A silhouette figure watched the Norse God of Tricks verbally harass the room. Other voices spoke up, but this figure didn't. Father--the nickname assigned to the paternal figure--found this all amusing. So-called villains complaining about errors in their interdimensional portals. For christ's sake, this was theoretical physics and magic at play! Of course it didn't go the way it was planned! Complain about errors in simple plans, where errors shouldn't happen, and burn the offender for being so stupid. Loki mentioned an old enemy coming back, laying down a picture as proof. Father leaned in, but he was far back in the room and couldn't get a good look at the man. Now this was getting interesting...A god with enemies he can't kill? Father wondered how powerful this man was. The Sorcerer shouted for silence and Father leaned back again, taking a drag on his pipe. The smoke was almost gone. He would need more tobacco. [i]Hmm...does this place have tobacco?[/i] Dang, he should have checked before he agreed to this. Then again, he was promised priceless technology, willing soldiers, and rule over a new land, full of all sorts of children to torture... ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Mehra Sarethi fought to catch her breath as the last of the Heart Chamber collapsed into the lava pool of Red Mountain below. She had just escaped death by cave in after murdering the Devil himself, Dagoth Ur. The rest of the Citadel seemed safe, but there was no way of knowing if the cave in would continue. She just paused for a breath, looking down at her feet, and then looked up again. A ghostly woman in an heavenly blue dress was smiling at her. She carried an air of unimaginable beauty and grace without having to move at all. Mehra somehow knew this woman was real even though she could see straight through her and at the wall. Mehra had met this woman once before, and though it seemed perfectly normal for one to hallucinate after a traumatic mage battle--as it turns out, Dagoth Ur was an extremely skilled mage--she was real. This was Azura, the Goddess of Dawn and Dusk, of unimaginable mystery and beauty, of secrets and whispers in the tides of Fate, Mother of the Rose, and Ruler of Moonshadow. The sight of her was calming. Azura was one of the few Daedric Princes that cared for the well-being of Her subjects. "Thank you, Saint Nerevar. I wish you eternal peace. But, I will not grant it now. You are needed elsewhere. A storm is rising, and it effects all Planes. You shall protect Ours." The goddess spoke with a thousand voices and a thousand tongues, but Mehra understood her words perfectly. However, the meaning escaped her. A storm that effects all Planes? Did that mean just Oblivion was in danger too? Couldn't the all-powerful Daedra and the remaining Aedra fight it? None of her questions were answered. Azura melted into the shadows as a whirlwind flung Mehra into the air. The tiny mage dropped the only three heavy artifacts on her, Sunder, Keening, and Wraithguard. Those three precious artifacts fell to where Azura's feet stood just a moment before, and the Nerevarine disappeared from Mundus... ---------------------------------------------------------------- She awoke to the smell of a battlefield. Smoke, steel, blood, and ash. Mehra was very familiar was that smell. This was the smell of death; the stink of a recent battle, before the vultures come and eat it all up, leaving only armor and weapons for the Mages Guild to find eras later. But, there was something surprising to Mehra; a battle was currently happening. She opened her eyes. Her right hand was bare. So Wraithguard really was missing. Great. Now anyone can find those tools and some tiny remaining piece of the Heart and start the cycle all over again...No, she destroyed the Heart. The tools are just tools now, with nothing to manipulate. Good. Now she could go back to being herself; being Mehra, instead of Saint Nerevar. She closed her eyes again. Someone cried out. Blinding light flashed, even through her eyelids, and she squinted and covered her face with her hands. That same person screamed again. Screw laying around, she had to do something or die! That had to be a light spell used offensively--something Mehra knew Illusion mages loved to do. Certainly a Sound spell was coming next, and she would be deaf for the rest of this battle. The Dunmer scrambled to her feet and held out her hands in the standard spelling position. "Oh Nine Divines, what [i]is[i/] this fetcher!?" Mehra screamed. Standing fiveteen feet or so was a glowing, bulgy-eyed, antennae, scaly...thing. It looked humanoid, but nothing else was recognizable. An archer--Bosmer, probably, Mehra didn't get too good of a look at him--was on the ground nearby. He had to be the recipient of the spell, and this...creature, as the caster. [i]Don't get caught up in appearances. Just roast it. It looks like a Scrib, so it must cook like one too. Time for some fireballs...[/i] Mehra held her hands out in front of her again, moved them in a circle and spoke the words for a ranged fire spell. Flames formed on her bare hands, licking at them but not causing pain. Finally, she pushed her hands out and the fire shot towards the alien creature...