The Chronicles of Terramyr

The Black Keep towers into the cerulean sky, casting an oppressive shadow over the surrounding landscape. High above the townsfolk in Castletown village below, surrounded by black pointed spires, obsidian-sculpted archways, and a twisting maze of dark corridors, King Hothgar Tassedothe, followed by a retinue of men, slowly ascends the steps of a narrow walkway upwards toward the dark dome-shaped structure of the Imperial Council chamber.

“Troubling rumors have reached my ears as of late. Barbarian marauders and Nemean tribal raiders have been attacking fishing villages along the western coast with increasing regularity. Emboldened by their successes, I have no doubt that these so-called rumors will draw ever closer until I can gaze at them from the Black Keep’s tower windows and see them myself. It is in our best interest that we pursue….” King Hothgar said, gasping suddenly, all air being forced out of his lungs, as a sword is driven, through his back.

Feeling the sudden coldness, the king looks down in disbelief at the sharp sword point emerging from his chest just below his long silver beard. A crimson flower begins to bloom across his golden robe surrounding the gray steel of the blade. Wrinkled hands trembling in front of the blade, the steel disappears back into his robe as quickly as it had emerged releasing a steady red stream that runs down the front of the king’s golden robe.

Crumbling to his knees, King Hothgar collapses forward, face first, onto the cold stone steps. The heavy golden crown falls from the king’s brow, spiraling through the air out into open space. Clattering down several stone step, the crown rolls to a stop at the edge of the walkway’s precipice overlooking the imperial garden’s hundreds of feet below. Oblivious to the clash of blade’s surrounding him, King Hothgar fixes his blue eyes intently upwards towards the entrance to the council chamber. Clutching his wound with one hand, the king drags himself upward, onto the next stone step, beginning a slow and arduous crawl toward his only hope of escape.

Without warning, six noble men, all with long loyalty to the crown, draw hidden weapons and fall upon the king’s guard. Two of the Dawnguard, the king’s elite bodyguards, are simultaneously cut down, from behind, falling in a violent frenzy of hacking swords, swinging axes, and thrusting daggers. In an effort to retaliate, Dawnguard captain Godfryd Fair and a new Dawnguard recruit Alastor Crane whirl around to face the attackers. Unsheathing their spell-forged swords, the knights grip the hilts causing the ruins engraved on the sword’s blades to erupt into magical flames.

Fighting with great strength, Godfryd, lunges forward severing one man’s sword arm at the elbow before swiftly impaling another through the throat. The young captain’s fiery blue sword carves through the two assailants as if he were carving through butter. Fighting fearlessly, Godfryd pushes further into the remaining traitor’s parrying their deadly blows in an awe-inspiring dance of steel. Relentlessly slamming an attacker with his great shield, the young captain shatters the man’s face, and knocks the traitor tumbling down the stone steps.

Leaping through the air, Godfryd attempts to close the distance between himself and his wounded king. As Godfryd lands, a fiery red blade cleaves into Godfryd’s collarbone melting through armor, flesh, and bone. The deadly blow kills Godfryd instantly, cauterizing the wound, while almost rending the young knight into two separate halves.

Alastor Crane, eyes wide and downcast, places the foot of his silver greaves onto his sworn brother’s breastplate. With little effort, the new Dawnguard recruit withdraws his fiery crimson sword. Blood spills from the captain’s mouth and nose. Still standing, he stares blankly back into Alastor’s green eyes. Falling backwards from the weight of his armor, Godfryd crashes down the full length of the long staircase before resting in broken heap in front of the entryway.

A streaming red trail mark’s the king’s passage as he crawls up the final steps of the walkway. Hearing footsteps behind, the king feels the added weight of metal greaves stamp down on his long robe trailing behind him. Weary from effort, King Hothgar sighs in resignation before turning over on his back to face his attacker. Prince Wendell Glass, the king’s bastard son, stands smirking, his thin lips pressed together. Holding an ornate steel sword, the blade is still wet with the king’s blood.

“Why…?” King Hothgar wheezes, much of his long silver hair matted to his forehead.

Growing ever colder, the king takes long wheezing gasps of air as his lungs fill with blood. Propping himself up on the stone steps, the king coughs and feebly reaches for the railing above him, trying in vain to pull himself up to a standing position, but to no avail.

