sending him reeling backwards, the guards behind him catching and pushing him back forward. “No damned respect.” Maegorr spat, grabbing his apprentice’s face with one hand, squeezing his cheeks as he did. 

“Witch’ry, in my arena? In front of the Emperor, for Talos’ sakes?” His face contorted into a livid grimace, teeth gritted as he smacked Kiln once more. “I don’t know what the hell you did in here, son, but if you wanna raise the dead, y’might as well join ‘em. Get him out of my sight.” He nodded towards one of the guards. “In the meantime, the dungeons will do you well…” He said, turning abruptly and heading back towards the pit. 

Kiln turned to the guard next to him, who shoved him downwards, onto the ground. The screaming crowd was now being pushed out of the arena by city watchmen, some kicking and screaming and others attempting to jump the bannister to come for “the deceiver,” as they were now shouting. Hm, ‘Kiln the Deceiver.’ Not too bad of a-

The few dozen citizens that were able to jump the bannister were now sprinting towards him, being chased by watchmen. Two of the Arena guards behind him unsheathed their swords and put themselves between their compatriots and the advancing enemy. A clash ensued, that Kiln could barely make out due to the sand cloud that erupted between them. As blood began to fill the dust, however, and several guards began to fall, the situation turned much more dire. The one that had detained him began to hastily drag him off towards the opposite side of the pit, trailed by the other three, who eventually broke off and ran back to help their mates. Finally, the guard behind him shoved him against the wall, causing his head to impact roughly against the stone wall. “Shit!” He muttered. 

“Quiet, you!” The guard hissed, stepping in front of him and pulling out a small hand-axe that had been sheathed on his back. His voice tremored slightly as he spoke; he was scared. Kiln wheezed slightly, attempting to push himself up the wall, but it was no use. “Stay down! Or they’ll see us!” The guard snapped once more, forcing him backwards towards the wall.

“Untie my bindings! I can fight, you just saw-” 

“Didn’t I tell you to be quiet, damnit!?”

And with that, the guard swiveled around, swinging the handle of his axe against Kiln’s head, which then impacted against the stone, knocking him out cold.