AN: Alright, so I'm planning to make this a series of oneshots, as I seem to have troubles committing to a longer story. Sorry if I screwed with the gods in this one, I'm not all too familiar with the Elder Scrolls universe.

Although I do know that Talos is Uriel Septim's ancestor who ascended into divinity, which is much more than you'll ever accomplish, you lazy bum.

Disclaimer: I don't own Oblivion. Or Bethesda. It's depressing, really. I might just go and cut myself.


Chapter 1: Humble beginnings


Stendarr huffed. Suddenly creating a champion out of the blue was more hassle than it was worth. That was what reproducing was for, after all. "I think we should settle for a race and gender before working on anything else," he suggested.

"Naturally," Kynareth responded. "But I think we should wait until Akatosh and the others arrive before deciding anything."

A mere second after she had finished her sentence, the bright dragon form of the chief deity flickered into sight before them as was his prerogative, and slightly annoying habit. The other two gods acknowledged his presence respectfully.

"We are ready to begin," Stendarr said. "Where are the others?"

"Busy answering some prayers," Akatosh replied, the air around them vibrating with the deepness and volume of his voice. "Everyone should be here at any moment, save from Dibella."

The face of Kynareth furrowed in curiosity. "Oh? Why is that?"

"She is sulking because her chapel was disgraced and her priests got horrifically slaughtered by Umaril," Akatosh shrugged. "My chapel at Kvatch practically gets leveled to the ground along with the rest of the city, but I'm not complaining."

"That sodding Ayleid is back?" Kynareth exclaimed in disbelief. "Agh, some races just don't know when to stay extinct."

Her fellow deities nodded meaningfully.

"To Dibella's defense, she doesn't get a champion to fight her cause," Stendarr noted, shooting Akatosh a crooked glance.

"Our champion will fight the cause for all of us," Akatosh protested. "And for Tamriel, of course."

"But the fight against Umaril will also be a cause for all of us," Stendarr commented, somewhat thoughtfully. "Especially since he wrote a threat against us on the chapel floor with the priests' blood. That is actually rather concerning."

"Hmm, well, I suppose you have a point there," Akatosh admitted. "I'll make sure to write that into our champion's Fate."

Kynareth raised her Holy brows at this. "Wait, isn't messing with the Fate against the Rules?"

"Changing the parts of Fate that is beyond our control is against the Rules," Akatosh said with a nod of his reptile head, "but we are allowed to add things in there."

Suddenly Kynareth looked excited. "Oh… really?"

"What are you planning?" Stendarr asked circumspectly.

"Oh, nothing," said Kynareth airily. "I just figured that – well – since it is our champion after all, we might as well have some fun."

Akatosh and Stendarr gasped. "Kynareth…!"

"What? Oh, come on you two! If our champion is to follow the Fate to the letter, the poor dear will be bored to death before even having a chance at stopping that raving madman from letting Mehrunes Dagon loose on Tamriel."

"You're not doing anything without us, are you?" came the pleasant voice of Mara as she faded into view. "I hope not as we too want to be a part of it." Along with her appeared all the other gods, even Dibella, although pouting and with her arms crossed. Akatosh was pleased.

"So, all collected at last," he exclaimed, utter delight etched into his voice and facial expression. "We really should get together more often, it happens so rarely these days."

The others nodded, though knowing that this was just something he said every time they met without actually meaning anything with it. "So," he continued, "race and gender first."

"Bosmer," was Kynareth's immediate reaction. She was very fond of their natural agility and litheness, finding them fitting traits for a champion. Julianos smacked his tongue at her suggestion and shook his head disapprovingly. "Fitting for thieves and assassins perhaps, not a champion," was his snarky comment.

The dragon god opened his mouth to intervene, dreading where this discussion was heading, but was promptly interrupted by Dibella, who huffed; "as long as it isn't an Orc, they're so unappealing, or a Dunmer – they used to be fine until that cursed Azura screwed them up with their red eyes and gray skin, they look like walking corpses."

With one eye twitching in annoyance, Akatosh again prepared to speak and was yet again intercepted by another suggestion which immediately received ridicule. And as he had feared, the argument had begun.

What about Imperials – they were good warriors and wonderful diplomats, hah, perhaps, but rather dull and self-important, and wasn't this just like you, Talos, to suggest an Imperial as you used to be one yourself?

I beg your pardon -!

Oh, but what about Nords! Strong, incredibly skilled warriors and resistant to frost! Really, a Nord? Would probably stagger around blind drunk half of the time, what kind of a champion was that? Besides, Redguards were much better warriors than Nords, better than any race, really. Pfft, Redguards were so fond of war that a champion of that kind would probably never shut the Jaws of Oblivion, but instead keep them open so he or she could keep killing Daedra until their dying breath. Argonians, then? Masters of water, resistant to disease! Right, because there were just so many seas in Dagon's plane of Oblivion, right? Goodness. Unless that Argonian had plans on taking a dip in molten lava, but that could not be good to a mortal's health.

