The Sword-Meeting of Orphan and Reymon the Ebonarm

Wars have been fought for all moments since the time the Dragon-Clock started ticking on each of its eight hands. For resources, ideology, and sheer madness, blood is shed again and again, and the hungry gears of the Dragons lap up the prayers of the believers and the Saints. Blood is here too, spread over a perpetual white wasteland, mixing with the sugar-soil and leaving a black, congealed pudding in its wake.

Reymon gazed up staring endlessly into the abyss of the 1008 Thrones, standing upon the battlefield that had signaled his coming. Animunculi lay ruined around him. Gyros and pistons lay scattered about as their black “blood” seeped into the ground. Another victory for the Ebon-mailed Knight. His wounds were bad though. Blood leaked through the openings in his crackless armor. Injuries that had piled up over an eternity had opened up again. The dirty, grime-covered armor shuddered and groaned as the warrior took a step forward, and then staggered.

He walked like this awhile, every step like a man walking to his grave, his eyes blinded by blood and sweat. His yellowed and cracked teeth stood out from the darkness obscuring his face under the helm. A blue and green eye stared out into the great beyond, consumed with a look of madness. He moved his hand to a netch-leather pouch on the side of his cicada-carapace gearmail. Underneath the thick metal hides, which resembled a bizarre metal flesh more than armor, tiny blood-drop sized gears turned. The armor flexed with the man as Reymon pulled out a Pyandonean sea-viper cigar and took a puff. He felt relief as neurotoxic euphoria washed over his pain nerves, granting him sweet release. He had picked them up on an Aldmeri battlefield, and noticed that the strange piscinmer took smokes before, and during battle, for warding off spirits and for good form. Still, Ebonarm thought as he took another puff, almost hacking on the butt in his mouth. It’d take a god-like physique to handle too much of this. Putting the cigar back into the pouch, he managed a chuckle.

A sharp intake of air later, and he examined his surroundings. Brass shells were scattered around him, littering the lunar soil. Sighing he took his Lum’ket 17 and slid it back into the clip on his side. About 20 feet away, his switch-axe lay in the sugary sand near a hacked-up arthomod, with the muzzle and levers poking out and exposing its position. He noted that the levers that were out indicated it was now set to “axe.” Sighing, he began to walk to it, counting the amount of time left on his gear-dial. He had a few minutes until the next battle. Enough to perhaps stretch, and adjust himself to the aching pains of millennial wounds.

Far off in the Aurbis, he felt the hands of the Dragon-Clock spin sporadically. Almost immediately as he looked at his dial, the shadow-hands had begun accelerating, or were they decelerating? The shadow on the dial turned in every direction, and the gears began to whine with tension. With a sudden finality, the gears burst out, bouncing off of his spiked mail and landing on the ground.

That can’t be good.

With a jolt, he rushed to the weapon, and out of the corner of his eye, saw a looming figure and a scarab-shell heading straight towards him. He ducked and rolled out of the way with practiced cat-like poise, blood trailing behind him. He felt the bullet strike off the edge of his greaves and felt a sharp wince of pain as he leapt out, grabbed his weapon, and turned to face his foe. Nothing. He couldn’t see anything. The area had grown dark and not even a light wind could be felt. Reymon felt a chill go down his spine. He looked at where Memory had told him the bullet had landed, but there was nothing.

Crouching low, he opened the dew-spore reserves in his breastplate, gleaning enough extra Memory to observe his surroundings in all directions, while he loaded the switch-axe with his free hand. Even the Memories began to become convoluted, twisting and turning every which way and becoming a confusing jumble. Heart pumping, Ebonarm went into un-time and checked all of the data in Memory’s terminal, but nothing matched the description of his Memories that he had been able to obtain on the figure. Even retranalysis didn’t do him any good.

“Mnemoli save me,” he muttered.

He went up to another monitor, and clicking the scrib jelly-dome, began his search through the permitted PSJJJ archives. The hall radiated with spectrums both real, false, and unknown. Further, in the back, bright aetherial gears turned in timely fashion, each turn a perfect simile of the kalpic sequence. The clockwork certainly did not detract from the beauty of the room, much less the smooth walls, aesthetically carved as if licked by the flames of a thousand suns.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE” exclaimed a servitor drone as it wheeled into the room. “YOUR PRESENCE HERE IS IN VIOLATION OF ARTICLE 45627229 WHICH WAS JUST RATIFIED TOMORROW IN ANTICIPATION OF THREAT DWEMERI-CLASS 75B-TWooo-”

Before the drone could finish, an explosion in the chamber destroyed it and the long-perfect cogs of Mnemoli’s fine Gear-Hall. Ebonarm finally understood at last, and cursing, opened a memory-stream, leading out his malevolent pursuer.

