By the Nine!

The altmer could hardly make out anything as his golden eyes narrowed against the wind, but knew he had to find some sort of shelter.  He could see somewhere in the distance twisted, monstrous trees perched atop a snowy slope.  They didn’t look much more welcoming, but at the very least they may offer some shelter against the wind, which was whipping his justicar robes about like mad. 

 

Ondolemar was glad for the hood on his robes very much this day, for he was sure during the walk the wind would have frozen the tips of his finely pointed ears right off, much as it was trying to do with his nose.  This wretched plane seemed to hate him, everything from his fine robes to lithe form, and chiseled mer features that the wind very much wanted to slice away.  And the damned snow was making some sort of optical illusion.  He swore he’d been walking for hours, but he didn’t seem any closer to those trees in the distance than he was before.  Every time he crested a hill, thinking that he had nearly reached him, they proved to be over another peak.  At the very least his magicka still seemed to be working, even if it seemed strangely dampened by this grim cold as well. 

 

Squinting against the cold as he stood at the crest of another hill, looking out onto the bleak landscape of mountains and snow he had to scoff, even miserably cold as he was.  He bet those savage Nords would love it here, like their damned Sovngarde, they’d just lay around in the cold drinking foul mead and talking about their false god. 

 

And then, he suddenly saw something through the snow.  A figure, and Ondolemar stood up a bit straighter, narrowing his eyes at the dark form that seemed to be making its way out of the trees and nearer to him.  Thank the Eight, but it didn’t look like a wolf of troll, or any of the forsaken wildlife of Skyrim.  Still, he kept his magic at the ready just in case. 

 

Still, he thought it only polite that he warn the other what they were dealing with, just in case they did want to start trouble.  “You there!  You have the privilege of encountering an officer of the Thalmor. By order of the Dominion I demand that you explain where in Oblivion this is!”

 

The man seemed to cross the distance between them in unnatural time.  And when Ondolemar had a good look at him his shoulders went instantly stiff.  “By the Eight…”

 

“Don’t you mean, ‘by the Nine?’”

 

Ondolemar would recognize that face anywhere after seeing its visage carved into countless numbers of blasphemous statues scattered across Skyrim’s forsaken lands.  Tiber Septim.  Talos.  The false god.  The sight of him in this awful plane made the altmer’s back lock with tension, his stern mouth moving immediately into a grimace of denial. 

 

This didn’t make any sense.  It couldn’t.  He didn’t believe it.  “Tiber Septim, or Talos as Skyrim’s heathen people insist on calling him is not a Divine.  The Dominion, the Aldmeri, acknowledge only the Eight true Divines.  I don’t know what daedra’s blasphemous joke this it, but I do not find it amusing.”

 

“I assure you, Ondolemar, none of this is meant to be in jest.  I suppose the only thing amusing here is your hearty refusal to believe what is clearly right in front of you.”  The coarse human features seemed caught in a mixture of amusement and disapproval.  He found both disgustingly patronizing.

 

“What is before me is a joke!  And whoever is behind this will feel the full force of the Dominion’s displeasure for their heresy!  I demand to be released from whatever trap or illusion this is before I truly start to lose my temper.”

 

The towering man actually laughed, and Ondolemar had snarled before he’d even meant to.  “I am sorry, I assure you I did not mean any offense, my proud Altmer.  But I assure you that this is no trick or illusion.  You died in Skyrim, in the cold halls beneath the echoes of the dwemer.  This is a very different plane, a place between, of proving.  You may be here for some time.”

 

The Aldermeri’s mind locked on the idea of being trapped in here.  How could this be the afterlife?  This wretched crag… “What do you mean some time?  And who are you to know?  Tiber Septim is not a Divine!”