“Why?” Prince Wendell said, his naturally shrill voice nervous with excitement, “I never would guess that would be the final word spoken by Terramyr’s most powerful ruler. The question you should be asking is why not? I would think the answer is obvious. I stand to gain everything today.”

Reaching downward, Wendell grasps the king’s crown. Briefly, the bastard prince stares at his distorted reflection on the jewel encrusted face of the crown. Shifting his gaze, the bastard prince inspects the many cracks, fissures, and chipped surfaces of the straight-blade long sword.

“A bastard sword for a bastard son.” Wendell said, snickering with disdain, “Father, you always did have a sense of humor. Remember, when you gifted me with this sword on my eleventh name day? A year after you called on me to leave my mud hole village and live at your lavish castle? Of course, you don’t. It took you ten years to know that I even existed. I always hated you for that. Still hate you for that. I was never good enough to be your rightful heir. Never good enough to legitimize my birthright to take your royal name. So, you gifted me with this chipped and cracked long sword as a symbol of my weakness. A constant reminder of the name I was born with. Glass. It must be ironic that the sword you gifted me seven winters ago is the sword that ends your pathetic life today.”

Between wheezing breathes, King Hothgar mutters faintly and raises his weary hands toward his son. Sheathing his sword, Wendell leans closer to better hear his father. Grasping his father by his shaking hands he drags the old king to his feet. Tracing a trembling finger down his son’s narrow features, the king stares directly into his Wendell’s cold blue eyes mustering the last of his strength to speak.

“The finest smith in the realm was called upon to craft a sword for my firstborn son, a young man who lived most of his life with a peculiar name but had demonstrated unbreakable resolve despite already facing great adversity,” King Hothgar said, his blue eyes glassing over with a faraway look, “I knew the world would forever discredit you for being a bastard, wouldn’t forget who you are, but my intention was not to ignore your origins, but to make who you are your greatest strength.”

The king’s long fingers smear red lines down Wendell’s cheeks before quickly wrapping around his neck. King Hothgar fixes Wendell with a wrathful gaze as lines of anger crease across his wrinkled face. Tears of rage spill from the king’s blue eyes into his beard. Wendell smiles smugly back into his father’s face waving away his concerned retinue as both men stand face to face.

I see now what you truly are,” King Hothgar said, pulling Wendell closer, a re-kindled fury empowers the king, his grip suddenly tightening with renewed strength. The king’s other hand joins around Wendell’s throat, “Forsaken by God. And now forsaken by your father. I cast you out. From this life into the next. You are no son of mine.”

Panicking, Wendell frantically begins to struggle, grasping at his father’s iron grip with his free hand. He is unable to lessen the king’s constricting hold around his throat. Wendell drops the crown clattering down the steps and attempts to unsheathe his sword, but the king is too close for him to fully draw the blade. Abandoning his sword, both Wendell’s hands grab at the king’s fingers desperately seeking reprieve as Wendell’s face begins to turn blue.

Blades stab into the king from all directions repeatedly. King Hothgar bleeds from a dozen fresh wounds but he does not relent. The king does not yield even after an axe hacks off both his hands at the wrist. Blue tongue hanging out, face purple, Wendell desperately shoves into the king sending him plummeting over the walkways railing. King Hothgar, first of his name, falls hundreds of feet, his golden robes billowing behind him before smashing into the garden courtyard below leaving only a bright red stain.

Wendell gasps for air after he finally pulls the king’s hands from his throat before tossing both over the walkway. Breathing hard, the bastard prince descends the staircase before retrieving his sword. The walkways entryway bursts open, a dozen of the king’s imperial guard, clad in steel armor, rapidly flood in through the walkway’s entrance.

These traitors have killed my father, the king in cold blood.” Wendell shrieks.

Without warning, Wendell’s sword suddenly slices through the air beheading the closest member of his own retinue. The remaining co-conspirators look on in shock and disbelief. Wendell raises his bloody sword high into the air.

“Kill them all in the name of the king.” Prince Wendell said, as the steady march of steel greaves drowns out the three noblemen’s words of protests.

