Stormhold, one of the great and mighty fortress-cities of the mighty Ayleidic Empire.
Even though the Slave Queen Alessia had been gathering followers, from both serf and rogue Lord alike, the Halls of Stormhold were awash with gaiety and laughter. Minstrels played cheerful songs, jesters performed whimsical tricks. Fiery alcohol and sumptuous meats filled the tables. Many, taken in by the festivity, had begun partaking in the sacred Dibellan Arts where they could find room.
In the throne room, where the merriest of all gatherings took place—part party, part orgy—sat the King of Stormhold, Gailon Monípalóthi, son of the old king Lungbal and the patron deity of Stormhold, the Magna’Ge Merid-Nunda.
Gailon was made to be the bridge between the mortals and their gods. His form was crafted to be appealing to the eyes. He was muscular, with an athletic frame. His bronzed skin gleamed with sacred oils and perfumes. His hair and trim beard, which shone as bright as gold when in sunlight, but out of it turned Raven black, were well kept. His amber eyes radiated both mischief but also wisdom. His silver tongue carried the charisma of ten-thousand orators. His rule was firm, but fair, and his people prospered.
He wore a lavish robe of royal purple and warm scarlet, the top half wrapped around his waist to show off his toned chest. A chalice of fine wine rested in one hand, his other patting the head of his pet lion, Auriel, who was resting on his right thigh.
He let out the occasional groan, and looked down.
Nestled in between his legs was the head of Karlia, one of the initiates of his mother’s temple. She was skilled in the arts of healing and flame spells... and the art of giving head.
Gailon smirked, barely noticing as he fired another warm load down the woman's throat. As she was about to begin their fourth round of oral intercourse, a guardswoman burst into the throne room, her lance smacking the floor, and the occasional bodies, as she maneuvered around the mass of passed out drunks and fornicating couples. She panted as she kneeled.
“M-my Lord, u-urgent news from the northern watchtower.” Her cheeks tinged ruby red as she tried to avert her eyes from her king’s well endowed cock. Karlia bowed, moving away. Gailon nodded at the prostrating guardswoman, letting her continue. “The Bitch of Akatosh’s forces are marching on Stormhold! Her bovine lover is leading the charge with about five hundred men behind. They’ll be here within the hour.”
The king smirked in content. “Ah, so the rebel forces have finally come to face me have they? Shame I won't get to gut that mad dog crusader of theirs’, but I suppose gutting that cow will have to do.”
He stood up, taking a breath before an aura surrounded him. A glowing purple mist with a gold center filled his hand, and in an instant, he was clad a gilded and ornate armor, waist cape flowing. A circlet crowned on his head, and his blessed aquillian battle axe Labrys appeared in his left hand.
“Very well then, muster the guard and prepare the defenses.” He patted the guard’s head, “And as a reward for your deeds, come to my chambers once this is over.”
The king chuckled, leaving the guard squealing in joy over the prospect as he went to prepare himself for battle.
The blazing Hearthfire sun—the great hole that the World Architect Magnus tore into the aether when he fled back to Aetherius, leaking Magicka onto Nirn—hung in the center of the sky.
Gailon stood on the chiseled steps of Stormhold. His personal guard, the Seventy-Four Armigers stood behind him with glaives and curved ultra greatswords in hand. On the parapets of the city stood the archers, arbalists, and magus of the city guard.
Soon, the sound of crashing hooves and marching came over the horizon. Flanked by men clad in well forged steel mail, as well as bits and pieces of scavenged armor and weapons, as well as the forces of the traitorous Ayleid lords, stood the Bull of Kyne.
He, like Gailon, stood two and a half heads taller than any of their followers. In his muscular hands, he carried a gnarled, yet rustically elegant, battleaxe engraved with Aedric runes. On his back hung a supple greatbow and quiver. For armor, he wore an intricate and blessed mail—charcoal grey with sanguine accents, depicting a reddish gold dragon on the center.
The two forces stopped forty-eight paces from one another. Gailon raised a hand and spoke:
“Hail, Morihaus, Child of the Nordic Kyne, goddess of storms, nature, and war. I am Gailon, child of the incandescent Merid-Nunda.”
