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The kynreeve has enough sense to try and charge her, forcing their shields together so he can swing at her back with his mace. She pivots, pushing off, taking the brunt of the blow but using the brief lull to find the space to the side of his chestplate and drive her blade in. The creature snarls angrily, spitting blood, trying to bat her off, flailing in desperation. The imperial spellsword rams her buckler into her adversary’s head, knocking him off balance. Then, taking advantage of the opening, reigns down blow after blow with the pommel of her sword. She halts to retrieve the daedra’s own weapon to finish the job, denting its helmet until it stops moving. It’s messy and inefficient. Her arms hang leaden at her sides. The rational part of her hates herself for wasting energy like this, but the blood in her veins boils. A hot seething anger so deep it shakes her entire being, driving her onwards like an engine. The fire of her fury leaves her numb to everything else, even common sense, this is the last gate - the 60th. Nothing else matters after this.
The Champion of Cyrodiil eyes the crumpled form of her opponent. The daedra had acted as if she didn’t have a reputation; as if she was not standing before the creature in a set of its own infernal armour covered in the blood of its brethren. Dremora didn’t feel fear in quite the same way, death was a mere inconvenience to them.
Avery shakily lowers herself onto a stone bench, having reached a room with no immediate danger she can afford herself the luxury of tending to her wounds. She has learnt there’s a pace to these things - destroying keeps as a one woman army - charging in now would be fruitless in her current state. Her helmet hits the floor with a clang. She uncorks a vial and takes heavily from the blood fountain, guzzling its contents. The cool liquid momentarily alleviates the heat of the oppressive sulphuric air. Upstairs, in the keep the dremora will be amassing their forces in a last stand to stop her acquiring the sigil stone. Without its source of magic their gate will crumble and they will no longer be able to terrorise Mundus. This is the last one. Mehrunes Dagon’s forces will at least be halted for a while - returning to this forsaken realm to lick their wounds and wait for another era where they may invade again. It’s inevitable. She’ll be long dead by then. She blinks away wetness in her eyes. Not tears. Sweat. She swallows the lump in her throat by quaffing a potion to fortify her for the coming fight; the purple elixir easing the screaming in her muscles and mind somewhat. The prickle of magicka returns to her fingers. She continues to drink vial after vial until she feels ill, simultaneously disorientated and hyper aware, shaking with adrenaline and the effects coursing through her bloodstream. She is of no use dead. She is the realm’s final defence - their shield. A tool to be used. Once this is over she will be discarded.
The champion surges onwards and upwards, charging through the final set of doors. The shining obsidian corridor rises steadily, elevating her to the final room. Every Sigilium Sanguis is concentric, multilayered with three floors, and covered in spikes. The floor is swollen to the extent its dome-like, made from a red glassy stone shot through with white veins, marbled and lumpy like a heart. Suspended from the ceiling hangs the sigil stone, burning like a small sun, bathing the room in a firey orange. Its constant thrum of energy permeates the room. The casters perched at the top are already conjuring beasts, hurling down bolts of lighting to stunt her own casting and seize her muscles. She charges up a staircase - an arrangement of red rungs that curl upwards like a bisected rib cage - hoping to bottleneck her melee opponents so she can cleave through them more efficiently. It makes her an easier target for the longer ranged attacks but the potions and buzz of her enchanted armour should mitigate the damage that should outright kill her several times over. Her blade sings and spins, severing skin, muscle and bone. The first level clears. Avery summons the pulse of a restoration spell, gauntlet of her shield hand flaring with a searing blue light - regeneration - encouraging her flesh to knit and twist back together slowly but surely.
She doesn’t see the clannfear fast enough, its reptilian crested head bowed low in a reckless charge. The creature flings itself from the top floor down at her. Claws and a pointed beak try to pierce her protection. Fire flares from the spellsword’s hand as they fall through the air, the jet of flame licking nothing initially, then whipping downwards to engulf the creature. Ochre scales char and blacken. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs. The beast shrieks, having sustained too much damage from the fall, and disperses like dust in the wind, melting into the air. Avery wheezes, ribs rattling in her chest, blood staining her teeth, her eyes roll in their sockets. She lies splayed on the floor like some kind of crustacean - protected in a shell for the time being but ultimately vulnerable. Her head rings, vision clouded, smeared with red. Through the eyeholes of her helmet she can see the blurred shapes of the remaining troops advancing on her, trying to get better aim on their prone opponent, or just to see her face when they do kill her. Of course they’d enjoy that.
The spellsword grits her teeth and wills for time to slow, it takes her a moment to register every laboured breath hurts less. Her spell is still up. She just needs time. Time she doesn’t have.