The imperial guards, unsheathe their swords, and move upwards with weapons drawn and an intent to kill. Cries of panic and terror greet the three doomed traitors as they ready their weapons fleeing upward, into the council chamber to make their last stand. Wendell reaches out and grabs Alastor Crane by his golden cloak, pulling him close enough to whisper.

“In order for me to ascend the throne, the king’s true born heir and the queen regent must die today.” Prince Wendell said, his voice gravelly, frantic, and rasping, “See to it that the queen and her child succumb to their grief and join their dearly departed king at the bottom of the Black Keep. I have sent two of my most loyal men to begin the job. Make sure that my men finish this task, and I will honor our original agreement.”

“The queen and her child were never part of this. I have already broken my oath many times over today. I have killed a sworn brother. I will have no more innocent blood on my hands. I promised you the King’s life, the tyrant that he was, and nothing more. I have seen with my own eyes how you reward your most loyal men. What makes you think that I trust you to carry out your end of the bargain?” Alastor said, a shocked expression spreading over his young features.

“Sometimes the strong must stand on the shoulders of the weak in order to attain the greatest heights. Fate chose the two of us to strike down that vile tyrant and the gods will not smile on us if we leave this task unfinished. Trust in me and I will see to it the house Crane rises higher than ever thought possible.” Wendell said, patting Alastor on the shoulder guard and nudging him gently back towards the entryway of the corridor, “Destiny awaits, all we have to do is reach out and claim it.”

The church’s bell tower begins to ring hauntingly in the distance. Word of the king’s death has reached the common folk living in Castletown. Ignoring noble passerby’s, Alastor Crane walks briskly through the twisting, crowded corridors of the Black Keep, towards the queen’s bedchamber. Navigating the labyrinthian hallways with ease, few in the Black Keep knew that Alastor had stood vigil over the queen’s chambers many nights before.

Approaching the queen’s chambers, Alastor hears the screams of a crying babe, the shattering of glass, and clatter of upturned furniture. Opening the door with a gentle push, Alastor hesitates for a moment before gripping his spell-forged sword and entering the interior of the room. Surveying the room, he closes the door behind him.

Two grizzled men, clad in black, force Queen Roenna Greenvale, face down, onto an ornately carved wooden table. The queen’s long curly blonde hair falls in front of her youthful face as she cries out in terror and anger. The toddler, standing in a crib several feet away, shrieks helplessly in fear as the two men assail his mother. Cowering in the corner of the room, a middle-aged maid with dark brown hair clasps her hands over her mouth in horror. Raising a golden flagon over his head, the taller man pours a torrent of red wine down his throat as two streams run down both sides of his black beard.

“Have some manners, Rodrik,” The smaller of the two men said, pressing the queen’s face roughly into the wooden frame of the table, “We are in the presence of royalty here. How rude. You never thought with that big flat skull of yours that our lady queen might be thirsty herself.”

“Apologies, Bart.” Rodrick belches, pouring the remainder of the flagon over the queens’ face drenching her blonde curly hair in red wine, “Now look at that. She’s gone and spilt all that expensive noble wine onto this fancy table. What a mess. I guess she will have to lick it all up.”

Both men erupt into a laughter that almost drowns out the wailing of the child. Alastor’s sword begins to blaze with crimson fire as his grip tightens on the hilt. Falling silent as the red glow reaches them, both men turn to face Alastor. Their hands instinctively fall to the weapons at their sides. Roenna turns her head, her pale face glowing from the fiery light, and begins to scream hysterically.

Help me Alastor, please.” Roenna pleads frantically, as tears run down her icy blue eyes and intermingle with red wine on the table, “Please help me.”

Both men’s shoulders relax as they recognize Alastor. Bart begins to chuckle nervously. Wasting no time, Rodrick reaches down grasping the horrified queen’s face squeezing with his black leather gloves.

“I can’t believe it. Is there no one willing to rescue this pretty little queen. Chivalry must be dead.” Rodrick said, raising the queen up off the table to stare at her pretty face, “Darling, this isn’t a fairy tale, there is no prince charming, and the only way this story ends is with you down on your knees or at the very bottom of this keep with that child of yours. Now I can’t say you will make it out of this alive. I can promise you and that boy of yours a few more precious minutes on this mortal plane if you give us what we want.”

