Chapter 3: Testing

Hybrids weren't all that rare in the elder scroll's mythos considering that there was an entire species of them known as Bretons, a product of cross-breeding between man and mer. But otherwise, Jack couldn't remember ever seeing one in the games.

Jack wasn't an ultra-fan of the series. He had played Oblivion and Skyrim to death, but it wasn't like he had obsessively read every page of lore out there. If you wanted to know the definitive differences between Deadra and Adrea, he wouldn't be able to tell you, but the locations of their respective weapons... at least in the games, that was a different matter.

A few hours passed within the folds of Cicero's cloak as Jack pondered on his newfound heritage, and Jack was starting to grow bored. He wanted to cast magic again or communicate with the Jester, but he could do neither. He was still feeling the shadows of mental fatigue, it seemed he was still low on 'MP,' and his vocal cords hadn't yet developed the strength to speak properly.

Jack had almost fallen asleep in the mad killer's arms when something terrible; majestically so, came into sight shocking him into a state of fearful focus.

A pathway lit by torches; with their tinder composed of corpses, alight with vibrant purple flames. The burning dead lit Cicero's path up a mountain, and after some time spent climbing it, he reached a statue.

The night mother's tomb was at the statue's feet, almost as though it was being watched over; protected in Cicero's absence. The mad Jester placed Jack before the statue and quickly rushed towards the night mother's coffin, kneeling before it.

Jack could feel his skin crawling, the statue was one he recognised; Boethiah. Why had Cicero brought him here? Was he going to be a sacrifice to the evil deity?

"The clock maker's child..." A voice reverberated through Jack's psyche, and Jack exclaimed, "you can use telepathy!"

The statue seemed to smirk. "A minor trick mortal, yet how curious you are... it is as the clockmaker said, newborn and yet possessing knowledge; and even a connection to Aetherius, the echos of lesser magic," Boethiah's voice turned cautious, "Ha, even so, I hold no trust in his words, his bold claims! You must pass a test, only then shall I grant you my boon!"

A cold fury could be felt emanating from the goddess of rebellion, "To be my chosen, you must survive all odds, rebel against even fate itself... only then can you be of any use. If that mortal fool can not even anticipate this... what use is his plotting?"

A portal appeared before Jack and the once still statue became animated. It quickly reached down and grabbed the newborn Jack, before throwing him into the portal, "If he can survive this... Ha, it's your win sorcerer: and to the victor goes the spoils."

Passing through the portal Jack found himself in a new place once again; no longer was he in the cold tundras of Skyrim. He was now sitting, slumped over in an arena, sand beneath his feet surrounded by the granite walls of a colosseum; host to an audience of over a thousand.

Boethia's voice sounded in his head, "A battle to the death... hum, but your mortal vessel is too small, I have no interest in watching a weakling struggle for nought. A small gift to even the odds..." Boethiah chuckled sinisterly, "Just like the clockmaker asked for."

With the evil goddess's chuckle, an intense pain rattled through Jack's body. His limbs elongated, bones shattering and reforming to create a new skeleton, and his feeble muscles were torn before being rethreaded to accommodate his new frame. He was skipping years of natural growth; all the while screaming out in the utter agony of being forcefully aged.

"That should do," Boethia muttered.

With her words, the pain slowly subsided, and Jack now had the strength to stand. He clenched his hand and patted himself down getting a feel for his newly reforged body.

"I'm still small..." Jack sighed to himself, his first properly pronounced words since being reborn.

He now had the body of a ten-year-old, a vast improvement on not being able to walk or talk; but he wasn't exactly what you'd call a warrior. Small, skinny and pale; it looked like a strong breeze would knock him over.

Before Jack could fully adapt, the crowds above started to chant, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" and Jack felt a small rhythmic tremor beneath his feet, and perhaps even more ominously, there was the faint ticking of a clock.

Thinking back to his new mother's warning Jack's eyes widened as he quickly scanned around, looking for an escape route, only to confirm he was walled in on all sides. "How the hell am I supposed to run away?" He shouted, and a gate opposite him opened as if in response.

But it wasn't a way out... No, they were just letting something in. A hulking mass of muscle that Jack knew best from the Cyrodiil arena in Oblivion; a Minotaur Lord.

The creature charged right at him, "Fuck!" Jack, shouted running in the opposite direction.