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argonian PVP fanfic
randomguy
✭✭✭
if you can hear me then you can hear all of us. i can hear you too. the wind blows through the trees just as it leaves your breath. we are all one, but what am i telling us for?
i am lovegames. i had lived a long life fighting for the liberation of the argonian people from under the tyranny of demons mer and men. i served one god, the lord of unmaking. Sithis, the Dreadfather, these are names they are known by. for me, it is simply undoing. chaos unraveling the gravity of space time. i was their holy instrument for a time, emancipating souls from their corporeal anchors. but this story is not just about me, it is about all of us.
the story i tell is about yote, my faithful companion. we were bound under the shadows by stars. our backs together, the world was before us. i would never know a bond so strong than with my egg brother. we fought from the heart of the Black Marsh to the streets of the Imperial City. no wall too high for us to climb, no temple to base for us to sanctify, no mettle steeled enough to break our weapons.
we were monsters, friend and foe alike would shirk away from our presence. our allies would mock me and my devious methods, and yote would defend my honor with tongue and blade. and i would uphold his in the battlefield. an enemy would sooner meet their maker than lay eyes on my beloved yote.
i was always too eager, too hungry. i had the scent of my rival SRIBES, my most detested opponent. i chased him through a thicket of trees into a small meadow. he smiled at me and let a slight chuckle, “go on then.” i rushed at SRIBES and we traded blows as our steel sung in the sunlight. we know he was holding back. i rush to strike a mortal blow but he had already prepared for me. i felt the poison seep between my ribs as a blade sinks in. SRIBES kicked me in my chest and i go flying onto my back. he shot another venom arrow into my abdomen before escaping.
i would die in yote’s arms, coughing on blood. as would SRIBES. yote’s swift vengeance knew no rage nor sorrow. we would always be together. and i would be reborn time and time again. as would he. so this story is told by us, by you, by yote, and the yarn spun yet unraveled.
chapter 1: borne again
to be born again is something we are all accustomed to, but especially us; the children of the hist. our souls effortlessly transfer between states of living and death, conscious and unconscious, being and unbeing. simultaneously holding the hilt of one blade in your hand and the edge of another in your back. between a rock and a hard place, no where to go but up.
—
like many of my stories it is a tale of the our twin souls, yote and lovegames, two edges of the same blade. A sword and a shield, a dagger and a blackjack, a bow and arrow, such are we. tody we were born as covenant soldiers, as we had been for some time. we had fought under the banners of foreign countries, paid as mercenaries or otherwise. we had served together, the last two soldier of our last batallion.
Grand Warlord Dortene looks down at us, two wretched and truthfully pathetic looking argonians. our feeble armor caked in mud and blood. “Well it figures that the only people back from a suicide mission are two coward argonians.” yote and I remained tight-lipped. we were used to this treatment, to be cast aside like offal and punished for succeeding in our mission. in our wake were scores of dead ebhonheart, an enemy town in flames and a keep in ruins. the true effort was to be rid of us, yet we remain. our service complete, but our work remains.
yote requested a transfer to a new battalion, someone we had fought with before. they were a tight-knit group of soldiers. some ex-bandts and cultitists. they called themselves the heirs to Valhalla, the einherjar. we would fight with them in service to the Covenant, to Sithis, for the glory of battle and death.
but we were not einherjar. our souls are not even truly our own, we are the children of the hist. we do not celebrate the victory into Valhalla, we continue to do the tireless work of the Dreadfather and we are born again. yote breaks bread and shares mead, i do not. he is the sun and i am the moon. i prepare my own meal and tea, and i sit alone in the quitetude after battle. I brush and polish my armor. my newly sharpened blades glisten in the setting sun.
the morning comes and we prepare again for battle. the einherjar stand proud in their gear, uniform but unique. even yote is outfitted by the finest einherjar crafters. i don the head of the Bloodspawn, a gargolye i had slain with eggsister Mereel. amongst the proud einherjar, i am a gruesome runt. to them i have no name, i am merely referred to as “it”. to the covenant i am disposable. even to the Hist i am a blunt instrument in the service of Sithis. amongst allies or enemies, i am not welcome here.
here in cyrodiil, even in my own battalion i am greeted with disdain. in the streets of Mournhold and Stormaven, they sneer at me. i am tolerated for the skill of my craft. i am tolerated because i will not be defeated. the will of Sithis does not discriminate, it plays no petty politic. after the einherjar I would serve with the merciless. before the merciless the world was in flames. their leader would call me a “real man” for my fearlessness, yet it is the femme rage of injustice that propels my essence. we are the sweet kiss of the nightmother and the cool embrace of the dreadfather. we are real, the horrors you turn a blind eye to, the overlooked and downtrodden. we are women and children, thirsty for the blood of vengance and the glory of matryrdom.
through the might of the bloodspawn i am transformed into stone. i am both a rock and a hard place. together we fight and we die. together we are reborn.