And Altmer? The most intelligent of the races really, and the most potent in the use of magicka. Also the weakest against magicka, but that's not their biggest problem – someone desperately needed to remove the sticks up the asses of the sticks up their asses, hur hur. Oh, how dare you - !

"Enough!" Akatosh' voice boomed over them, immediately rendering them all silent. He sighed. "I believe this is best left for chance. First, gender."

The chief god balled his clawed hand into a fist and opened it again, revealing a coin glittering in between splayed, godly fingers. "Heads, male. Tails, female."

Every pair of eyes was fixed on the coin as Akatosh flipped it. It twirled rapidly, almost fiercely, only slowing down at the peak of its flight before dropping back into the god's hand. He glanced swiftly down at it. "Female it is then. Alright, race might be somewhat trickier. We need a… a special dice for that, I suppose. One with ten sides, or rather, one possible outcome for every race."

And as ordered, a large, purple dice with ten sides appeared in his other hand. 1 meant Argonian champion, 2 for a Breton, 3 for a Dark Elf, and so forth.

"Why is the dice purple?" Arkay wanted to know. Akatosh shrugged.

"My favorite color," he explained.

"I thought it was red?"

"It was, but the Mythic Dawn sort of ruined it for me. Now hush, I need to concentrate while I throw this."

"Concentration hardly seems necessary for simply tossing a dice -"

"- Quiet, you!"

Arkay pressed his lips into a thin line, but did as the god instructed. With deep, godly concentration, Akatosh hurled the dice away, much more forcibly than he had intended, and the deities were left to chase after it until it clunked against the plateau and ceased its rolling voyage. They gathered around it, arching their backs and narrowing their eyes. Silence ensued for a long moment before Dibella exhaled the breath she had been keeping in anticipation out in a lamenting moan. "Oh, a Dunmer."

"Wonderful, now that's over with," Akatosh stated, sounding pleased. "Who will help decide what our champion will look like?"

"Oh, me, me!" Zenithar volunteered eagerly. He immediately proceeded to blow the poor champion's nose out of proportions, making it stand three inches in front of the rest of her face. Arkay and Stendarr instantly rushed to his aid, narrowing her head beyond what should really be allowed, parting her eyes so much they were practically located on her temples and enlarging them so much that the typical redness and bloodshot white of the Dunmeri eyes came to their full potential, which was a truly horrifying view. As her chin practically vanished into her jaw line, the trembling gods broke down into hysterical giggling, much to Talos' terrified dismay.

"No, no, no, no, no!" He gasped in shock. "No! Undo this abomination at once! Our, I mean my, great-great-something-grandson is going to have recurring dreams about this person and I will not allow that you scar his mind so horribly!"

This only seemed to encourage the gods in their creativity. They made her bald save from two long, blood-red braids which stood a stark contrast against her blue-gray complexion, the sight making Talos shriek with terror.

"Come on, knock it off!"

Her skin whitened into painfully bright luminescence and her cheeks sank into her face, giving her the gaunt appearance of a vampire. The gods now howled with laughter, their tears creating a sudden rainstorm above the Imperial City, much to the citizens' bemusement.

"You guys, this is so immature!" Talos hollered furiously. Dibella, as the Goddess of Beauty, could not stand looking at it any longer and turned away, whimpering. The deformation of their champion and deaths of her priests were just too much for her. Mara scowled disapprovingly.

"Really, how can you do this to our champion?" She asked sternly, looking profoundly disappointed in their behavior. "She'll never be able to find love looking like… that."

"Okay, you had your fun, now try to be serious about it," Akatosh ordered firmly, through rather amused. The gods muttered under their breaths, and gave the champion an ordinary Dunmeri appearance. Dibella thought she looked too plain and insisted they sexed her up a bit, but the rest of the group denied this as she would be in a prison cell opposing the one of a horny, lonely Dark Elf male named Valen Dreth. After they were done, they carelessly dumped her in her respective cell, and she fell unconscious into a heap.

"She's going to be terribly confused when she wakes up," Kynareth said, tilting her head. "And having neck pains from sleeping like that."

"Aye," Stendarr nodded. "Shouldn't we give her a name?"

"What's the point?" Akatosh sighed. "Everyone is just going to call her the Hero of Kvatch anyway. I guess we're done here… go and do your thing, Talos."

Talos cleared his throat. "Right. Uh, Uriel, my boy, when you see this face -" he pointed at the young Dunmer woman for emphasis "- this face right there, it means you're going to die. Horribly, in a damp, stinky sewer. Terribly sorry about that, but that's your fate. So… yeah. Good luck with that."


With a squeaky inhale of air, Emperor Uriel Septim promptly sat up in his bed, clinging to his sheets. Trembling, face sheathed in cold sweat, he wondered what in the Nine Divines he had just experienced, but with a sigh of relief swiftly dismissed it all as just a strange dream. He fell back onto his soft, warm mattress and descended into a sound sleep, blissfully unaware of his impending doom.