Back on the lunar surface, Reymon stood with ‘ket and switch-axe set to “sword” in each hand. Before him stood a looming Dwemer monstrosity. It was of a dull, brass-colored alloy tarnished and had been modified extensively. Massive gyros sat upon its shoulders, and the armor was larger than its former counterpart was, Reymon realized as the Memories flooded in. He saw pieces of the animunculi he had ages ago slain, fused into its body, making the beast appear like a scavenging savage of some kind. It was cannibalistically devouring centurions and animunculi, sustaining itself on their energy. One eye was cracked, but both still flickered with an eerie, red glow.

Reymon snarled, baring his war-aspect to the ghastly apparition.

“Orphan.”

The Brass God stepped towards him, its footsteps thundering across the Aurbis as the Dragon-Clock went “gong” without stopping.

Gong.

Reymon crouched forward with one leg out, poising himself over the sugary sand and dust.

Gong.

He charged forward, and keeping his awareness at its highest, tried to picture the Brass Mer in all times but one. Nine scarab-shells he had already seen the shades of, but every time he moved to avoid them, the monstrosity would suddenly be somewhere else, as if there were multiple copies of it. The Memories were distorted, and even the chronocules were unstable on his helm-scryer. Time was clearly breaking around the figure.

The Brass God charged forth, and Reymon saw a flash of Memory and dodged a gigantic rocky formation that was pulled out from under him by the time-travelling demon. Reymon cursed, the monster was shattering time and then riding its flow as if were yanking on the remnants of a taut cord severing.

This continued with the monster setting traps and Reymon only managing to see them just in time. He could find no pattern in the robot’s movements, and as he closed the gap, it seemed as if the beast was somehow...inviting him. Gritting his teeth, he then let off a barrage of brass from his Lum’ket before setting his switch-axe to “axe” with a flick of his fingers. The God kept erratically flickering around him, but Ebonarm, predicting where he would be, thrust out his axe, and struck a metallic leg.

The God swayed, trying to swat him out of the way, but Reymon swung himself up the behemoth with the axe for leverage, launching hail after hail of brass scarabs with his other hand. The monster wasn’t having any of it though, and rolled forward, letting Reymon get ripped off by the pale sands. Reymon barked a curse and the scarab’s wings unfolded, and tried to dig into the face of the abomination, but the Brass God killed them in a few moments of untime. Again the foes stood facing each other, neither with serious injuries.

Ebonarm was the first to give in to the animal urge and rushed forward in a toothy grin, covering his position with a bullet storm. The Brass God defiantly roared and fired a barrage of its own through barrels that opened at the wrist. Scarabs grazed Reymon, but the armor remained unscratched. As he neared, he watched for the moment the monster would follow a trail of shattered time, and chased him through it, emerging moments into the past above the beast’s head. He smirked when he saw he was right behind himself, still running, seemingly in place, and then time ticked again.

Orphan turned around, covering its face, and shifted in time again, as Ebonarm followed. Reymon could no longer rely on Memory to guide him, and was powerless save for his warrior’s instinct. He grinned a terrible grin. He had not known the uncertainty of battle such as this, and it was fun!

Orphan moved out of time again, and again. A game of tag ensued as each tried to gain a foothold on the other. Finally, as the God slipped into another rift in time, Reymon just stopped. The ancient tactician had finally predicted where the place of Orphan’s wake would be. He smiled to himself. Was it really this easy? Whispering a spell, a Daedric Blasting Rod materialized in his hands, and he fired a fell shot, right as Orphan’s back came into view.

The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, blood streaming out of his orifices. Another impact, and he was sent flying again. He staggered up, and was just in time to see Orphan’s fist strike him. He felt his bones shatter, and feebly managed to open up his dew-spore reserves, and realized that every outcome was unpleasant. Cursing, he managed to roll out of the way of Orphan’s incoming blow, before rolling to the side of another one as Orphan stepped back into time. He was able to get to his feet as Orphan’s fist came up underneath him, striking his weapon all the way down, before firing a shot from the switch-axe to dislodge it.

Over the eternities Reymon had fought, he had never encountered a foe like this. No matter the battle, or how dim his chances of survival, there was always a small door he could remember, but nothing like this. The inside of his armor spread metal spikes into his bones, suturing them together, but could do nothing for the large amount of blood it was losing.

But none of that mattered now, his Love Mnemoli had freed him from the shackles of even time, and he would fight to the bitter end for Her. As he slid off Orphan to the sandy ground, he rolled out of the way of an incoming attack, and charged a final charge. The ancient warrior’s bones began to creak as he thought of his death, and all the things he had yet to set right.

