Leif on his death bed
All Leif needs to see an ass is a mirror.
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[OOC] The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed) Page 20
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All Leif needs to see an ass is a mirror.
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Writing Prompt Archive
(Part 1/2)
Meeting Another Character - Non-canon (#1):
By @Dervish
A thunderous clap filled the sky and what appeared to be a meteorite thundered through the sky like an enraged burning fist that raced to punch the ground. When the crash didn’t occur, a perplexed Do’Karth stopped flinching and covering his ears in anticipation for the deafening soundwave that was almost certain to come. In fact, things seemed strangely quiet, as if the meteorite never happened, except for a strange scent in the air that was unlike any Do’Karth was familiar with. A primal part of his mind tried to tell himself it was a burnt oil, but that immediately crumbled apart under any form of scrutiny. He looked at his modest campground he was establishing for the night, including the makeshift shelter, debating if he should leave everything behind while he went to investigate or take it with him. Looking around, he was well off the road and nothing was likely to stumble across his lake view abode in the time it took him to investigate the strange thing he had witnessed, so he decided to leave things as they were.
Cutting through the forested lands of Cyrodiil, not far from Cheydinhal, it was a rather peaceful and lovely day, and the Khajiit made good time with quarterstaff in hand, his nose twitching as followed the strange scent, feeling somewhat apprehensive about what he was about to come across. What if it was a Daedric gate, or something otherworldly such as that? Even he didn’t care for his odds of fighting something from another plane of existence.
When he came to a clearing, he finally caught sight of the meteorite; a strange metal house with a glowing pair of drums on the back looked like it had been dragged several dozen meters before coming to a stop on its own. It was a sight that defied explanation, and it made him deeply uneasy. Nothing in Tamriel looked like that.
Torn between leaving to avoid finding out what horrors waited at the house and the same curiosity that took him to Skyrim to find dragons, Do’Karth was deciding what to do when one of the only visible doors opened upwards from the siding, and a figure emerged uneasily. Do’Karth tensed until he caught sight of the figure’s face. A woman.
A human woman.
“What on Nirn…” he asked himself, flabbergast. Nothing about this was making sense. From here, he could make out the short-cut hair with a short mohawk dominating her crown and her pale face, which was only a few shades darker than the white on her armour, which resembled full plate armour in only the most superficial of ways. In her hands was some kind of weapon, not anything he’d seen before, although it reminded him very vaguely of the general shape of a crossbow. It was hard to tell if she was hostile or not.
She lifted her wrist, which was suddenly encased in an orange glow of very strangely stiff glowing magic and ahead of her emerged the strangest Atronach or Oblivion creature Do’Karth had ever witnessed. It was an orb with several translucent and shifting plates and discs, like it was some kind of Dwemer construct. Suddenly, it turned, it’s featureless “eye” staring at his direction. No, at him.
Do’Karth wanted to run, thinking he was about to come under attack, when the woman didn’t immediately react, her arms at her sides and her grey eyes locked upon Do’Karth, an eyebrow raised. She called something out to him, but he was unable to understand a word she was saying. She turned to look at her Atronach, and said something. The thing whirred and the air was filled with a soft music, almost invitingly. The woman waved at him, and he returned the gesture, to which she exclaimed something, positively from the tone of her voice, jerking a fist down in a sign of victory. She turned her attention to him, beaconing him closer. Now more curious than afraid, Do’Karth complied, walking cautiously towards the woman, who watched him approach with an expression that was not unlike his own.
Now standing a few meters from her and her Atronach, she spoke again, in a tongue that was completely foreign to him. He shook his head, gesturing he did not understand her. The Atronach whirred a bit and her voice was repeated back, in different languages this time. It was translating her words, trying to find a common thread.
“This one does not understand you…” he replied, scratching the back of his neck. The woman’s wrist began to glow again, and she poked her fingers at the magical spell she was concocting, to which to Do’Karth stood back in alarm. She raised her hands, saying a word he felt meant no repeatedly. She looked worried; not wanting to upset him. She resumed what she was doing, looking excited, and suddenly, her spell materialized a small crystal like object. She held it up to her ear, nodding a couple of times and extended her metal-clad hand to him with an open palm. He took the device, which felt nearly weightless and completely rigid. The woman nodded excitedly, gesturing to her ear again, and to his. He cautiously lifted the device to his ear and she spoke again, the words became translated in languages he did not understand. She spoke a single word extending her fingers out from her mouth each time she spoke.
“Do you wish for this one to speak?” He asked. She nodded excitedly, gesturing for him to continue.
For the next several minutes, both spoke back and forth to each other, not quite understanding what the other was saying, but the words were becoming increasingly familiar, until finally. “-ting close, I think.”
“This one understood that!” He exclaimed, surprised and utterly enraptured by the magic he was witnessing.
“Oh, thank god. I had no idea universal translator software could work for first contact…” she said excitedly, trailing off, and staring at Do’Karth. “And I realize I just spent the last twenty minutes talking to a bloody cat.” She said, blinking. Her accident sounded somewhat like a Breton.
“Are you a Breton?” he asked, his confusion renewed.
“A Britain? How could you possibly know what Britain is or where I was born… wait. You aren’t reading my mind are you?” She asked, eyes wide with a slow blink.
Do’Karth uttered a confused non-committal sound from the back of his throat. “Do’Karth does not think so…? Your magic worries him.” He admitted. Britain? Was that how it was actually pronounced?
The woman ran her glove through her hair, perplexed. “Steal a shuttle, they said. You’ll get paid a bonus for it, they said. Bloody hell, did I hit my head harder than I thought? I’m imagining this, aren’t I?”
“This one is fairly certain he is real.” Do’Karth replied, wondering if the woman was crazy or concussed.
She blinked, slapping herself gently across the face. “Okay. Definitely awake. And strange cat-person, magic isn’t real. I know I’m not supposed to be showing non-uplifted species advanced tech, but fuck it, I’m not an anthropologist and you sure as shit don’t look like a krogan.” She paused, looking back at her house. “I need a bloody drink.”
She stepped away, climbing inside her home, and came out with a container that opened mechanically, kind of like a Dwemer chest. Inside were packages and utensils. She pulled a bottle out that looked like rum.
“This is whiskey. Do you drink? And if so, I sure as hope we share amino-acid classification because I would hate to murder the first new species humanity’s discovered in decades because you couldn’t tolerate it.” The woman said, screwing the bottle open and pouring one glass, handing it over to Do’Karth. She knocked it back and drank right from the bottle, as if it were water. The Khajiit sniffed it, and took a sip. It was both extremely potent, but it tasted pure and not at all gritty like most alcohol he’d tried. He obviously made a face, because the woman offered a cheeky grin. “Sorry, pal, it’s all I have. So what the hell is a Do’Karth?”
“…It is this one’s name.” he answered meekly.
The woman blinked. “So you talk in the third person? Great. A talking cougar who wears people clothes and talks about himself like a bloody hanar. This is getting stupid.”
“This one did not mean to offend you. He is just… out of his element.” Do’Karth replied.
“You’re even polite like a hanar. I guess it could be worse; you could be trying to eat me.” The woman replied, knocking back her bottle.
“Why would Do’Karth eat a human?” He asked, perturbed. “He is in a courtship with a human woman, a Nord-“
The woman covered her mouth with her arm, suppressing a hard cough after choking on her drink. “The fuck? Roll back a tick. A human?”
“This one tends to get that reaction from the purists, yes.”