A muddied figure comes into focus, making its way towards her. The highest ranked daedra barks at the others to back off its quarry. It’s purposefully using Nibenese to taunt her - so she can understand. The others hover around her like flies around a carcass.
The Champion of Cyrodiil sucks in a rattling breath and gathers her strength. The air crackles with magic. She screams, assaulted by first a numbing cold and then a searing heat. She rolls onto her front, breath rasping in her throat. It’s coming closer now. A mage from the staff it wields. The robe it wears. The lack of a helmet. Avery crouches, shifts her weight to the side to avoid the bolt of lightning that lances through the air at her, then retaliates with her own attack. Her assailant hadn’t expected it, the dremora had already drawn an ornate dagger. Single hand flailing to conjure a spell. She doesn’t use the pommel of the sword this time.
Her second wind kicks in. Blood rushes in her ears. She roars at the remaining daedra as if this were an arena fight, clanging her sword and shield against each other. A challenge. This is it. The final push. Without a semblance of order or restraint the remaining forces try to rush her, abandoning strategy. The woman evokes another healing spell and welcomes it, baring her teeth and bracing her shield.
~~~
She staggers up the ramp to the final floor. All she sees is black and red. The red of her own blood. The black spots creeping into the corners of her vision, drowning out the room. The ramp to the final floor is almost frilled, black rods interspersed with red waves, suspended by thick black chains. The spellsword lurches towards the only colour that is different - orange. She outstretches a shaking hand claiming the final sigil stone. A wave of emotion overcomes her, ambiguous as to whether it's fatigue or relief. The orb flares with a searing light, building until the room is entirely white. Space displaces, like a pot boiling over, flushing everything out. The Deadlands is purged of Avery’s presence for the final time.
The spellsword awakes on her side. The air is clean. The sky is bright and blue. Trees sway gently in the breeze. The skeleton of the oblivion gate lies ruined in a blackened heap. The heat of the stone pulses in her hand like a heartbeat. She swallows thickly, mouth metallic, and stands to find the grass below her is slick with blood, her armour battered and punctured. She takes a knee, seeing to some of her wounds with potions, her thirst with water, her hunger with stale bread.
Her purpose is another matter entirely. What is she to do now? The question makes her feel hollow. Since Martin had died she’d been discarded - fulfilled her job as a nameless pawn of fate, getting Martin where he needed to be. She found purpose in continuing what he would want. The realm safe - Dagon’s forces defeated - wiped from the land with the start of a new era. She digs the heels of her palms into her eyes. Her mind is foggy. What could she do now?
There’s the brief consideration of picking up the Imperial Dragon Armour promised to her - armour fit for an emperor. She laughs at the notion. All she could think about was home so she finds herself returning to Bravil. The townsfolk were wary, simultaneously recognising her and giving her a wide berth. Some were glad to have her there, and begged her to regale her adventures. She had never been one for stories and she was acutely aware they didn’t necessarily want to know the truth. Some just wanted to know of Martin. They all talked about Martin.
The Lonely Suitor Lodge is less busy than it’s higher end counterpart. She frequents there, drowning herself in drink. The fire that fuelled her is long extinguished. The days blur together.
Despite all she’s accomplished she feels small and empty. This had been the only way she could do anything meaningful - to strike back at the Daedric Prince, a god. Even with the blessings of the Aedra there is little one can do against a Daedric Prince - the conclusion of the Oblivion Crisis proved as much. Martin’s sacrifice proved as much. The city hails her as their hero, their champion. Avery knows she is simply the only one left alive they can direct their sentiment towards. She wasn’t stronger than fate, than prophecy. An improvisation was all the world had to defend itself with. Martin didn’t have to die that way. He could have simply not sired heirs, that would have ended the Septim dynasty. He didn’t have to be snatched from the world. To sacrifice everything to a God he must have barely believed in any more.
Amidst her bitter recollections she realises she should probably tell Baurus of her whereabouts. The Blade was one of the only friends she had left. Likely considered her dead given their last conversation. She should write to him. But what would she say? There was nothing to say. She had nothing left.
She stares into her murky reflection at the bottom of her tankard.
“Miss-”
She doesn’t look up.
“Miss Champion? We- we require your aid.”
She raises her head. It’s not urgency permeating the man’s voice so much as it is fear.
“A strange door has appeared in Niben Bay-“
She stands, stool clattering to the floor and clears the distance between them in three brisk paces. “A gate?” She presses, eyes flaring, voice hard.
“No- no- I don’t know- it doesn’t look like- it’s not normal-”
Avery hovers by the door. “Where.”
“It’s a small island- directly in the middle of the-”
She leaves to arm herself. Whatever it is - this gate - it’s definitely a gate. This is going to be the last damn one.