In a flash of light, his consciousness vanished.

When he awoke, he was in a room lit by clear lamps with sunken candles. He was bandaged from head to toe, and a shriveled corpse of a man strode in through a purple, silk curtain. Yellow eyes fixed in a gruesome expression. Slowly, they twitched in his direction.

“Give me my armor,” spoke the knight. “I don’t know how you got it off, but I can not stay long. There is evil afoot.”

But the hideous specter simply clucked his tongue.

“There are some powers beyond even Gods. I am the Underking Ysmir,” he said in an voice that resembled the crinkling of dead leaves.

“You will have your armor back,” before the King of Knights could protest further, “as there are things I know you must do. First, I think you should know what you just got yourself into.

“You see, that Orphan out there, I made him that way.”

Before Reymon realized what was happening, he had his hands around the corpse’s throat. The corpse gargled and croaked, and Ebonarm released him suddenly, causing him to fall backwards onto the ground. After a moment, the creature raised its head and made eye contact with the king, but there was no malice in its eyes, only pity. Reymon was taken aback at first, and realized he had closed himself off to even foretelling. Recollecting himself, he gazed back down on the Underking with intensity.

“We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?” Reymon asked in between the figure’s fits of coughing. “And you’re going to give me some hint on how to beat this thing I imagine.” He waited for the words he knew were coming, but the corpse King just stared at him with an unreadable expression.

“This Orphan isn't your child, is it?” Ebonarm’s teeth clacked together as he spoke. “During the war with the Aldmeri Dominion’s First Empire, this thing was lost when Tiber Septim abandoned it and it became a relic. You took it in, and taught it to fend for itself against yester-Dawn Aldmeri Mirror Logicians, but not before you left it stranded again, fueling its hatred for even the most far-flung of the Biters to recognize. Why?”

“Revenge,” the corpse king muttered. “I am old, O Black Knight. I have experienced three eternities in this desiccated corpse of a body, and still no end is yet in sight. Can you even imagine being born from a rotting mother? Can you imagine the pain of taking air into life-bereft lungs? What that ‘Son of Atmorans’ did to me, I can never forgive, if I have even threefold more eternities of unlife to live. I can not even say my soul yearns for release, for even all three of those have rejected me. What I simply want is an end.”

“I’ll say it simply, you can’t defeat Orphan, O ‘King of Knights.’ I have trained him in every way to unmake even the gods. It sees in all points of time even beyond the limits of your “Memory.” It has already shattered Hammerfell, and while one was defeated by their Hoon Ding, there are thousands more, as it moves-like-this.”

Reymon was understanding more and more, seeing even the possible outcomes of the dialogue. His complexion darkened and his brow furrowed. Teeth gnashed together as he grabbed the Underking by the throat and lifted him off the ground.

“You know what’s it like to be abandoned by your friends, parents, and even the world!” he screamed. “Why would you orphan that creature again!?”

The Underking smiled widely. “To rip apart the foundation of the very Mundus itself.”

Reymon threw him on the ground, and put his foot on his throat. He gleaned the location of his armor and slipped it on quickly, outer flesh hardening as it coiled around his muscled body. he took his switch-axe, quickly primed and loaded it, and strapped his Lum’ket to his side before he noticed something else.

A black, metal stallion, borne by the Wheels of the Aurbis sat in the next room beyond the curtain. He looked down at the corpse King, and took his foot off his throat.

The corpse king muttered, “the companion you lost against the Camoran Usurper. I give him to you. Do what needs to be done Black Knight, before there is nothing of you left to unmake my errors.”

Ebonarm examined War Master. It’s dark exterior looked like it had been carved of a black pearl. It had glass-covered torches blasting its varliance outward as though it were the Gates of Magnus themselves. War Master whinnied, and Ebonarm hopped on from the side, looking back to see the Underking and his home fade away. He turned in shock to see Mnemoli standing to the side of him.

“This was from your Memories,” he whispered, as she smiled sadly at him. No words were needed, as the understanding that flowed between them was closer than any divine number. Reymon looked down, wistful, as she brushed her hand against his. Ysmir Underking, far off in a now void future, was now falling to pieces in a dying reality, knowing himself in the sense of immortality, regretful. He had no false belief that he could expect the same if he ever saw the creature again.

“I understand now,” he spoke softly. “I know who Orphan’s father is, and who to send him to.”

Orphan, unlucky creature, was a leftover fragment of reality from Tiber’s ascension. He had been born from a trick of fate, from a duality in the currents of time.

It shouldn’t even exist, save for one Red Moment. His father is Void, and it is the eternally Fatherless.