i am lovegames. i had lived a long life fighting for the liberation of the argonian people from under the tyranny of demons mer and men. i served one god, the lord of unmaking. Sithis, the Dreadfather, these are names they are known by. for me, it is simply undoing. chaos unraveling the gravity of space time. i was their holy instrument for a time, emancipating souls from their corporeal anchors. but this story is not just about me, it is about all of us.
the story i tell is about yote, my faithful companion. we were bound under the shadows by stars. our backs together, the world was before us. i would never know a bond so strong than with my egg brother. we fought from the heart of the Black Marsh to the streets of the Imperial City. no wall too high for us to climb, no temple to base for us to sanctify, no mettle steeled enough to break our weapons.
we were monsters, friend and foe alike would shirk away from our presence. our allies would mock me and my devious methods, and yote would defend my honor with tongue and blade. and i would uphold his in the battlefield. an enemy would sooner meet their maker than lay eyes on my beloved yote.
i was always too eager, too hungry. i had the scent of my rival SRIBES, my most detested opponent. i chased him through a thicket of trees into a small meadow. he smiled at me and let a slight chuckle, “go on then.” i rushed at SRIBES and we traded blows as our steel sung in the sunlight. we know he was holding back. i rush to strike a mortal blow but he had already prepared for me. i felt the poison seep between my ribs as a blade sinks in. SRIBES kicked me in my chest and i go flying onto my back. he shot another venom arrow into my abdomen before escaping.
i would die in yote’s arms, coughing on blood. as would SRIBES. yote’s swift vengeance knew no rage nor sorrow. we would always be together. and i would be reborn time and time again. as would he. so this story is told by us, by you, by yote, and the yarn spun yet unraveled.
chapter 1: borne again
to be born again is something we are all accustomed to, but especially us; the children of the hist. our souls effortlessly transfer between states of living and death, conscious and unconscious, being and unbeing. simultaneously holding the hilt of one blade in your hand and the edge of another in your back. between a rock and a hard place, no where to go but up.
—
like many of my stories it is a tale of the our twin souls, yote and lovegames, two edges of the same blade. A sword and a shield, a dagger and a blackjack, a bow and arrow, such are we. tody we were born as covenant soldiers, as we had been for some time. we had fought under the banners of foreign countries, paid as mercenaries or otherwise. we had served together, the last two soldier of our last batallion.
Grand Warlord Dortene looks down at us, two wretched and truthfully pathetic looking argonians. our feeble armor caked in mud and blood. “Well it figures that the only people back from a suicide mission are two coward argonians.” yote and I remained tight-lipped. we were used to this treatment, to be cast aside like offal and punished for succeeding in our mission. in our wake were scores of dead ebhonheart, an enemy town in flames and a keep in ruins. the true effort was to be rid of us, yet we remain. our service complete, but our work remains.
yote requested a transfer to a new battalion, someone we had fought with before. they were a tight-knit group of soldiers. some ex-bandts and cultitists. they called themselves the heirs to Valhalla, the einherjar. we would fight with them in service to the Covenant, to Sithis, for the glory of battle and death.
but we were not einherjar. our souls are not even truly our own, we are the children of the hist. we do not celebrate the victory into Valhalla, we continue to do the tireless work of the Dreadfather and we are born again. yote breaks bread and shares mead, i do not. he is the sun and i am the moon. i prepare my own meal and tea, and i sit alone in the quitetude after battle. I brush and polish my armor. my newly sharpened blades glisten in the setting sun.
the morning comes and we prepare again for battle. the einherjar stand proud in their gear, uniform but unique. even yote is outfitted by the finest einherjar crafters. i don the head of the Bloodspawn, a gargolye i had slain with eggsister Mereel. amongst the proud einherjar, i am a gruesome runt. to them i have no name, i am merely referred to as “it”. to the covenant i am disposable. even to the Hist i am a blunt instrument in the service of Sithis. amongst allies or enemies, i am not welcome here.
here in cyrodiil, even in my own battalion i am greeted with disdain. in the streets of Mournhold and Stormaven, they sneer at me. i am tolerated for the skill of my craft. i am tolerated because i will not be defeated. the will of Sithis does not discriminate, it plays no petty politic. after the einherjar I would serve with the merciless. before the merciless the world was in flames. their leader would call me a “real man” for my fearlessness, yet it is the femme rage of injustice that propels my essence. we are the sweet kiss of the nightmother and the cool embrace of the dreadfather. we are real, the horrors you turn a blind eye to, the overlooked and downtrodden. we are women and children, thirsty for the blood of vengance and the glory of matryrdom.
through the might of the bloodspawn i am transformed into stone. i am both a rock and a hard place. together we fight and we die. together we are reborn.
ask me about Bruma Bratz, the citizens barracks for the people of Bruma, Cropsford, and Vlastarus. For the people, by the people!
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