“I mean, yeah, it’s weird, but people from where I’m from hook up with alien species all the time, like we have this, uh, bird-reptile who’s been fucking another one of her species and a frog-lizard guy and… okay, yeah, when I think about it, interspecies buggery is hardly the strangest thing I’ve run across. But there’s humans on this planet? How did none of them tell the galactic community about this planet? Is it all cat people-“
“Khajiit.”
“Okay, Khajiit, sure. Is it all you people and humans here? What about turians, or asari, or salarians?” the woman asked, excited.
Do’Karth blinked, shaking his head. “This one wants to pretend you are just naming off high elf meals. He does not understand a word of that.”
“Elves… you have got to be fucking with me.” The woman said, hitting the bottle again. “Just I just crash land in a Tolkein novel?” she demanded.
“Tolkein… is that one of your story tellers?” He asked, trying to piece together everything she was saying. Frog-lizards?
“Yeah, he wrote a few books nearly 300 years ago about some short guy called a Hobbit who went to throw some magic ring into a volcano because it was pure evil or whatever while palling around with a king, a few of his Hobbit midget pals, a dwarf and an elf, all while dodging orcs and running into talking trees and shit. They were popular, kind of inspired a bunch of fantasy stuff.” The woman explained.
Do’Karth blinked rapidly. Wherever she had come from, things that were regular in his world were fictional characters? “We have orcs, the Dwemer were sometimes called dwarves, and there are forest spirits that are called Spriggans that are kind of like talking trees…”
“I really need to stop finding new ways to be both surprised and half tempted to call out bullshit, but today is one of those days where my expectations are getting dashed most expertly. So your orcs are a bunch of marauding savage twisted and deformed elves that slaughter innocent people and work for the most powerful evil entity of all time that wants to rule the world?”
“Well, many orcs can be described as barbarians, and they do like fighting and warfare, but Do’Karth wouldn’t call them savages, and they worship Malacath, but he is a Daedra that is something of a warrior outcast. What you are describing sounds like Mehrunes Dagon, who invaded Tamriel two hundred years ago trying to conquer it with his Daedric hordes.” Do’Karth explained.
The woman just blinked. “I’m just going to stop asking questions I’m not ready for the answer at this point and overlook the fact you just implied your gods are real. I’m Tanya, by the way. Tanya Carson. I come from some planet called Terra Nova that’s a number of star systems away, and this planet is in uncharted space and completely hurting my bloody mind. So, humans. Are they nearby?”
Do’Karth nodded, gesturing to the Northeast. “There is a city called Cheydinhal about two hours from here. He could take you, if you wish?” he offered.
“That’s mighty kind of you, I may take you up on that if I don’t get a reply for my distress signal soon. I doubt anyone here’s capable of entering a sophisticated spaceflight capable shuttle, let alone knowing how to operate it.” She replied, looking up at the Atronach, which pivoted. “Looks like we have company.”
She stood up, setting her bottle down, and Do’Karth rose his feet, turning to the source of interest. A group of armed men, two Imperials and an Orc, approached, weapons drawn, including a bow. Do’Karth knew he could slip away to fight in more favourable terrain with relative ease, but what of his companion?
“They are bandits. The green one is an orc.” Do’Karth mentioned.
“What, seriously? I mean, I know a few people who would be attracted to that, if you got rid of the tusks.” She said to him, stepping forward. “Hello there. My friend here tells me you three are a bunch of cunts. That true?”
The three bandits looked at each other, confused. Right, universal translator. she thought.
Apparently deciding that they weren’t going to get anything out of her through dialog, Do’Karth stepped forward, ready to protect from a charge, when one of the Imperials loosed an arrow, impacting Tanya’s chest and stopping dead with a shimmering blue glow. She looked down at the broken arrow at her feet. “Right. Cunts it is, then. Shithead, resume playlist. Full volume.”
The Atronach suddenly emitted a painfully loud sound that sounded like music that was churned out of the most hellish pits of Oblivion with a slow, ponderous voice growling some kind of lyrics that Do’Karth did not understand. His ears flattened and he cringed at the unexpected volume, but still caught sight of Tanya pulling the strange crossbow-like weapon from the small of her back, which extended out into a longer weapon that she held with both hands. Raising it up to her line of sight, the weapon exploded out the end with a blinding blue flash, and almost instantly, the archer collapsed to the ground, a large hole bored out of his chest. The other two bandits turned to run, and she elected not to pull the trigger a second time. “I come in peace, assholes! Don’t fuck with me; I’m from the future!” She called out to them, hopefully cementing the idea that trying to rob strangers was bad for your life expectancy. When they were clear, she turned to the Atronach once more. “Hey, Shithead. Pause feedback.” She instructed it. Everything went silent again.
“So, aren’t you glad you decided to be-“ she started, turning to Do’Karth, who was bowing on the ground, looking both astonished and terrified. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Are you… a god?” he asked, awe in his voice.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She groaned.
A thunderous clap filled the sky and what appeared to be a meteorite thundered through the sky like an enraged burning fist that raced to punch the ground. When the crash didn’t occur, a perplexed Do’Karth stopped flinching and covering his ears in anticipation for the deafening soundwave that was almost certain to come. In fact, things seemed strangely quiet, as if the meteorite never happened, except for a strange scent in the air that was unlike any Do’Karth was familiar with. A primal part of his mind tried to tell himself it was a burnt oil, but that immediately crumbled apart under any form of scrutiny. He looked at his modest campground he was establishing for the night, including the makeshift shelter, debating if he should leave everything behind while he went to investigate or take it with him. Looking around, he was well off the road and nothing was likely to stumble across his lake view abode in the time it took him to investigate the strange thing he had witnessed, so he decided to leave things as they were.
Cutting through the forested lands of Cyrodiil, not far from Cheydinhal, it was a rather peaceful and lovely day, and the Khajiit made good time with quarterstaff in hand, his nose twitching as followed the strange scent, feeling somewhat apprehensive about what he was about to come across. What if it was a Daedric gate, or something otherworldly such as that? Even he didn’t care for his odds of fighting something from another plane of existence.
When he came to a clearing, he finally caught sight of the meteorite; a strange metal house with a glowing pair of drums on the back looked like it had been dragged several dozen meters before coming to a stop on its own. It was a sight that defied explanation, and it made him deeply uneasy. Nothing in Tamriel looked like that.
Torn between leaving to avoid finding out what horrors waited at the house and the same curiosity that took him to Skyrim to find dragons, Do’Karth was deciding what to do when one of the only visible doors opened upwards from the siding, and a figure emerged uneasily. Do’Karth tensed until he caught sight of the figure’s face. A woman.
A human woman.
“What on Nirn…” he asked himself, flabbergast. Nothing about this was making sense. From here, he could make out the short-cut hair with a short mohawk dominating her crown and her pale face, which was only a few shades darker than the white on her armour, which resembled full plate armour in only the most superficial of ways. In her hands was some kind of weapon, not anything he’d seen before, although it reminded him very vaguely of the general shape of a crossbow. It was hard to tell if she was hostile or not.
She lifted her wrist, which was suddenly encased in an orange glow of very strangely stiff glowing magic and ahead of her emerged the strangest Atronach or Oblivion creature Do’Karth had ever witnessed. It was an orb with several translucent and shifting plates and discs, like it was some kind of Dwemer construct. Suddenly, it turned, it’s featureless “eye” staring at his direction. No, at him.
Do’Karth wanted to run, thinking he was about to come under attack, when the woman didn’t immediately react, her arms at her sides and her grey eyes locked upon Do’Karth, an eyebrow raised. She called something out to him, but he was unable to understand a word she was saying. She turned to look at her Atronach, and said something. The thing whirred and the air was filled with a soft music, almost invitingly. The woman waved at him, and he returned the gesture, to which she exclaimed something, positively from the tone of her voice, jerking a fist down in a sign of victory. She turned her attention to him, beaconing him closer. Now more curious than afraid, Do’Karth complied, walking cautiously towards the woman, who watched him approach with an expression that was not unlike his own.
