Somewhere between worlds
Somewhere between the world we know, and the realms of Oblivion, dances a fine line that connects all like a web wrought by the largest of frostspiders. The strands, unseen and powerful beyond even our recognition, interlock and spread out to encompass all of the known universe. In one such a strand, there hunts a man. Lithe, and superbly athletic, he runs constantly, bow in hand and arrow at the ready. His person bears scars and wounds of old and new, some even re-opened under constant duress. This red-eyed Elf, a Bosmer or Wood Elf as most know him by, wears not the fanciest or most suitable of protection, nor is his weapon immaculate and beyond reproach. Infact, he appears by all standards, a vagabond. A failure. And yet, here betwixt the Hunting Grounds of Hircine, and the realm of Evergloom, home of Nocturnal, he thrusts himself into constant conflict with all manner of daedric entities and other such unfortunates as himself, brought here to do the bidding of either Hircine, or of Nocturnal, Mistress of Shadow. Here, in this constantly fluxuating conflict, this maelstrom of hit-and-run and bash-and-stab, this one man holds all the balance, all the power. For even if he wears not the finest of attire, and even though his weapon is of the lowest quality, he maintains perfect harmony. Eye, hand, and bow unified to the apex of superiority. So long has he guarded this bridge, this interconnecting strand of two worlds, that he has lived far beyond even the oldest of dragons. It is here, and now, that we will witness his greatest success, and we shall judge whether it a bane, or a boon.
Thrashing through the dark foilage, a figure garbed in a more modernized regalia of the Mage dashed madly, panting and crying out in horror as everything about him seems to flare to life. Veridium flora lashing out, dark, cerulean and scarlet vines tangle, grasping and slowing his movements. Even the poor, unfortunate wildlife, onlookers to this Imperial's plight, are amazed to witness the failure of this individual. Misjudging his path, the robed man falls and tumbles into the muck bellow, face-first into what he could only assume, or rather, hoped was mud and not some fecal matter left behind by a Daedroth or Scamp.. He could only hope. Then, just as things seemed their worse, the predator that had sent the pale-skinned, wide-eyed lunatic scrambling burst through the trees and bushes, lashing its massive arms about as it roared and reared its crocodillian shaped cranium. Teeth, serrated and longer than a mans fingers gnashed and splattered spittle in all direction as it gurgled and growled as it searched. Nearly fourteen feet in height and easily more than a metric tonne in weight, the daedroth was probably one of the largest, deadliest beasts to inhabit the realms of Oblivion. Mehrunes Dagon himself seemed to favor the hulking beasts for their strength and hardiness, serving as brilliant cannon fodder to soften the defenses before sending in the more common, yet still superiorily trained Daedric Churls, humanoids made in the image of Dagon himself. With a frightened whimper, the mage began to crawl through the muck and the yuck and the disgusting filth littering the wild terrain beneath him, trying desperate to reach a nearby bush to achieve some moderate cover. But the noise he had emitted alerted the daedroth, and had been sufficent in order to garner some moderate information as to the idiots whereabouts. With a roar the best lumbered forth stretching out its clawed digits and bringing down its opened palm to grasp hold of the mans ankle. With a shriek, the mage flailed and whimpered, unleashing pitiful spell after pitiful spell. The magics, frost and fire and lightning in their most basic of forms, bounced off the monstrosity. With terribly insignificant force, the spells darted off in all directions, barely disturbing the wildlife onlookers. It was now that the man had found his mortality, in the hands and more specifically the maw of this very real nightmare. It was now, that with no hope that the imperial would ever be reunited with his companions, with no hope of surviving the night, met his fate. Slowly, and patiently, the beast lowered the man into his mammoth-sized maw and slowly clamp down. With a horrid shriek, fit to shame even the smallest of girls, and have men all the worlds around laugh at how pitiful, the man died. The glade filled with the sound of dying, of the beast chewing quite noisily upon the poor fool too weak to survive. After all, this was the path that led to Hircine's domain, and only the strong survive herein. As the daedroth enjoyed its meal, chewing and gulping and digesting all but the metal jewelry its meal had once worn, another noise arose from behind. Although, this noise was oddly quiet, as if calculated, planned. Was this perhaps a chance meeting? Another meal of some poor fool who thought they were sneaking up on a hulking behemoth? With a snarl and a roar it spun, lashing out with one huge palm and nearly connecting with a small figure. It was at this moment the daedroth, possibly due to some divine intervention, recognized its new adversary. With its own version of surprise, it went berserk. Flailing and lashing with naught in the form of control or thought, the monstrosity failed to ever hit the nimble elf-man. With a torrent of laughter and glee, the insane hunter continued to dance out of reach before crouching low, and then launching himself up into the air with such force that those watching thought he could fly. Falling now through the dimly lit air on the cool night breeze, the man landed atop a branch and brought forth his hunting bow. A single arrowed notched. "I see you can still move even with such a big belly full of idiot!" jibbed the elf, coaxing the daedroth into further rage. "Now, why don't we fix that, eh!?" the man finished. And with that, like a crack of lightning and a barely audible *TWANG*, the bowstring went taut, launching the arrow forth into the midsection of the gold-scaled beast. Pain and horrow registering all at once, the beast fell back, frozen utterly as the paralysis poison coursed through every inch of its being. With another bout of insane laughter, the elf dropped and kicked the beast square in its groin, crushing the genitelia therein and causing more pain than even that strong poison could numb. Struggling to be freed, the beast watched as the hunter approached, dagger now in hand. Such a cruel fate, it would seem. The largest felled by the smallest. With a smile that spoke volumes more about the integrity of the elfhunter's mindset he lept atop the beasts chest, took a squat, and promptly drove the blade home into its throat, and patiently, methodically began carving open the area. As the blood poured forth in floods and the rasping, gurgling breath slowed, as did the elf's sawing. THe blade had risen perhaps three inches and already the wound looked more severe, more morbid than any afore seen or recorded in any realm. It was the signature of this morbid invidual. The sign of The Carver.