The Hall of Countenance was a welcome respite from the previous trek and battles. To date, S’maash had not yet laid eyes upon a delivery from Skyhaven Temple. While the elf sat on his bed, Zolara entered the room.
“Yes?”
“I’ve been speaking with Brelyna, who in turn has been speaking with Tolfdir about this plan you’re hatching,” Zolara stated.
“You want in, don’t you?” S’maash smiled.
“Heh, I suppose I do. Traveling into Oblivion…again, that is. Sounds rather dangerous. Whose plane do you plan on entering for the greater sigil stone?”
S’maash reclined on his bed, hands folded behind his head. He looked up at the ceiling. Zolara took a seat in the chair adjacent the bed.
“So far as I know, it will have to be Mehrunes Dagon’s plane of Oblivion.”
“Are you worried?”
Turning onto his side, he looked at the argonian, who was relaxing his shoulder over the back of the chair. “No…I do wish there was a better way, but I am going to do this.”
Zolara nodded. “You should accept our assistance.”
“Our?”
“Of course. Brelyna also wants to join us, and how about your brother, the warrior?”
S’maash smiled. “Truly, it would be nice to have you three along. Surely, no harm could come to us then,” S’maash replied, facetiously.
He knew a tight knit group fared better. Since that book isn’t here yet, I may have to write S’maath….
“Are you going to say something or just stare at my scales?”
“You’re scales could use a shining,” he joked. “Perhaps, I will send for my brother. I need to wait for this damnable book to arrive as it is.”
“Oh…right…you mean…this book!” Zolara howled in an overly dramatic fashion before producing a tome.
S’maash bolted upright in bed and snatched the tome. It was a heavy book and appeared to be bound in bony plates. He rolled it over a few times, feeling the covers. Then, he cracked it open. The pages were skin. He looked at Zolara.
“I know…looks fashioned from man or mer,” the argonian commented.
S’maash flipped gingerly through the pages. The book was written in a sharp-looking tongue. Pictures and diagrams of demon, man, and mer were rampant throughout the text. Strange diagrams reminded S’maash of the pages of Shalidor’s Insights.
“I don’t understand any of this. I had expected a recounting of the tale of the Oblivion crisis,” he said.
For a second, they looked at each other. “Urag,” they both said.
With a fire beneath their butts, they both jogged to the Arcaeneum. Urag was standing before an open bookcase, quietly dusting away, when S’maash and Zolara entered. The orc heard their commotion and groaned.
“Urag, we have a tome here, but we can’t decipher the language,” S’maash said.
Urag sighed. “Maybe it’s because you shouldn’t be reading it.”
“Just take a look, old man,” Zolara said.
Urag shot him a look of contempt. He then motioned for everyone to sit down at the counter. He took the tome, spun it to face right side up, and cracked it open. His eyes went wide.
“Where did you get this?” he barked.
“The Blades,” S’maash replied.
“Hmph. It’s written in Daedradi,” Urag commented.
“Demon tongue, I presume,” S’maash said to Zolara.
“Aye. What are you trying to do? Open a plane to Oblivion?” Urag was smugly sarcastic.
“Well…yes,” S’maash answered.
“It’s never enough with you students, is it?! You can’t just go traipsing through Oblivion!”
“Why not? We did it before…with Moonshadow,” Zolara added.
S’maash nodded accordingly. Urag shook his head in dismay. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“What did you want me to do?” the orc heaved.
“Can you translate the part in the tome that describes how to enter Oblivion? I’m in need of a greater sigil stone.”
“It’s right after the part that says you die when you enter,” Urag said as he tapped his finger on a portion of daedric text.
S’maash smiled.
“Don’t tell me you worry about us,” Zolara remarked.
“If I don’t, you two imbeciles will get yourselves killed,” Urag fired back.
“Please,” S’maash asked.
“Fine. This is what it says,” Urag started. The text described a methodology for creating a portal to Mehrunes Dagon’s plane of Oblivion, Deadlands. “Once every 378 years, a magickal alignment takes place. During this alignment, we, the daedra scorned, shall undertake a monumental task; we shall covet strife from the other planes.
“Creating a crack from which to skulk through requires portions of the plane we desire. Furthermore, we must act quickly to establish a permanent connection between planes. Relics required for this undertaking are provided by our lord and master, Mehrunes Dagon, the greatest of the daedric princes.
“The sharpest of steel corrupted by our master shall cut an opening between planes. Blood of the ruler shall hone in upon the realm we desire. Starlight shrouded in darkness shall be our anchor,” Urag finished reading.
“What does that mean? What do we need, and when can we do this?” S’maash was perplexed.
Zolara snored. Both of them looked over. The elf shook his friend’s elbow.
“I don’t know. It means you shouldn’t trifle with forces you don’t understand,” Urag barked.
“Do you think J’zargo would know,” Zolara asked.
“We can ask,” S’maash whispered, and motioned for the tome.
“Oh no. This is staying right here with me. I can’t allow a priceless artifact to be shoved into the hands of just anyone,” Urag replied, closing the book.
S’maash winced.
“That’s fine. Let’s find the khajiit,” Zolara said.
They ran about the College of Winterhold before locating J’zargo in The Hall of the Elements. He was wearing heavy, purple robes, and only his snout protruded from the hood.
“Master?” Zolara called.