Now standing a few meters from her and her Atronach, she spoke again, in a tongue that was completely foreign to him. He shook his head, gesturing he did not understand her. The Atronach whirred a bit and her voice was repeated back, in different languages this time. It was translating her words, trying to find a common thread.
“This one does not understand you…” he replied, scratching the back of his neck. The woman’s wrist began to glow again, and she poked her fingers at the magical spell she was concocting, to which to Do’Karth stood back in alarm. She raised her hands, saying a word he felt meant no repeatedly. She looked worried; not wanting to upset him. She resumed what she was doing, looking excited, and suddenly, her spell materialized a small crystal like object. She held it up to her ear, nodding a couple of times and extended her metal-clad hand to him with an open palm. He took the device, which felt nearly weightless and completely rigid. The woman nodded excitedly, gesturing to her ear again, and to his. He cautiously lifted the device to his ear and she spoke again, the words became translated in languages he did not understand. She spoke a single word extending her fingers out from her mouth each time she spoke.
“Do you wish for this one to speak?” He asked. She nodded excitedly, gesturing for him to continue.
For the next several minutes, both spoke back and forth to each other, not quite understanding what the other was saying, but the words were becoming increasingly familiar, until finally. “-ting close, I think.”
“This one understood that!” He exclaimed, surprised and utterly enraptured by the magic he was witnessing.
“Oh, thank god. I had no idea universal translator software could work for first contact…” she said excitedly, trailing off, and staring at Do’Karth. “And I realize I just spent the last twenty minutes talking to a bloody cat.” She said, blinking. Her accident sounded somewhat like a Breton.
“Are you a Breton?” he asked, his confusion renewed.
“A Britain? How could you possibly know what Britain is or where I was born… wait. You aren’t reading my mind are you?” She asked, eyes wide with a slow blink.
Do’Karth uttered a confused non-committal sound from the back of his throat. “Do’Karth does not think so…? Your magic worries him.” He admitted. Britain? Was that how it was actually pronounced?
The woman ran her glove through her hair, perplexed. “Steal a shuttle, they said. You’ll get paid a bonus for it, they said. Bloody hell, did I hit my head harder than I thought? I’m imagining this, aren’t I?”
“This one is fairly certain he is real.” Do’Karth replied, wondering if the woman was crazy or concussed.
She blinked, slapping herself gently across the face. “Okay. Definitely awake. And strange cat-person, magic isn’t real. I know I’m not supposed to be showing non-uplifted species advanced tech, but fuck it, I’m not an anthropologist and you sure as shit don’t look like a krogan.” She paused, looking back at her house. “I need a bloody drink.”
She stepped away, climbing inside her home, and came out with a container that opened mechanically, kind of like a Dwemer chest. Inside were packages and utensils. She pulled a bottle out that looked like rum.
“This is whiskey. Do you drink? And if so, I sure as hope we share amino-acid classification because I would hate to murder the first new species humanity’s discovered in decades because you couldn’t tolerate it.” The woman said, screwing the bottle open and pouring one glass, handing it over to Do’Karth. She knocked it back and drank right from the bottle, as if it were water. The Khajiit sniffed it, and took a sip. It was both extremely potent, but it tasted pure and not at all gritty like most alcohol he’d tried. He obviously made a face, because the woman offered a cheeky grin. “Sorry, pal, it’s all I have. So what the hell is a Do’Karth?”
“…It is this one’s name.” he answered meekly.
The woman blinked. “So you talk in the third person? Great. A talking cougar who wears people clothes and talks about himself like a bloody hanar. This is getting stupid.”
“This one did not mean to offend you. He is just… out of his element.” Do’Karth replied.
“You’re even polite like a hanar. I guess it could be worse; you could be trying to eat me.” The woman replied, knocking back her bottle.
“Why would Do’Karth eat a human?” He asked, perturbed. “He is in a courtship with a human woman, a Nord-“
The woman covered her mouth with her arm, suppressing a hard cough after choking on her drink. “The fuck? Roll back a tick. A human?”
“This one tends to get that reaction from the purists, yes.”
“I mean, yeah, it’s weird, but people from where I’m from hook up with alien species all the time, like we have this, uh, bird-reptile who’s been fucking another one of her species and a frog-lizard guy and… okay, yeah, when I think about it, interspecies buggery is hardly the strangest thing I’ve run across. But there’s humans on this planet? How did none of them tell the galactic community about this planet? Is it all cat people-“
“Khajiit.”
“Okay, Khajiit, sure. Is it all you people and humans here? What about turians, or asari, or salarians?” the woman asked, excited.
Do’Karth blinked, shaking his head. “This one wants to pretend you are just naming off high elf meals. He does not understand a word of that.”
“Elves… you have got to be fucking with me.” The woman said, hitting the bottle again. “Just I just crash land in a Tolkein novel?” she demanded.
“Tolkein… is that one of your story tellers?” He asked, trying to piece together everything she was saying. Frog-lizards?
“Yeah, he wrote a few books nearly 300 years ago about some short guy called a Hobbit who went to throw some magic ring into a volcano because it was pure evil or whatever while palling around with a king, a few of his Hobbit midget pals, a dwarf and an elf, all while dodging orcs and running into talking trees and shit. They were popular, kind of inspired a bunch of fantasy stuff.” The woman explained.
Do’Karth blinked rapidly. Wherever she had come from, things that were regular in his world were fictional characters? “We have orcs, the Dwemer were sometimes called dwarves, and there are forest spirits that are called Spriggans that are kind of like talking trees…”
“I really need to stop finding new ways to be both surprised and half tempted to call out bullshit, but today is one of those days where my expectations are getting dashed most expertly. So your orcs are a bunch of marauding savage twisted and deformed elves that slaughter innocent people and work for the most powerful evil entity of all time that wants to rule the world?”
“Well, many orcs can be described as barbarians, and they do like fighting and warfare, but Do’Karth wouldn’t call them savages, and they worship Malacath, but he is a Daedra that is something of a warrior outcast. What you are describing sounds like Mehrunes Dagon, who invaded Tamriel two hundred years ago trying to conquer it with his Daedric hordes.” Do’Karth explained.
The woman just blinked. “I’m just going to stop asking questions I’m not ready for the answer at this point and overlook the fact you just implied your gods are real. I’m Tanya, by the way. Tanya Carson. I come from some planet called Terra Nova that’s a number of star systems away, and this planet is in uncharted space and completely hurting my bloody mind. So, humans. Are they nearby?”
Do’Karth nodded, gesturing to the Northeast. “There is a city called Cheydinhal about two hours from here. He could take you, if you wish?” he offered.
“That’s mighty kind of you, I may take you up on that if I don’t get a reply for my distress signal soon. I doubt anyone here’s capable of entering a sophisticated spaceflight capable shuttle, let alone knowing how to operate it.” She replied, looking up at the Atronach, which pivoted. “Looks like we have company.”
She stood up, setting her bottle down, and Do’Karth rose his feet, turning to the source of interest. A group of armed men, two Imperials and an Orc, approached, weapons drawn, including a bow. Do’Karth knew he could slip away to fight in more favourable terrain with relative ease, but what of his companion?
“They are bandits. The green one is an orc.” Do’Karth mentioned.
“What, seriously? I mean, I know a few people who would be attracted to that, if you got rid of the tusks.” She said to him, stepping forward. “Hello there. My friend here tells me you three are a bunch of cunts. That true?”