Morihaus snorted and bellowed, his voice as thunderous as the storms. “Ah, pleasantries from a knife-ears? It makes my stomach churn!”
“Ah, a witty one I see.” Gailon chuckled. He took a step forward, waving a hand to signal his men to stand back. “I challenge you, for I know you are warrior of ample strength and...”
He eyed Morihaus, especially that which rested between the bull-man’s legs. It was known by Man and Mer alike that the mere thought of battle aroused the Breath of Kyne as much as Alessia bared.
“...ample girth.” He licked his lips, for Morihaus rivaled his own in size.
Morihaus chuckled, “Very well Elf, I accept your challenge. If I win, I take your city in the name of my beloved. If you win, I shall be sworn to you, whether you wish for my axe, or my ass.” He stomped forward, mail clanking. “But let us be quick, my dear Queen misses my companionship, as I do her’s.”
The Bull of Kyne looked upwards… and Shouted.
“Strum Bah Qo!”
With those three words, storm clouds started to form, lightning crackled against the earth, icy cold rain hammered the ground, and thunder screamed through the skies.
Morihaus’s men cheered at their leader’s mastery over the Voice. “My mother granted me the Thu’um, mer!” He boasted. “What has your whorish wench of a matriarch done?”
Gailon bristled at the slight against his parent, but hid it under gritted teeth. He then laughed, running a hand through his darkened hair. “Very well, Morihaus!” He spread his arms, like the spread wings of an eagle, and started chanting. “Laita i Anar! Laita i Merid-Nunda!”
A hole the size of a carriage was burned away in the clouds above Gailon. A prismatic beam of light surrounded him, changing his hair black to gold. He radiated a shimmering gold aura.
“This is one of the powers my mother—outcasted by father Magnus—has granted me! In the light of her Colored Rooms, magnified through Auri-El’s incandescent sun, my strength and vitality increases 33 fold, far surpassing that of my half-brother Umaril! You believe in the strength of your arms and those of the men at your back!”
Gailon downed the last of his wine before tossing the chalice away, where it was caught by a servant.
“But what is Man, than pathetic little piles of secrets?” He smirked, raising his axe high. “But enough talk mongrel, have at thee!”
With that Gailon and Morihaus charged at one another, both roaring out a war cry that pierced through the heavens with their fury.
The resounding clash of their axe blades sent ripples of air outward, resonating across the men and mer around them. Each combatant grinned as they traded blows, smashing their axe blades against each other. Whenever Gailon swiped at Morihaus' mail or any of his exposed limbs, the Bull would counter, sending his axe biting into Gailon’s armor.
Their armor was now cut in many places, blood droplets scattering below and between the two titans of combat. Yet their followers continued to cheer their respective leaders on.
Gailon began undoing the locks on the Weir in his mindscape. He huffed as he casted a minor healing spell on himself. “Hmph, you've done well so far, mongrel.”
His healing was cut short as Morihaus raised his axe high to cleave the king in twain. Gailon dropped his spell, and firmly grasped his axe.
He brought his axe up. It crashed into Morihaus, cutting deeply into him, sending him flying. At that moment, the tip of the Bull’s member brushed past Gailon’s face, who mockingly licked it.
“Hmm, bold flavor... I shall enjoy it when I make you my pet.” He sneered before spreading his arms, “Rejoice, for you shall love submitting to me!”
Morihaus shivered, snorting, as he slowly stood, using his axe hilt for support. Dried blood coated his legendary Lord's Mail. The thunder above the skies roared, echoing his own. “I have not submitted yet, knife-ear!”
Gailon placed a hand on his hip, his vigor restored. “Very well. I must say, you're one of the few that has actually given me anything resembling a challenge. But can you stand against the Weir of Stormhold?”
As the king grinned, small portals opened up behind him. They were gateways into his little pocket realm; a vault his mother had given him as a coronation present. In it stored the supreme iteration of any object that was, is, or may be, whether it be the first blade forged to the comfiest chair in existence. From these portals, numerous weapons slid into the plane of Mundus, each held by Gailon's telekinetic grasp.
With a wave of his hand, swords, polearms, and other weapons sped forward.
Morihaus roared, smacking aside the weapon projectiles with his axe, or sending them flying with one of his many holy arrows, though a few did find their mark, embedding themselves into the man-bull.