“This one is listening,” J’zargo answered.
“J’zargo, we need you to tell us about entering a plane of Oblivion,” S’maash started.
After a quick recap of the information, J’zargo paced in thought. “Perhaps, there is more to the art than J’zargo has uncovered…?” he spoke to himself.
“Master,” Zolara asked.
“Yes. There is only one J’zargo can send you to. Only this one may know the answers to your riddle,” the khajiit replied.
“What are you saying?” Zolara begged.
“He calls himself Falion. He lives in Morthal. It has been said that Falion has traveled through the planes of Oblivion, has spoken to the dwemer, and discovered the secrets of unlife. Even the great J’zargo does not desire to bother with his madness.”
“Spoken to the dwemer,” S’maash asked in disbelief.
“It is only hearsay. Go, go to Morthal. Find the one you seek,” J’zargo said.
S’maash and Zolara shrugged. “I suppose that’s it,” Zolara commented.
“I’ll go to Morthal. First, I will give you a letter for my brother. Then, you round up Brelyna. By the time I return, we should all be set to go,” S’maash instructed.
The remainder of the day passed on slowly as S’maash completed his errands and handed the note to Zolara for delivery to Morrowind. He then left by cart. Due to pleasurable weather, the ride was rather quick, and he arrived late at night.
Morthal was a small town on the water. Several bridges connected the wooden homes. It was a rather quaint town with an air of mystery. A guard holding a torch looked S’maash over. He casted a candle light spell to better see.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, watch the magic,” the guard said.
“Do you know where I can find Falion?”
“His house is on the other side of the lake. Don’t take any bridge
s and you’ll get there with out a fuss.”
S’maash followed the instructions. He passed some one and two story houses before reaching a small house amidst the others on the far side of the lake. The elf peeked through a window and saw a bit of light. He knocked.
“What is it? Can’t you people leave me alone?” a haggard tone came back.
“Are you Falion?” S’maash yelled through the door.
“No. Now, go away,” the voice replied.
“Sir…I need to speak to you about Oblivion. I come from the College.”
Some unintelligible grumbling bled through the door before it opened. The man on the other side was an aging redguard. He looked S’maash over.
“You always interrupt people at all hours of the night?” Falion grunted.
“No, Sir, you have my apologies but, I’ve been given a task by Hermaeus Mora. I thought you might be willing to help me.”
Falion was hesitant. After a moment of scrutiny, he decided to invite the dunmer into his home.
“Fine, tell me about this task!”
S’maash gave the story once more. Falion was not surprised or impressed, but perhaps a bit curious.
“Finally, something worth breaking away from my research…listen, you don’t have to wait 378 years. The daedra speak in metaphors. Furthermore, the relics required are simple; daedric weapons of any kind will do, and the darkened star references is a special, runic symbol used for conjuration of the highest difficulty. The only real problem is obtaining the blood of the daedric lord you wish to confront,” Falion clarified.
“I do not wish to confront anyone.”
Falion sat down on the edge of his bed. The house was little more than one room with some old desks, chairs, and a fireplace. At one corner was an alchemy table, next to it, an arcane enchanter. Several soul gems and potions were strewn about. The old man shook his head slowly.
“Surely, you jest,” he finally said.
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t just strut into Oblivion unnoticed. The plane is a manifestation of the lord in rule. Mehrunes Dagon will feel your presence," he answered. “Dagon is Deadlands!”
“I see…if it can’t be avoided, so be it,” S’maash replied.
Falion let out a stilted laugh. “I won’t help you get yourself killed.”
“Sir, please,” S’maash pleaded. “You have to understand what I’m trying to accomplish, how far I’ve come, how close I am….”
The conjuror adjusted his purple robes. They held a subtle and undefined glow about them.
“Mmm, well…you’re not going alone, are you?”
“No, I should have three of the most competent companions with me.”
Falion eyed S’maash, wincing. He felt the power of his enchantments, too. In a way, he felt a kinship; both were born to contest limitations.
“You created your equipment?”
“Yes, and the equipment of my friends. We shall not be so easily overcome,” S’maash answered, proudly.
“You’re a damn fool!” Falion barked and laughed again. “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with. The denizens of Oblivion are bad enough, and you’re wanting to traipse through the most dangerous plane of Oblivion. Your magick won’t keep you safe…only your wits will.” S’maash nodded. “I’ll help you on one condition,” Falion stated, gravely.
“What is it?”
After a long pause, the redguard replied, “You must bring me a bound dremora.”
“You want me to subdue a demon and bring it back with me?” S’maash was nonplussed.
“If you don’t agree, I won’t help you,” Falion breathed and crossed his arms.
S’maash gave a subtle shrug. “Then, I agree. How will I do this?”
“Take this scroll. Once you’re ready to return, you’ll cast this spell of daedric chains. The dremora will have no choice but to follow you back from Oblivion,” Falion pasaued again before adding, “One, last word; greater sigil stones are housed in a creation called a war machine, a detestable construct created for the sole purpose of destroying any plane of reality. Inevitably, a portion of the war machine will come back through the portal with you. Luckily, I have just the place in mind…we won’t be doing it here of course.
“Once you’re all set, meet me at Dartwing Cave. Now, leave me to my preparations.”
S’maash nodded. He exited Morthal and made his way back to Winterhold.