The three bandits looked at each other, confused. Right, universal translator. she thought.
Apparently deciding that they weren’t going to get anything out of her through dialog, Do’Karth stepped forward, ready to protect from a charge, when one of the Imperials loosed an arrow, impacting Tanya’s chest and stopping dead with a shimmering blue glow. She looked down at the broken arrow at her feet. “Right. Cunts it is, then. Shithead, resume playlist. Full volume.”
The Atronach suddenly emitted a painfully loud sound that sounded like music that was churned out of the most hellish pits of Oblivion with a slow, ponderous voice growling some kind of lyrics that Do’Karth did not understand. His ears flattened and he cringed at the unexpected volume, but still caught sight of Tanya pulling the strange crossbow-like weapon from the small of her back, which extended out into a longer weapon that she held with both hands. Raising it up to her line of sight, the weapon exploded out the end with a blinding blue flash, and almost instantly, the archer collapsed to the ground, a large hole bored out of his chest. The other two bandits turned to run, and she elected not to pull the trigger a second time. “I come in peace, assholes! Don’t fuck with me; I’m from the future!” She called out to them, hopefully cementing the idea that trying to rob strangers was bad for your life expectancy. When they were clear, she turned to the Atronach once more. “Hey, Shithead. Pause feedback.” She instructed it. Everything went silent again.
“So, aren’t you glad you decided to be-“ she started, turning to Do’Karth, who was bowing on the ground, looking both astonished and terrified. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Are you… a god?” he asked, awe in his voice.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She groaned.
By @Leidenschaft
The Reach
4e212
The rain may have given up, but the wind was still determined as ever to ruin Solveig's day. The Reach was known for the stuff, nothing but rocks, hills, and wind. And Forsworn, she thought, looking at her bandaged palm, the fabric turned brown where the knife had stuck right through her hand. The one holding it thankfully fared far worse than her. It had been a long time since she'd seen the others, for all she knew, the Forsworn had got them. She closed her eyes and sighed at the thought, then shook her head and put her hands out to the pitiful fire she'd managed to light. Wood was not one of those three things the Reach was known for. Her eyes turned to the darkening sky, what she would give for some company. Or a map. Or to just be back home with ma or that crotchety Long-Ear she called her husband. Especially him, she reckoned she had some explaining and some apologizing to do after how she left.
The sound of clinking armour and the sounds of loose stones being disturbed upon the rocky landscape of the Reach suddenly broke the calm of the night, a decidedly man-made disruption to the natural order that was not elk, bear, nor wolf, but the sound of an intelligent and well-off danger that was doubtless attracted to the light. Soon, the darkened steel plates of Nord-crafted steel reflected the fire's light back towards Solveig, and the figure's eyes reflected back in an eerie amber glow. Adorned in the armour was a Khajiit woman, a striking greatsword in one hand, and a pair of dead snared hares in the other.
She stood outside of the pictured safe ring of the encampment and stared back at the Nord woman. "I need that." she said, raising her massive blade towards the flames. Without asking for permission, the Khajiit stepped forward, taking a knee by the fire and setting the hares down. The sword remained in her grasp.
"I'll share the fire if you share the food." Solveig said. One of her requests was answered, at least. Though, she was really hoping for some other kind of company, the kind that didn't step out in full armor with a big fuck-off blade in hand. After learning how shitty being stabbed with a little blade was, she didn't fancy the prospect of seeing if it hurt more the bigger the blade was. Even so, she'd never seen a Khajiit running with Forsworn. But bandits... "Are four of your friends waiting farther back while one of them nocks an arrow at me?"
"People are a liability. If I really wanted to take what you have, we wouldn't be having this little chat. I misplaced my tinderbox about five leagues East, so rather than eat raw meat, I decided to make due with what little choice I have." She looked up at Solveig, her expression unchanging, before deciding the woman wasn't going to do anything stupid. Setting herself down into a cross-legged seating position, the Khajiit set down her sword and pulled an orcish dagger from her hip and began to cut into one of the hares.
"I misplaced my band somewhere between here and another nameless hill. Seems we both lost something then." The half-drawn knife returned to its place at the small of her back as she rested her forearms against her knees, sitting in the same cross-leg style the Khajiit was. "I don't see many Khajiit wearing full-armor, much less full Nord plate. Or carrying blades big as yours." Solveig sucked her teeth as she took in the Khajiit while she set to work on one of the hares.
The Khajiit didn't look up from her task, pulling the pelt from the hare with a single firm tug. It clearly wasn't the first time she'd done this. "And now you have. How observant." She replied deadpan, continuing to work on dressing the animal.
Her eyes went back up to the sky for two reasons, to roll, and to ask the Gods why they loved to laugh at her. She should've asked for friendly company, but it was too late for that now. What was it the Khajiit said, make due with what little choice she had? She shifted in her seat on the dirt and sighed. "Spent much time in Skyrim?" She tried at some kind of conversation again.
The Khajiit glanced up. "For a Nord, you ask a lot of questions. I've spent enough time in Skyrim to know it's about as miserable and inhospitable as anywhere else I've been, just a lot colder. Same wildlife wants to eat you," she punctuated this by cracking open the hare's ribs with the tip of the tagged blade. "Bandits don't really change much. People see a lone woman traveling and think you're someone to fuck with. Doesn't really matter where you are, really. Nothing changes between place to place that actually matters." she said, rolling her jaw. Her manner of speaking was decidedly quite different from Do'Karth's, and even her accent was greatly diminished. "Skyrim. Morrowind. Cyrodiil. Argonia. Trees, lakes, and utterly hostile when you leave cities. I will say I don't miss the damned swamps and diseases down South, though. I prefer things I can kill that don't involve me having to knock back a pint of piss-flavoured elixir."
"I see." Solveig clucked her tongue, picking at a fingernail. If she wasn't such a bitch, maybe she'd like her. She remembered that was how one of Rorik Four-Faces band was, right before she scarred him in the Circle. She wasn't in any mind to draw Circles in the dirt for no reason, so she'd have to put up with this woman until she moved on. "Yet you're still on the roads, eh? I knew a Khajiit traveler once, friends with my father." 'He was nicer than you' she left unsaid, "Told me the only ones that leave Elsweyr have to have some damn good reasons."
The Khajiit remained quiet for a moment, her butchery of her meal slowed down in thought. "He wasn't wrong. I'm looking for someone that I probably will never find, but he's the reason I'm alive... not by choice." she added with some slight reluctance. "It's a task that will likely never be concluded, but it's one I have to do. It isn't something you simply walk away from." the edge in her voice had diminished somewhat, but there was hardly warmth. "Rare for a Nord to befriend a Khajiit. Usually your kin like to lock them out of the cities, probably because they're afraid of eating something that's cooked with more appeal than boiled mutton and whatever passes as fish up here."
She nodded, eyes going back to a face she hadn't seen in a long while, "I had the same quest once. I found him, tried to get answers, tried to get him to settle down. I loved him," She shook her head, "I still do, I mean, all the good it did for anything. Men don't learn, they think they're right all up until they run into something that proves they aren't." She shrugged.
"I'm not like most. Nord or woman." She chuckled, "I do admit that we're not known for our chefs or food. High Rock's back west if you're looking for banquet halls and sweet-meats." Both sounded good right then.
"Who was he?" the Khajiit asked. "I find most people don't really learn, men or women. Get an idea in their head, and they tend to not let it go easily. I speak from personal experience. As for High Rock, I'm actually heading there now, figure it's easier to pass through Hammerfell than go up into the far North. I can't say I cherish the idea; High Rock sounds like the most pompous place imaginable with people who smile to your face and stab you in the back. At least with Nords one knows where you stand. Your people are straight forward. I admire that." she said, finished with the one hare, setting it down on her pack as she found a decently thick stick to start wittling down with her blade.