Reymon looked into the star, and saw that this was what he needed to understand. He tenderly passed by her arm, and flipped the Stallion’s switch.

“I must be off, for there is evil afoot.”

He revved the stallion, and returned to the world of the Eight and One.

The stallion accelerated, moving faster and faster as it left Mnemoli’s vision, he could see the far-off Lunar surface of Secunda, like a long-lost dream.

Orphan did not wait for him though, and the dream-world shattered like glass, exposing the sky as a brass fist raced towards him, firing scarab-shells. Reymon, seeing this outcome, veered to the right, digging his knees into the side of War Master. He raced ahead of Orphan, driving faster and faster until the Stallion began to “trot” right off the edge of the moon. Ebonarm dodged another blow, and angled the Stallion towards the Sea of Biters.

Orphan continued to gain on him as Ebonarm lost momentum. He rained bullets down on the Brass Demon, as it lunged for him. A Brass hand was looming closer and closer, and he used his own body to protect War Master. Scarabs struck him, shattering the bones in his right arm. His armor quickly sutured the break as he limply clung to War Master with only his legs, firing a volley periodically to help control the direction they were travelling.

The Brass God was almost on them when they all crashed into the Dragon-Clock. The shards of the clock face fell inward and struck the clock-tower floor, rendering time inert. The gears in Orphan groaned as it struggled to ride the flow of time, leaving the prodigal machine and the Black Knight stranded in their last confrontation. Reymon bent down before the Stallion struck “ground” flipping them both upside down. He gripped the ground with his hands and flung War Master at Orphan before it could retaliate, knocking the behemoth down.

Some horse-power.

Baring his teeth he bellowed:

“YOU ARE UNMADE!”

Reymon leapt forward, switch-axe raised high, while he flipped the last lever he had, setting it to “spear.” The weapon blew apart in a magical burst and reassembled into a long shaft, which Reymon drove right into the chest of Orphan. The resounding explosion cracked the black armor, and he fired a burst into the heart of the Beast. Orphan roared, lifting its arms feebly to rip the shaft out, but to no avail. Reymon looked on in pity as the creature struggled in a desperate attempt to free itself.

It exhaled black smoke as it died, and the Black Knight stepped forward, ripping out cloth from strips in his pouch to cover each eye. Moments passed in between the space of time, as he looked down at his foe, so cursed by fate. Sighing, he examined the remains of his switch-axe, which had been warped beyond the point of no return. The Black Knight muttered as he tore out a wrist-barrel from the behemoth, and walked back to War Master, carrying it like a cannon-sized blasting kettle.

The pieces of the Dragon-Clock slowly began to lift, and transform into feathered-serpents, which slowly rose to the tops of the tower, repairing the Clock to half-past twil. The heavy Adamantine pendulum slowly began to swing again.

Gong.

Ebonarm rode out on War Master, out past the 1008 Thrones. Every breath one of complete agony. He continued on out of the Sea of Biters, when a shell struck the tail of War Master. He looked back, and saw another Orphan. War Master’s rear section burst into flames, and the Stallion uttered a scream that he should never have had to hear again. The Black Knight didn’t get another chance to face his foe. Sinking in the dreadful abyss, his life flashed before his eyes.

Gong.

He saw his hometown. The bone-forests he worked in. The day the Bjoulsae blessed him. His kingdom, and all the sacrifices it cost him. His dreugh wife Ix’Ixthylcix and their child.

Gong.

Warfare and sacrifice had defined Ebonarm’s life. He had sacrificed his humanity for godhood. His affections for victories. His future for High Rock. His life for Mnemoli.

Gong.

But he had remembered them all in the end without becoming a wretched biter. He remembered his wife and child. He saw Sai, and even Xovic, the greatest of his knights, who he knew still searched for him. He felt so tired.

Gong.

For the first time in an eternity, Ebonarm’s eyes closed in sleep.

The Black Knight steps out of the ocean onto Alinor proper, leading a mighty black stallion by the reins. His sword is drawn as he watches Imperial and Aldmeri battlelines converge. His body aches for the throbbing pain of battle, and the dust of fallen kingdoms.

An Aldmeri Captain approaches him with a full troop, observing the stranger, and determines whether he is friend or foe.

Ebonarm snarls, and bares his war aspect.

Credit goes to /u/OPGreenback for helping create much of the initial concept. /u/Zinitrad and /u/NudeProvided for helping make the Black Knight what he is, and for helping me proofread. Semblio for the good cigars and /u/Neradac for correcting me on a silly little error.

Especially /u/Luinithil (I think the name is right) for helping me immensely with proofreading. Seriously, all of you are how I can do what I do. Thanks.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter of Ebonarm. Until next time. :)