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This is for a comic my friend and I are making. It is to be set in Cyrodiil immediately before the Oblivion Crisis.


This world we call Nirn is, and always has been, governed by one great force. It follows us in our birth, our life, and our death. Although we cannot see it, we can certainly feel it. I'm speaking of birthsigns. You know the ones I speak of. The Apprentice. Atronach. Lady. Lord. Lover. Mage. Ritual. Serpent. Shadow. Steed. Thief. Tower. Warrior. From these constellations we are able to see our power, and by extension, our destinies.  

      But this is not always the case. Some brave few have made their own destinies. Warriors that have felled great kings. Mages that have cured potent diseases. Rogues that have stolen that considered sacred and impassable. These are the people we speak of in legend, that we strive to become. They turn to stories that we pass to our young, and they in turn pass to theirs. They become part of our culture.        

This tale is not of them. It is not about some rambunctious young Imperial set on killing an evil Jarl, nor is it anything related. You've read the books about our many races and ways, have you not? Concerning Altmer, Concerning Orsimer, Concerning Khajit... But there is one you have not heard. This is a story one would only hear from a bard one sultry night in a tavern. The people in it, you have not heard of before, nor will you hear of again, unless you seek them out. Sit down, have a drink. This story shall take some time to tell. It is of a small few who found their own destinies without any fame or fortune. Concerning Travelers...  

Chapter 1: Traveling         

The two travelers were walking along the path to Cheydinhal, fresh off an excursion to the Imperial City. It was there that they had come across a few posters alerting them to job openings at the local taverns. They figured that any money was good money, and set off to find themselves an occupation. Within the next hour, they had already hit the road with all the provisions they needed, namely nothing but their weapons.        The first traveler was a Breton. He would be average looking, even a little pudgy, if it were not for his tattered mages robes that showed years of wear. His face was much the same, slightly gaunt and somewhat concealed by an ever-growing bushel of very dark brown hair. This was Maximiliem de Ogspierre, standing in the shadow of his friend to cool himself on that particular sunny day.     

This friend, the second traveler, was a behemoth of a Nord, standing at seven feet, with considerable bulk. His clothing was not much better off, though it looked better fitting. A leather tunic, greaves, gloves, and a headband. His face was displaying a large grin despite the heat, and it made the scar overlapping his shut left eye more visible. He was Wolfenmaus.       

They had been traveling for about three hours before any conversation had actually occurred. This was common to them, as they had known each other long enough that most conversations had already been spoken. But, still, they usually found one or two topics to discuss and pass the time. They had come to the subject of mages.       

“Look, look. All I'm saying is that mages aren't the best at handling themselves on their own. They usually need some kind of bodyguard. A warrior, or something” Wolfen said, jubilant. He was, himself, a warrior, and had much experience in the matters of protection.       

“No, you've got it all wrong, Wolfen. Mages can handle themselves just fine! The only time they need help is when they're not diligent.” Maximiliem retorted, beginning to show signs of anger. He was a mage, actually. Schooled in illusion, in fact.       

“Or, you know, when they're out of magicka, fighting more than two enemies, fighting a magically inclined foe... Or if they're an Atronach, like somebody I know.”       

“Shut up! And what if you find an, I dunno, something with dragonskin? What good will your strength be?”       

They bickered for a good while, but ended up breaking into a fit of laughter and taking a break near a riverbed. A passerby could see their camaraderie, if they didn't notice the size difference, first. Wolfen tried his hand at fishing for a bit, forgoing the rod and simply diving into the water. Maximiliem thought it would be a good time to count their current gold.       

Three hundred and forty-nine septims. Barely enough for a proper steed, and they had been working for a month. It seemed that work just hadn't needed to have been done. There hadn't been any news of an assassination in months, and the various towns were becoming more self-sufficient. They all had their own niche filled, and the unemployed like him and Wolfen weren't needed as much as they used to be.       

Wolfenmaus resurfaced, drying himself off in the sun and issuing a small prayer to Stendarr, god of mercy. He used to do that all the time, Maximiliem thought to himself. He'd pray for the safety and security of the two of them. He'd do it before going on the road, going to bed, even cooking. Maximiliem was his only friend, and it was made obvious by that pious behavior.       

Wolfen grinned at him. “You look like you could use some assistance there, mage! Counting your coins?”        

Maximiliem rolled his eyes. “For the last time, mages don't always need help!” He was about ready to start again, but it was cut short by the shrill screech of a woman.       

“Help! I'm out of magicka! Anybody?” Wolfenmaus bore a rock-splitting smirk and ran off before Maximiliem could tell him to keep his mouth shut.