"Not lover, nothing like that. That man's still alive, he's probably deep in his books. The one I was looking for was my father. His name was Jorwen Red-Bear, a good man to most that knew him." She frowned, clearing her throat in a fist before asking, "The man you're after, love him or hate him?"
"Never met him. Half-brother." She made an annoyed huff out her nostril. "Probably sounds insane and stupid, and I agree. Doesn't change the need."
She raised an eyebrow, "Still doesn't answer my question."
The Khajiit snorted. "Of course it does. How can you love someone you've never met? A part of me resents him, but that's countered by the fact the only reason I am alive is because of him. Tragedy befell my family, he was taken, I was what they got in turn. It wasn't a good upbringing. So, does my interrogator have a name?"
"Solveig. I don't like my earned one." She said simply, "Yours?"
"Marassa. You mean to say you aren't fond of the strange cultural relic Nords cling to that being called a silly name validates you?" she asked with a terse smile.
"Not the Name it gave me. Bad memories. I was supposed to put down my spear after what I did. 'I'm not my father,' I'd said." She shrugged, "I cheated, I just left the spear at home for this last job. I suppose the Mister is clucking his tongue and rolling his eye at that," A soft smile as she stared into the fire, remembering she had a Dunmer waiting for her at home, before it fell away, "It's not a nice, honorable, heroic story behind it."
"Never apologise for surviving. Anyone who tries to tell you what you've done is immoral or wrong has never had to make a difficult decision in their life that would have had a difficult outcome regardless." Marassa said, staring at Solveig with a determined glare. "All deciding to put your weapon down results in is the situation where it won't be there when you need it most. Your enemies won't ever grow softer. Make sure they never grow older."
Solveig gave her old wolf's grin, "I like that." She said, replacing that fierce smile she'd earned her Name with with a softer one, "And I wish you told me that seven years ago. The path that takes you to down to the blackest deeds isn't rough or steep, you hardly know you've gotten any lower until you look back at where you started and notice it hurts to look back up that far. 'You pick a path' my father said, 'you tell yourself it'll only be for today or a couple more, you only realize its too late to go back before you realize you picked it for life.'"
"I made sure the men that wronged my father were nothing but ash and I spitted the fucker's head that took him from me. 'I'm not my father' I said, even though everyone around me was telling me otherwise." She shrugged, "It is what it is. Reckon he'd like you though, my father."
"Why, because he's fond of collecting cats?" Marassa asked half-jokingly.
Solveig gave a little laugh, "He and I can appreciate a fellow warrior. He was fond of big fuck-off blades like yours too. His was older than me even."
Marassa picked up her sword with both hands, it was obviously quite well-used, but meticulously cared for. "Skyforge Steel. It was a gift from my mentor when I was younger before I set out on my journey. He was an adventurer, wrote a few books, decided to open a dojo instead of fully retiring. All the money I paid him over the years to teach me how to use a blade was put aside for this weapon. He said, 'A blade is only as good as the one who wields it, but a good blade will never fail you'. I suppose he wanted to make sure I had the best chance possible, given that I wasn't going to be deterred." she replied, setting it down across her knees.
"I can't imagine your father would care for me for long. Companions come and go, but I've never subscribed to lofty ideals or causes. All that matters is doing what I set out to do, to Oblivion to anyone else. Thing is, a legacy and reputation are something that others give you. It only matters if you bother to listen and take it to heart, and I really do not. Some on the trail behind me would describe me as a feral beast who cut down their brothers and fathers without feeling only to pick their pockets clean. Others would describe me as someone who saved them from rapists, thieves, and murderers. To them, I could do no wrong. What does it matter? I won't see those people again, and even if I did, I know who I am, they can come up with whatever tale suits their feeble needs." the Khajiit explained, starting work on the second hare.
"Solveig, you aren't your father... Jorwen, was it? People want to pair you up with him because you share blood. It's stupid. If you live your life trying to prove how different you are, or how similar you are, to him, then all you're doing is suiting their needs. You are your own person, your own warrior. To Oblivion with anyone who gets in the way of that. They don't get to decide your fate. You do." Marassa concluded, eyes down on her work.
"Aye, I've stopped trying to apologize or hating myself for the things I've done. I've tried to live my life not giving a single stray fleck of piss about people's opinions. Being young, though, you do it for the wrong reasons. It's more spite than it is for my own independence. I was more a boat being pushed along by the tides than I realized, and the worst part is I was the only person on that boat, crossing my arms and refusing to pick up the oars." She shook her head, "For what it's worth, Marassa, I hope you find your half-brother. And I hope it goes the way you've seen it going. If not, we Nords have a saying, should the sail fail you, take to the oars. Men are stubborn and they only get more stubborn as they age. My husband is a hundred or more summers old, think on that." She laughed.
Marassa chuckled. "I know all about making stupid and wrong decisions due to youth. It's how I got where I am today. The boat analogy is somewhat lost on me, I'm afraid; I've never been on one in my life, but I think I understand what you're saying. Do not be stubborn for the sake of pride and do your part if it's better for everyone." She said, finishing the second hair and repeating the wittling ritual. "I appreciate that. I honestly don't expect to find him, but I can't say the road's entirely bad. Maybe I'll find something that seems more important than chasing down ghosts, but I sure haven't found it yet."
She looked over at Solveig, crooking her head. "What exactly do you have in common with someone who's lived your life five times over?" she asked, more out of curiosity than cruelty.
Solveig smiled softly and shrugged, "Love is a strange thing. I told you I'm not like most- Nord or woman. Especially both, in my marriage. A Nord usually doesn't find what she wants in a Long-Ear." She chuckled, "And you aren't missing much with boats. You wouldn't be able to get me on one with the experiences I've had on them." She cringed with the memories. "I know I don't have to tell you this, but you often do find more important things than living your life for someone else. In my pursuit of my father, I found the man who would be my husband. He's half the reason I put down my spear."
"I can't say I could compare journals on love, it simply hasn't factored into my life. So, is this elf husband of yours with your misplaced companions? Seems like he shouldn't have left your side if you were traveling together." Marassa observed. "Something happens on the road, no one ever friends out. I don't have anyone waiting for me, so if I finally find someone better than me, there's never going to be someone wondering why I never made it home. You, however, have a lot riding on your return. How did you get separated?"
"He's home. He put down his sword, I wasn't going to make him betray his own promises. There was an argument before I left, I told him Id' be home. If the things we faced down together couldn't kill me, then nothing could, I said." She held up her bandaged hand, "It doesn't keep some from trying. Reachmen here don't take kindly to Nords in their hills and mountains."
Marassa smiled tersely. "Try being a Khajiit anywhere but Elsweyr. You would think all the lords and Jarls had an open season on our hides. Reachmen are vicious, but they sure are underwhelming in the equipment. I've actually cut a man in half in these parts; it was rather unexpected." she said. "I'm not sure what made you decide to walk the road again instead of joining him in the pursuit of getting old and fat, but if you have need of another sword to find where you're going, you need only ask. From one woman to another, traveling alone is dangerous and stupid. I tell myself that every day when I wake up, keeps my expectations for strangers modest."
"Well, I'm not a big, ugly bandit missing half his teeth that hasn't seen a woman who would rip his guts out if he so much as turned in her direction." Solveig chuckled, "If we do spend the next few days on the road, we'd be heading away from your destination, sadly. I live back in Whiterun, where I started my life. Figure there's something ironically poetic in spending your life only to go back to where you started it. Whiterun feels like home though."