Rodrick shoves the queen’s face against his and forcibly kisses Roenna as a muffled plea for help fails to escape her lips. Averting his gaze, Alastor paces over to the toddler. Never having laid eyes on the child, Caelum, he looks to be at least two winters old. Alastor immediately notices the boy has light blonde hair like his mother and his father’s green eyes.

A muffled, panic-stricken scream issues from across the room. Rodrick frantically tries to pull himself away from Roenna as blood spills from his mouth into his black beard. Immediately, Bart drives himself between the queen and Rodrick as they struggle against one another. Reaching down to Barts belt, Roenna unsheathes his dagger and swiftly re-sheathes the blade into the side of Bart’s neck. The tip of the blade erupts out the other side of the shorter man’s throat. Roenna withdraws the dagger again and thrusts the blade downward into Rodrick’s chest. Slumping to the ground, red bubbles foam out the edges of his mouth, Bart falls clutching at the gaping holes in his throat.

Ripping Roenna away from him, Rodrick shoves the queen harshly to the wooden floor. The queen takes a large portion of his lower lip with her, exposing Rodrick’s teeth and gums. Crawling backwards across the floor, Roenna spits as Rodrick withdraws the dagger from his chest, pressing his other hand over the wound. Groaning in agony, Rodrick takes several threatening steps toward Roenna raising the dagger overhead. With tremendous speed, Alastor lunges across the room thrusting the point of his fiery red sword through Rodrick’s heart, taking the big man off his feet, and pinning him mid-stride against a bookcase.

Rodrick, his head slumping forward, exhales as his life leaves him. Alastor withdraws his sword, sheathing the glowing blade back into his scabbard. Wiping blood from her face, Queen Roenna dashes across the room taking her wailing child into her arms. The child raises its arms towards its mother, comforted by her embrace, rooting across her chest to suckle at her breasts. Walking briskly, Roenna rushes over to the maid and whispers into the trembling woman’s ears. The woman dutifully nods her head and leaves the room.

“What did you say to the maid?” Alastor asks, searching for the right words to say.

“Does it matter?” Roenna asks, refusing to lay eyes on Alastor, “Saving me does not seem to be a priority. You’re lucky I don’t tell my husband of this betrayal.”

“The king is dead. Murdered by Prince Wendell, the King’s bastard son” Rodrick said, “It matters what you told the maid. If she is still loyal to you then your enemies will torture her into giving any information they want and if she is not, they will be converging on us in minutes.”

The queen’s head lowers as the news of her husband’s death settles in. A pained expression of grief and sorrow falls over her face as her eyes begin to water and her lower lip begins to quiver. Wiping her eyes with her forearm, Queen Roenna sniffles and shakes the wet blonde curls away from her face.

“No time for tears. The king was a good man. My husband was good man. I must make haste. Leave us now.” Queen Roenna said, kissing Caelum on the forehead. “

“I will not leave you. There is danger around every corner. Now more than ever you need someone that you can trust.” Alastor said, drawing his spell-forged sword, presenting the blade before the queen laying it flat on both hands, and kneeling, “While I still hold breath, I swear that I will protect you and the child from all that seek to harm you. The child…you never told me….”

“Your words mean less than nothing to me and Prince Caelum is none of your concern, oath breaker.” Queen Roenna said, her blue eyes like daggers staring coldly through Alastor, “Suggesting otherwise is an act of treason and I do not trust a man who betrays the honor of his king.”

“Your Grace do not think yourself better than me. Lest you forget, the nights your betrayal began two years ago.” Alastor said.

“Those nights were a mistake. One that I will not speak of. Nor will I ever repeat.” Roenna said, shifting her gaze away and staring at the floor.

Suddenly, from outside the queen’s door, further down the long corridor, comes a loud slamming sound, quickly followed by the sound of many heavy footsteps. Roenna silently gestures for Alastor to follow her. Turning a broken candle on the wall, a bookcase slides over revealing a hidden staircase leading downward, into the dark depths, below the castle. Clutching her babe in one arm, the queen grabs a lit candle with the other and quickly enters the passageway, followed closely behind by Alastor. At the last possible moment, Alastor straightens the broken candle, causing the bookcase to slide back into place right before the queen’s chamber door splinters inward into the now empty room.

