Kael strode through the gates of Markarth, the weight of exhaustion heavy on his shoulders. The city was just as imposing as ever, its stone walls towering over him, carved from the very mountains themselves. Yet something felt different. The air was tense, the usual bustle of the marketplace subdued. Guards patrolled the walkways above with an urgency that hadn't been there before.
He made his way to the blacksmith's forge, its fires burning bright against the dreary backdrop of the Reach. The blacksmith, a gruff Nord with thick arms and a face weathered from years of hammering steel, barely looked up as Kael approached.
"Back again?" the blacksmith grunted, pausing his work to wipe the sweat from his brow. "What is it this time?"
Kael set the Voidiron ingot on the counter. The metal's dark, eerie sheen drew the blacksmith's attention immediately.
"I need this shaped into an arm bracer and some small beads," Kael said. "Can you work with it?"
The blacksmith picked up the ingot, turning it over in his hands. "Never seen anything like this before," he admitted. "It's ebony, but something else too."
Kael nodded. "It's a mix of iron and ebony. Seventy-five percent ebony, twenty-five percent iron. Can you forge more of it?"
The blacksmith let out a low whistle. "Ebony's not cheap, and I've never mixed metals like this before. If I don't get it right, you'd be looking at a hefty price."
Kael smirked. "Gold isn't a problem."
The blacksmith arched an eyebrow but didn't argue. "I can do it, but it'll take time. At least a few days to get the ratio right and make sure it doesn't crack under stress."
"Do it," Kael said without hesitation. "And make as much as you can."
The blacksmith nodded, already mentally calculating the costs. "Come back tonight for the bracer and beads. The additional metal will be ready in a few days."
Kael gave a brief nod before turning away, his mind already shifting to the next matter at hand.
As he walked through the streets, he approached a nearby guard, noting the man's haggard appearance. His armor bore fresh dents, and a weariness lingered in his eyes.
"You look like you've been through hell," Kael remarked, stopping in front of him.
The guard scoffed, shaking his head. "It's not good. Forsworn have been attacking in the dead of night, trying to breach the walls. Some have even made it inside. We've lost too many soldiers as it is."
Kael's jaw tightened. "How often?"
"Often enough that none of us get any decent sleep," the guard muttered. "It's like they know exactly when our shifts change, exactly where to hit."
Kael frowned. That kind of coordination was unusual for Forsworn. They were typically brutal and relentless, but not strategic. This was different.
"At least we aren't getting those Stormcloak scum attacking our walls," the guard added, spitting to the side. "The Forsworn are likely attacking them before they even get here."
Kael nodded but said nothing. The Forsworn had always been a threat, but this felt more like a siege. The walls of Markarth were strong, but even the strongest walls could crumble under enough pressure.
He looked past the guard, up toward Understone Keep, where Jarl Igmund resided. If the situation was this dire, Kael needed to speak with him soon. But first, he needed to rest.
With one last glance at the tired soldier, Kael made his way toward the inn.
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Deep within a hidden Forsworn stronghold, nestled within the jagged peaks of the Reach, the High Hagraven gathered her most devoted followers. The cavernous hall, lit only by flickering torchlight and the eerie glow of enchanted runes carved into the stone, reeked of blood and burnt flesh. The air was thick with the acrid scent of dark magic, the oppressive energy weighing heavily upon all present.
Around the central altar, dozens of Forsworn warriors stood in silent reverence, their eyes hollow with both fear and fervor. They had seen rituals before, but none on this scale. This was no mere blessing or bestowing of power—this was something far greater, something they had never dared attempt until now. The ritual to create the Avatar of Mehrunes Dagon had begun.
The victims had been gathered—men, women, and children abducted from villages near Morthal and Solitude. Their terrified cries had long since faded, their voices stolen by exhaustion and despair. They knelt in a rough circle around the altar, bound by thick ropes, their bodies trembling as they awaited the inevitable. The bloodletting would soon commence.
At the center of it all, bound in thick Dwemer chains reinforced with Daedric runes, stood an Orc warrior. Once a proud and unbreakable fighter, he now knelt in defeat, his tusked face twisted in defiance even as the chains sapped his strength. His muscles bulged against the restraints, veins pulsing with suppressed rage, but he could not move. The magic woven into the bindings ensured that.
The High Hagraven stepped forward, her twisted, feathered form towering over the gathered Forsworn. Her eyes gleamed with dark anticipation, her beak-like mouth curling into a sinister grin. In her clawed hands, she held an obsidian dagger, its edge glowing with infernal power. She raised it high above her head and let out a guttural incantation, her voice a chilling echo against the stone walls.
The gathered Forsworn took up the chant, their voices merging into a haunting dirge. The cavern trembled, as if the earth itself recoiled from the atrocity that was about to unfold.
The High Hagraven moved from victim to victim, slicing their throats with practiced efficiency. Each sacrifice fed the ritual, their blood pooling into the carved grooves of the altar, forming intricate symbols that pulsed with an unnatural crimson light. The screams of the dying were swallowed by the growing hum of dark magic. With each life taken, the air thickened, charged with an otherworldly energy that crackled like lightning.
Then the power began to spread.
The surrounding Forsworn warriors shuddered as the crimson energy turned its gaze toward them. Some tried to resist, their eyes widening in horror, but the magic was absolute. The ritual did not only require sacrifices—it demanded devotion. One by one, warriors began to convulse as their bodies were wreathed in flickering red flames. Their flesh blackened, their eyes rolled back, and in a flash of burning light, they were absorbed into the ritual itself. Their life force was stolen, their very essence feeding the growing storm of Dagon's power.
The High Hagraven cackled with glee. "Be honored, my children! You now serve our great Prince in the highest form!"
The cavern shuddered violently as the ritual reached its climax.
The High Hagraven turned to the Orc warrior, his chest heaving as he fought against the inevitable. She placed a clawed hand on his forehead, pressing down as she whispered the final incantation. The blood from the sacrifices surged toward him, wrapping around his body like living tendrils of flame.
The Orc roared in agony as the power of Mehrunes Dagon took hold. His body twisted and contorted, his bones cracking as they expanded, muscles swelling to unnatural proportions. His skin darkened, taking on the hue of molten rock, glowing faintly in the dim light. Flames licked at his flesh but did not consume him; instead, they became a part of him, flickering across his arms and chest like living veins of fire.
A final, ear-splitting scream erupted from his throat, a cry of both pain and rebirth. The last remnants of the Orc warrior faded, replaced by something no longer bound by mortal limitations.
The Avatar of Dagon had been born.
Standing over eight feet tall, the creature's eyes burned like embers in the dark. Its form was a grotesque fusion of mortal and Daedric essence, its hands now massive claws wreathed in hellfire. The air around it shimmered with heat, distorting the very fabric of reality. The Forsworn warriors who had survived the ritual fell to their knees, their awe palpable.
The High Hagraven raised her arms in triumph. "Behold, my children! The will of Mehrunes Dagon made flesh! With his power, we shall raze Markarth to the ground! The Nords will burn, and the Reach shall be ours once more!"
A deafening roar erupted from the Avatar's throat, shaking the very walls of the stronghold. The gathered Forsworn erupted into frenzied cheers, their voices carrying through the tunnels and out into the cold night air.
The final assault on Markarth was at hand. And with the Avatar of Dagon leading them, the Forsworn believed victory was assured.