"I'll have to take you at your word; Skyrim doesn't tend to let Khajiit inside of the walls. It's mostly the caravans, but imagine how you reacted when you first saw me multiplied by a number of individuals who think that Khajiit are only thieves and smugglers and you end up with a lot of nights out of doors." She shrugged, handing off one of the hares on a stick to Solveig. "Besides, that's one of the perks of searching for eternity; you've nothing but time. I've been at this a few years. Sometimes to get where you need to go, you have to walk the way you came."
Solveig took the offered hare and held it over the fire, her eyes going to the dirt under her at what Marassa just said. Getting old and fat wasn't something she was ready for, nor did she feel she would ever be. Even if that scarred Long-Ear was at her side the whole way. Sometimes, though, to get where you need to go, you have to walk the way you came. She smiled softly at that, huffing out of her nose quietly at that unintentional piece of wisdom, "Aye, sometimes you do, I reckon." She nodded, "My name's a little known. The guards shouldn't hassle you if they see a Nord with you. I am glad we crossed paths, for every woman like me, there's ten men."
The Khajiit nodded. "Might as well use your name for something useful. I'm relieved I found a traveling companion that seems to have a good head and at least a number of good tales under her belt. The road can be dull, I'm grateful to have stumbled across your light." she said with a slight smile.
Her eyes went up to the sky for the third time that night, maybe the Gods weren't so malicious after all. She slowly turned the spit with thumb and forefinger, a smile on her face and a good companion at her fire. The wind had died down somewhat sometime between Marassa's rough arrival and her gradual opening-up. It was turning out to not be a bad night, hopefully by this time in two days, she'd be back with that gumpy-arse of a Dunmer at their hearth, sharing tales with Marassa, if she stayed. Sure enough, she'd have some good tales to tell, being traveled. "Aye, always good to find those who are the dependable sort."
The Reach
4e212
The rain may have given up, but the wind was still determined as ever to ruin Solveig's day. The Reach was known for the stuff, nothing but rocks, hills, and wind. And Forsworn, she thought, looking at her bandaged palm, the fabric turned brown where the knife had stuck right through her hand. The one holding it thankfully fared far worse than her. It had been a long time since she'd seen the others, for all she knew, the Forsworn had got them. She closed her eyes and sighed at the thought, then shook her head and put her hands out to the pitiful fire she'd managed to light. Wood was not one of those three things the Reach was known for. Her eyes turned to the darkening sky, what she would give for some company. Or a map. Or to just be back home with ma or that crotchety Long-Ear she called her husband. Especially him, she reckoned she had some explaining and some apologizing to do after how she left.
The sound of clinking armour and the sounds of loose stones being disturbed upon the rocky landscape of the Reach suddenly broke the calm of the night, a decidedly man-made disruption to the natural order that was not elk, bear, nor wolf, but the sound of an intelligent and well-off danger that was doubtless attracted to the light. Soon, the darkened steel plates of Nord-crafted steel reflected the fire's light back towards Solveig, and the figure's eyes reflected back in an eerie amber glow. Adorned in the armour was a Khajiit woman, a striking greatsword in one hand, and a pair of dead snared hares in the other.
She stood outside of the pictured safe ring of the encampment and stared back at the Nord woman. "I need that." she said, raising her massive blade towards the flames. Without asking for permission, the Khajiit stepped forward, taking a knee by the fire and setting the hares down. The sword remained in her grasp.
"I'll share the fire if you share the food." Solveig said. One of her requests was answered, at least. Though, she was really hoping for some other kind of company, the kind that didn't step out in full armor with a big fuck-off blade in hand. After learning how shitty being stabbed with a little blade was, she didn't fancy the prospect of seeing if it hurt more the bigger the blade was. Even so, she'd never seen a Khajiit running with Forsworn. But bandits... "Are four of your friends waiting farther back while one of them nocks an arrow at me?"
"People are a liability. If I really wanted to take what you have, we wouldn't be having this little chat. I misplaced my tinderbox about five leagues East, so rather than eat raw meat, I decided to make due with what little choice I have." She looked up at Solveig, her expression unchanging, before deciding the woman wasn't going to do anything stupid. Setting herself down into a cross-legged seating position, the Khajiit set down her sword and pulled an orcish dagger from her hip and began to cut into one of the hares.
"I misplaced my band somewhere between here and another nameless hill. Seems we both lost something then." The half-drawn knife returned to its place at the small of her back as she rested her forearms against her knees, sitting in the same cross-leg style the Khajiit was. "I don't see many Khajiit wearing full-armor, much less full Nord plate. Or carrying blades big as yours." Solveig sucked her teeth as she took in the Khajiit while she set to work on one of the hares.
The Khajiit didn't look up from her task, pulling the pelt from the hare with a single firm tug. It clearly wasn't the first time she'd done this. "And now you have. How observant." She replied deadpan, continuing to work on dressing the animal.
Her eyes went back up to the sky for two reasons, to roll, and to ask the Gods why they loved to laugh at her. She should've asked for friendly company, but it was too late for that now. What was it the Khajiit said, make due with what little choice she had? She shifted in her seat on the dirt and sighed. "Spent much time in Skyrim?" She tried at some kind of conversation again.
The Khajiit glanced up. "For a Nord, you ask a lot of questions. I've spent enough time in Skyrim to know it's about as miserable and inhospitable as anywhere else I've been, just a lot colder. Same wildlife wants to eat you," she punctuated this by cracking open the hare's ribs with the tip of the tagged blade. "Bandits don't really change much. People see a lone woman traveling and think you're someone to fuck with. Doesn't really matter where you are, really. Nothing changes between place to place that actually matters." she said, rolling her jaw. Her manner of speaking was decidedly quite different from Do'Karth's, and even her accent was greatly diminished. "Skyrim. Morrowind. Cyrodiil. Argonia. Trees, lakes, and utterly hostile when you leave cities. I will say I don't miss the damned swamps and diseases down South, though. I prefer things I can kill that don't involve me having to knock back a pint of piss-flavoured elixir."
"I see." Solveig clucked her tongue, picking at a fingernail. If she wasn't such a bitch, maybe she'd like her. She remembered that was how one of Rorik Four-Faces band was, right before she scarred him in the Circle. She wasn't in any mind to draw Circles in the dirt for no reason, so she'd have to put up with this woman until she moved on. "Yet you're still on the roads, eh? I knew a Khajiit traveler once, friends with my father." 'He was nicer than you' she left unsaid, "Told me the only ones that leave Elsweyr have to have some damn good reasons."
The Khajiit remained quiet for a moment, her butchery of her meal slowed down in thought. "He wasn't wrong. I'm looking for someone that I probably will never find, but he's the reason I'm alive... not by choice." she added with some slight reluctance. "It's a task that will likely never be concluded, but it's one I have to do. It isn't something you simply walk away from." the edge in her voice had diminished somewhat, but there was hardly warmth. "Rare for a Nord to befriend a Khajiit. Usually your kin like to lock them out of the cities, probably because they're afraid of eating something that's cooked with more appeal than boiled mutton and whatever passes as fish up here."
She nodded, eyes going back to a face she hadn't seen in a long while, "I had the same quest once. I found him, tried to get answers, tried to get him to settle down. I loved him," She shook her head, "I still do, I mean, all the good it did for anything. Men don't learn, they think they're right all up until they run into something that proves they aren't." She shrugged.
"I'm not like most. Nord or woman." She chuckled, "I do admit that we're not known for our chefs or food. High Rock's back west if you're looking for banquet halls and sweet-meats." Both sounded good right then.