A smothering darkness surrounds the knight, the queen, and the babe as they make their way down a narrow corridor leading downward through the castle. The lone flickering candle lights their way down the perilous staircase into the unknown. An hour into their journey, a sudden draft snuffs out the candle swallowing the three in complete darkness. Drawing his sword, the runes on Alastor’s blade ignite lighting the path before them with a fiery red glow. From time to time, Alastor would pause and listen to the corridor behind them for the sound of following footsteps. Alastor and Roenna walk for what seems like hours before glimpsing a dull light at the end of the corridor.

After hacking through heavy vines obscuring an opening at the end of the corridor, the three fugitives step out into a green meadow, somewhere beyond the outskirts of Castletown. Across the meadow the Weeping Forests begins. Two black horses, hitched to a dark carriage sits waiting in the center of the meadow. A tall young man, garbed in a brown cloak stands next to the carriage. The trio of weary travelers cautiously make their way towards the carriage. As they approach, the carriage door swing’s open and an elderly gentleman steps smiling into the doorway.

“Master Archmage Lucent Kressen, at your service, your grace.” The elderly gentleman said with a wide knowing smile, “Hurry now, I’m afraid there is not much time. We must make it to the western Riverlands if we are to succeed in this dire errand.”

Stepping down from the carriage, Master Kressen helps Queen Roenna and Caelum up into the carriage. Alastor quickly steps up onto the carriage’s wheel and then up onto the driver’s seat where a tall youthful driver, greets him with a warm smile.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. My name is Nayl Rahdeem. I am the Archimages’ apprentice.” Nayl said, snapping the reins in his hands and setting the carriages horses in motion, “I feel like I am in one of the legends of old. I cannot express how honored I am to be riding next to a Dawnguard knight.”

Alastor takes an appraising look at the tall young man. Nayl had dark black hair, olive skin, and peculiar amber eyes with a hue of gold in them. The youth looks to be at least eighteen winters old, and though he spoke common well enough, his accent betrayed a familiar western undertone. The horses speed past the field of tall grass, emerging onto a dirt road, leading directly towards the Weeping Forest.

“How is it that a young man of Nemean dissent, such as yourself, ends up as the master Archmage’s apprentice,” Alastor asks, staring forward as the carriage enters the outer edge of the Weeping Forest.

“My accent betrays my true heritage again,” Nayl said, grinning with pride, “I don’t know why the stars were so perfectly aligned. For some reason Master Kressen took an interest in me, a lowly street urchin and made me his apprentice. All I know is that he is impressed by my eagerness to learn and that he has taught me many wonderous new things.”

“I’ve killed enough of your kind to know what Nemean sound like. I did not think the Imperial City’s Arcanum allow savages to read their secret texts and befoul their sacred ground,” Alastor said, his voice marked with contempt.

“Time changes all things.” Nayl said, his voice low, the smile leaving his face as the carriage approaches the forest, “I know my way to the Riverlands better than anyone and I swear I will get you, the queen, and her child to safety.”

As the carriage nears the forest, a fallen tree can be seen blocking the entrance to the roadway. A dozen imperial guards step out from behind the cover of the trees. Many kneel to one knee, drawing longbows and crossbows.

Nayl pulls on the reins sharply, turning the carriage. The carriage leaves the dirt road, and the horses race forward, with great speed, across the untamed terrain. A hail of crossbow bolts and arrows whistle towards the carriage, as it, crashes through a gap in the foliage. Many of the deadly projectiles find their home in the coach and a few pierce the horse’s hide, as the frightened animals cry out in pained agony. Nayl stays resolute, snapping the reins for greater speed, and continues to press forward with the carriage before an arrow finds its mark in his shoulder. The youth, clutches at his wounded arm, holding the carriage on its course as the coach bounces and lurches over small rocks, plants, and uneven landscape.