Gailon applauded his opponent, grinning as the armaments—save those impaling Morihaus—vanished back into his treasury. “Impressive.”
Though both knew this was it—the climax of their duel. Each mustered up their strength. Morihaus’s eyes glowed a fiery crimson, as arcane lightning and wind crackled along his body and axe. Gailon’s golden Aura increased in size, his eyes filling with iridescent light. With one final scream of defiant rage, the two demigods smashed into each other with the force of a tidal wave.
Gailon groaned, looking down. His axe had nearly severed Morihaus's right arm, but his opponent's axe had cut deep into his abdomen. Morihaus pulled his axe out, but Gailon kept standing, a great clamor rose from his subjects. Blood stained his lips.
“I-I shall grant you this, Morihaus. For now, you are more powerful than one. If our souls ever meet in the Dreamsleeve, and we do battle again, know I shall be the victor.”
Smiling, the king collapsed. A pool of blood formed beneath his fallen body, soaking the ground red.
The radiant rainbow light dimmed until it was silenced by the storm.
“I pray such a time may come. For you have proven a worthy and valiant foe.” Morihaus’s gaze turned to the defenders of Stormhold, their faces showing fear, anger, and sadness. “Bury your king, this boon I shall grant you. In two days time, I shall return and lay siege to all but this knife—no, to all but Gailon's tomb. In my lifetime of strife, I have never met a Mer with the might of a lion such as he.”
With that, he knelt down and kissed the forehead of Gailon before departed with his men. The wailing citizens of Stormhold bore up their god-king’s corpse, and prepared him for burial.
Gailon awoke with a groan. He found himself in a golden temple-like structure. Prismatic waters pooled along troughs running to the center.
“Where am I?” He croaked, his once deep and commanding voice, now hoarse. He looked up to find a woman sitting nearby, who slowly rushed towards him. “Moth—”
Merid-Nunda embraced her son, silencing him. He could hear her sobbing, her tears soaking his shoulder. Gailon relented and returned the affection by stroking her back.
When she finally released him, he took a look at her. Her prismatic irises, which matched her dress, trimmed with gold, were reddened by sobbing. Her beautiful silver hair was disheveled somewhat.
“My son, I believed you would have never awaken.” She smiled sadly. As Gailon was about to ask how long he had been… well… dead, his mother seemed to have read his mind. “Four days had passed. Stormhold—aside from your crypt—had been ransacked. I did manage to save a few of your… favorites.” Then her smile turned bright. “Your legend had been inscribed within the Divine Chalice and the Throne of Champions. If fate is kind, you and your rival may duel once more, after you have trained, and rested.”
Merid-Nunda lightly kissed her son’s forehead, helping him up. It was only then did Gailon notice he was dressed in only a pair of engraved white pants, sandals, and the bandages adorning his torso and shoulders.
“Go, the girls are waiting for you.” With a sly smirk, she pointed to a door.
Taking slow steps, the gilded Sorceror-King opened the door to find three women and one man, all his favorite lovers, kneeling before him. Their bright smiles and shining eyes met his. There was Astoria, the guard that had delivered the message of Morihaus's arrival, who had caught Gailon's eye; Galadriel, the high priestess of his mother's temple; Juniper Berry Tuinden, as she was nicknamed, the hermaphroditic Chief Libriarian and Master Archivist; and finally Ganymede, a slave turned gladiator that had enchanted the then young king.
“Welcome back, my king!”
They spoke all together before dragging him to his chambers for rounds of passionate sex.
Centuries later, during the 4th Era, in the Skyrim Divine Chalice War…
Once again, the Bull of Kyne and the Aquila Supremus of Merid-Nunda met once again in battle, axes drawn. Their Masters—or partner as Gailon called his for non save his mother were above him—stood nearby.
Gailon smirked, “It has been a long time Morihaus, hasn't it?” He whistled as he strode forward.
Morihaus snorted, grinning. “That is has Gailon. I pray you're ready for round two?”
With a mighty roar, the two ancient demigods charged, axe blows ringing through the heavens.
Thus concludes the tale of Gailon's duel with Morihaus... for now at least.
Until next time. Habere iucundum die lectorem carissimi
Editing and format done by A-Pocky-Hah.