"Who was he?" the Khajiit asked. "I find most people don't really learn, men or women. Get an idea in their head, and they tend to not let it go easily. I speak from personal experience. As for High Rock, I'm actually heading there now, figure it's easier to pass through Hammerfell than go up into the far North. I can't say I cherish the idea; High Rock sounds like the most pompous place imaginable with people who smile to your face and stab you in the back. At least with Nords one knows where you stand. Your people are straight forward. I admire that." she said, finished with the one hare, setting it down on her pack as she found a decently thick stick to start wittling down with her blade.
"Not lover, nothing like that. That man's still alive, he's probably deep in his books. The one I was looking for was my father. His name was Jorwen Red-Bear, a good man to most that knew him." She frowned, clearing her throat in a fist before asking, "The man you're after, love him or hate him?"
"Never met him. Half-brother." She made an annoyed huff out her nostril. "Probably sounds insane and stupid, and I agree. Doesn't change the need."
She raised an eyebrow, "Still doesn't answer my question."
The Khajiit snorted. "Of course it does. How can you love someone you've never met? A part of me resents him, but that's countered by the fact the only reason I am alive is because of him. Tragedy befell my family, he was taken, I was what they got in turn. It wasn't a good upbringing. So, does my interrogator have a name?"
"Solveig. I don't like my earned one." She said simply, "Yours?"
"Marassa. You mean to say you aren't fond of the strange cultural relic Nords cling to that being called a silly name validates you?" she asked with a terse smile.
"Not the Name it gave me. Bad memories. I was supposed to put down my spear after what I did. 'I'm not my father,' I'd said." She shrugged, "I cheated, I just left the spear at home for this last job. I suppose the Mister is clucking his tongue and rolling his eye at that," A soft smile as she stared into the fire, remembering she had a Dunmer waiting for her at home, before it fell away, "It's not a nice, honorable, heroic story behind it."
"Never apologise for surviving. Anyone who tries to tell you what you've done is immoral or wrong has never had to make a difficult decision in their life that would have had a difficult outcome regardless." Marassa said, staring at Solveig with a determined glare. "All deciding to put your weapon down results in is the situation where it won't be there when you need it most. Your enemies won't ever grow softer. Make sure they never grow older."
Solveig gave her old wolf's grin, "I like that." She said, replacing that fierce smile she'd earned her Name with with a softer one, "And I wish you told me that seven years ago. The path that takes you to down to the blackest deeds isn't rough or steep, you hardly know you've gotten any lower until you look back at where you started and notice it hurts to look back up that far. 'You pick a path' my father said, 'you tell yourself it'll only be for today or a couple more, you only realize its too late to go back before you realize you picked it for life.'"
"I made sure the men that wronged my father were nothing but ash and I spitted the fucker's head that took him from me. 'I'm not my father' I said, even though everyone around me was telling me otherwise." She shrugged, "It is what it is. Reckon he'd like you though, my father."
"Why, because he's fond of collecting cats?" Marassa asked half-jokingly.
Solveig gave a little laugh, "He and I can appreciate a fellow warrior. He was fond of big fuck-off blades like yours too. His was older than me even."
Marassa picked up her sword with both hands, it was obviously quite well-used, but meticulously cared for. "Skyforge Steel. It was a gift from my mentor when I was younger before I set out on my journey. He was an adventurer, wrote a few books, decided to open a dojo instead of fully retiring. All the money I paid him over the years to teach me how to use a blade was put aside for this weapon. He said, 'A blade is only as good as the one who wields it, but a good blade will never fail you'. I suppose he wanted to make sure I had the best chance possible, given that I wasn't going to be deterred." she replied, setting it down across her knees.
"I can't imagine your father would care for me for long. Companions come and go, but I've never subscribed to lofty ideals or causes. All that matters is doing what I set out to do, to Oblivion to anyone else. Thing is, a legacy and reputation are something that others give you. It only matters if you bother to listen and take it to heart, and I really do not. Some on the trail behind me would describe me as a feral beast who cut down their brothers and fathers without feeling only to pick their pockets clean. Others would describe me as someone who saved them from rapists, thieves, and murderers. To them, I could do no wrong. What does it matter? I won't see those people again, and even if I did, I know who I am, they can come up with whatever tale suits their feeble needs." the Khajiit explained, starting work on the second hare.
"Solveig, you aren't your father... Jorwen, was it? People want to pair you up with him because you share blood. It's stupid. If you live your life trying to prove how different you are, or how similar you are, to him, then all you're doing is suiting their needs. You are your own person, your own warrior. To Oblivion with anyone who gets in the way of that. They don't get to decide your fate. You do." Marassa concluded, eyes down on her work.
"Aye, I've stopped trying to apologize or hating myself for the things I've done. I've tried to live my life not giving a single stray fleck of piss about people's opinions. Being young, though, you do it for the wrong reasons. It's more spite than it is for my own independence. I was more a boat being pushed along by the tides than I realized, and the worst part is I was the only person on that boat, crossing my arms and refusing to pick up the oars." She shook her head, "For what it's worth, Marassa, I hope you find your half-brother. And I hope it goes the way you've seen it going. If not, we Nords have a saying, should the sail fail you, take to the oars. Men are stubborn and they only get more stubborn as they age. My husband is a hundred or more summers old, think on that." She laughed.
Marassa chuckled. "I know all about making stupid and wrong decisions due to youth. It's how I got where I am today. The boat analogy is somewhat lost on me, I'm afraid; I've never been on one in my life, but I think I understand what you're saying. Do not be stubborn for the sake of pride and do your part if it's better for everyone." She said, finishing the second hair and repeating the wittling ritual. "I appreciate that. I honestly don't expect to find him, but I can't say the road's entirely bad. Maybe I'll find something that seems more important than chasing down ghosts, but I sure haven't found it yet."
She looked over at Solveig, crooking her head. "What exactly do you have in common with someone who's lived your life five times over?" she asked, more out of curiosity than cruelty.
Solveig smiled softly and shrugged, "Love is a strange thing. I told you I'm not like most- Nord or woman. Especially both, in my marriage. A Nord usually doesn't find what she wants in a Long-Ear." She chuckled, "And you aren't missing much with boats. You wouldn't be able to get me on one with the experiences I've had on them." She cringed with the memories. "I know I don't have to tell you this, but you often do find more important things than living your life for someone else. In my pursuit of my father, I found the man who would be my husband. He's half the reason I put down my spear."
"I can't say I could compare journals on love, it simply hasn't factored into my life. So, is this elf husband of yours with your misplaced companions? Seems like he shouldn't have left your side if you were traveling together." Marassa observed. "Something happens on the road, no one ever friends out. I don't have anyone waiting for me, so if I finally find someone better than me, there's never going to be someone wondering why I never made it home. You, however, have a lot riding on your return. How did you get separated?"
"He's home. He put down his sword, I wasn't going to make him betray his own promises. There was an argument before I left, I told him Id' be home. If the things we faced down together couldn't kill me, then nothing could, I said." She held up her bandaged hand, "It doesn't keep some from trying. Reachmen here don't take kindly to Nords in their hills and mountains."
Marassa smiled tersely. "Try being a Khajiit anywhere but Elsweyr. You would think all the lords and Jarls had an open season on our hides. Reachmen are vicious, but they sure are underwhelming in the equipment. I've actually cut a man in half in these parts; it was rather unexpected." she said. "I'm not sure what made you decide to walk the road again instead of joining him in the pursuit of getting old and fat, but if you have need of another sword to find where you're going, you need only ask. From one woman to another, traveling alone is dangerous and stupid. I tell myself that every day when I wake up, keeps my expectations for strangers modest."