Nayl passes the reigns over to Alastor. With a pained grimace, Nayl snaps the arrow in half, withdraws the embedded shaft, and casts it into the forest. Muttering ancient words under his breath, an ethereal green glow envelopes Nayl’s hands as his fingers press against his wound, quickly stemming the blood flow. Losing consciousness, Nayl falls over, leaning with his full weight against Alastor as the knight struggles to keep the wounded horses moving forward. Behind the surrounding trees, the shadowy silhouettes of converging imperial riders begin to close in on the carriage from all directions.

“Get off of me. You will be the death of all of us” Alastor growls, grabbing Nayl by his brown cloak and shoving him off the carriage.

Nayl hits the ground hard, his limp body recoiling off the ground and disappearing into the dense foliage. Hitting a large stone, the carriages’ front wheel detaches, rolling off into the woodlands. The carriage crashes, careening over violently onto its side. As the coach tilts over sideways Alastor is thrown from the carriage, skidding across the rough terrain, and slamming into a tree. One of the horses manages to escape sprinting ahead, as the other is crushed under the weight of the wooden wreckage.

In less than a heartbeat, the coaches door swings open. Roenna pulls herself out clutching her baby in her arms. In no direction, Roenna sprints into the forest holding her silent and unmoving child in her arms. Lost, fearful, and bloodied, Roenna runs past the ancient trees until she enters a clearing. The queen travels across the flat plain before over thirty imperial riders emerge from the forest in all directions.

Falling to her knees, Roenna holds Caelum close to her listening for his breathe and feeling for his pulse. Caelum suddenly begins to cough. Tears glisten in Roenna’s eyes as the queen holds the prince close to her and Caelum begins to cry out, regaining his breath the baby releases a shrieking wail that echoes throughout the forest and surrounding landscape.

Reaching up, into the sky, peaks shrouded by nebulous clouds, stands one of the largest mountains in the land of Terramyr, Dragon Peak Summit. At the top of the mountain, the crumbling ruins of an ancient civilization, long forgotten by the passage of time, still stand. The ruined city abandoned by the first men centuries ago, hosts a wide cavern that travels deep into the mountains hollowed out interior. In the cavern’s darkest depths, far below the living earth, where time is not counted. A nameless thing begins to stir. A nameless thing, long forgotten by scholars, travelers, and historians that has slumbered until now.

A long, low waning cry reverberates down into the darkest, hollow depths of the mountain. A serpentine eye, the color of melted gold, opens slowly. The colossal creature sighs exhaling thermal air hotter than any furnace before rising to its full height and unfurling its vast, leathery, black-scaled wings that stretch out, across to both ends of the chamber. Sharp ebony talons, rake through the spoils of countless conquests causing trinkets to spill down glimmering hills of golden coins, precious gems, and the shattered bones of the fallen.

Extending its long-armored neck, the creature suddenly snorts and sniffs the air before wrinkling its nostrils in disgust. The smell is unmistakable, a familiar and repugnant stench not easily forgotten. A lengthy serpentine tail, ending with three sharp spikes emerges from underneath the golden bed, in a shower of coins, before slamming into the side of the mountain.

The earth begins to shake and tremble. Lips curl back, away from a long snout revealing curved tusks, and several rows of blackened teeth as thick and long as great swords. Far above, another wailing cry faintly emanates from outside the ragged and torn opening above the treasure-filled chamber. The creature’s horned and spiked head snaps upwards listening intently.

“Humans.” The dragon hisses, clenching its fangs together, as twisting gray rivulets of smoke pour from its mouth and nostrils.

With tremendous speed, the creature streaks upwards through the rocky cavern. Rocks are loosened and fall from the interior of the mountain as the dragon flaps its monstrous wings, pushing itself skyward past twisting pathways and the corridors mined by men centuries ago. As it reaches the top of the cavern, the dragons crawls through a narrow space leading out the mouth of the cavern. The winged beast bursts forth out into open air, knocking carved pillars asunder, and leaving a path of devastation in his wake.

Plummeting downward off the mountain’s ridge, the dragon silently glides above the veil of clouds. Listening intently, the creature could hear them now chattering amongst one another like the insects they are. Loudest among them is the incessant wailer, the youngling that disturbed his slumber.

“They’ve walked in the sun far too long,” The dragon’s voice rumbles, “They will know fear. They will flee in terror back to the shadows. They will remember Gorm.”