"Well, I'm not a big, ugly bandit missing half his teeth that hasn't seen a woman who would rip his guts out if he so much as turned in her direction." Solveig chuckled, "If we do spend the next few days on the road, we'd be heading away from your destination, sadly. I live back in Whiterun, where I started my life. Figure there's something ironically poetic in spending your life only to go back to where you started it. Whiterun feels like home though."
"I'll have to take you at your word; Skyrim doesn't tend to let Khajiit inside of the walls. It's mostly the caravans, but imagine how you reacted when you first saw me multiplied by a number of individuals who think that Khajiit are only thieves and smugglers and you end up with a lot of nights out of doors." She shrugged, handing off one of the hares on a stick to Solveig. "Besides, that's one of the perks of searching for eternity; you've nothing but time. I've been at this a few years. Sometimes to get where you need to go, you have to walk the way you came."
Solveig took the offered hare and held it over the fire, her eyes going to the dirt under her at what Marassa just said. Getting old and fat wasn't something she was ready for, nor did she feel she would ever be. Even if that scarred Long-Ear was at her side the whole way. Sometimes, though, to get where you need to go, you have to walk the way you came. She smiled softly at that, huffing out of her nose quietly at that unintentional piece of wisdom, "Aye, sometimes you do, I reckon." She nodded, "My name's a little known. The guards shouldn't hassle you if they see a Nord with you. I am glad we crossed paths, for every woman like me, there's ten men."
The Khajiit nodded. "Might as well use your name for something useful. I'm relieved I found a traveling companion that seems to have a good head and at least a number of good tales under her belt. The road can be dull, I'm grateful to have stumbled across your light." she said with a slight smile.
Her eyes went up to the sky for the third time that night, maybe the Gods weren't so malicious after all. She slowly turned the spit with thumb and forefinger, a smile on her face and a good companion at her fire. The wind had died down somewhat sometime between Marassa's rough arrival and her gradual opening-up. It was turning out to not be a bad night, hopefully by this time in two days, she'd be back with that gumpy-arse of a Dunmer at their hearth, sharing tales with Marassa, if she stayed. Sure enough, she'd have some good tales to tell, being traveled. "Aye, always good to find those who are the dependable sort."
By @MacabreFox
Frigid winds whipped past Vera Addley, snow blinded her. She could hardly make out a few feet in front of her. She tread upon a broken stone road, one that was unfamiliar to her. The last time she remembered, London didn’t have roads like this, or even Liverpool for that matter. As she tried to recall how she ended up here, a light in the distance caught her attention. She changed her direction, light meant something. It meant warmth, food, and people. In circumstances like this, she would have avoided heading directly for the light, but in her situation, lost and caught in a blizzard, she really didn’t have a choice.
’Shay, where are you?’ She wondered, her eyes burning with tears. The last thing she did remember, was that she had fallen asleep next to him that night, the warmth of his body surrounded her, until she woke up in a snow drift. In London, it was midsummer, so for it to be snowing like this made her confused.
With arms trembling, numb with cold, she pounded her fists upon the door to a stone cabin. The sound of merriment ongoing inside lulled her into the sense that perhaps these people would help her, instead of cutting out her tongue. Or worse. Just then, the door swung inward, revealing a frighteningly tall woman with a mane of fiery hair. Both gazed at one another in surprise. At the mystery woman’s hip, there gleamed the blade of axe. Her hand darted to it, curling around the wooden shaft.
“Who are you?” Her accent was unlike anything Vera had ever heard.
“I’m Vera Addley. Please, I need your help. I’m lost, and I have no idea where I am.” She returned, taking a step forward to come into the light. The red-haired woman eyed her with apparent suspicion, yet she stepped aside, and gestured for her to enter.
Once inside, Vera headed straight for a stone fireplace where she warmed her hands. When she turned to warm her backside, she noticed several faces seated around a hewn wooden table that shocked her. There was a man with long sandy-brown hair, dressed as if he were a knight, and a blonde woman that sat in his lap. While across from them, was the one that drew her attention the most. There was an oversized cat, who looked to be a mountain lion of some sort. Forcing the door shut against the howling winds, the red-haired woman came to stand before her, eyes sweeping over her.
“Where do you hail? You are dressed like no one I’ve seen. Are you from the Imperial City?” She asked, hands planted firmly on her hips.
“Imperial City?” Vera returned, the name of this place sounded unlike anything she had ever heard. “Is that where I am now?”
“No,” Here she chuckled, “You are in Skyrim. Falkreath Hold to be exact. So if you are not from the Imperial City, where do you come from?”
“I’m from London, England.” Vera said.
“London, England? Never heard of the place.” She said with a shrug of her shoulders. “What are you doing out in a blizzard dressed like that?” Here, the woman gestured to her clothes, giving her reason to look down at her own body. Sure enough, she had fallen asleep in her clothes, something that happened from time to time when she partook of her pipe. A black pleated skirt, with a button-down blouse, stockings and a pair of her Mary-Janes, and a cloche upon her head.
“I… I can’t say for certain. The last thing I remember is falling asleep, and when I woke up, I found myself here, in the middle of a blizzard.”
“Ah, sounds like the work of the Daedra.” Commented the man.
“This one would not doubt that indeed, the Daedra have had a hand to play in this.” When the cat-person spoke, her eyes widened.
“You can speak?” She asked, hoping that she really didn’t hear him speak.
“Yes, this one speaks.” His voice sounded like marmalade, thick with an accent, and honeyed.
“Allow me to introduce ourselves.” The woman that had let her in gestured with an open hand towards the cat-person/man-thing, “This is Do’Karth, my husband. And this is Leif Raven-Stone, with his wife Ilona. They come from Solitude.”
“Pardon me… you said that you are married to… Do’Karth? To a cat…?”
A flash of anger burst in the woman’s eyes at Vera’s words, “Watch your words, woman. Or I’ll carve your liver out.” Her hand curled around the axe at her hip.
“I’m terribly sorry! It’s just… ah… we don’t have his kind where I’m from.”
“You do not have Khajiit in this, London?” Do’Karth asked.
“No. Only humans.”
“What a strange place!” Exclaimed the blonde woman named Ilona, her arms were encircled around the man’s neck.
’I could say the same about this place,’ Vera mused bitterly. This felt like a bad dream she was never going to wake up from.
“Hmph.” The woman grumbled, and then stuck out her hand for Vera to shake, “I am Sevine Varg-t’uk. You might as well join us, we just sat down for supper.” With that, those seated around the table made room for Vera to join them.
It was now that Vera took in the welcoming scents of dinner, to be certain, the slab of a goat leg sitting on a wooden platter made her raise a brow. That was an entire leg of a goat… were they going to eat it? There were other normal looking foods, such as apples, and leeks. There were several rolls of bread in a basket. Her gaze shifted around the room, hands folded neatly in her lap, lest she cause offense. She landed on the curious sight of herbs drying over the fireplace, along with a pair of pheasants hung upside-down.
“Here you are, goat leg, bread, and a bowl of venison stew.” Sevine, as she called herself, set a plate and bowl down before her. To be frank, the food smelt normal, something that her mother would have cooked.
“Ah… Sevine? What year is it here?” She asked after a mouthful of stew.
“Why, it is 207CE. What year did you expect?”
207CE? Does this mean that I’ve gone back in time? No… Not once in my studies have I learned of a place called Sky-Rim or this Imperial City. Have I crossed into some multi-dimensional world?’ Vera thought, her eyes fixated on the stew. “Where I am from, it is June 3rd, 1920.”
“As I’ve said before, it’s the work of the Daedra. It sounds like Vaermina is having a hand in this.” Leif said with a disapproving grunt.
“You’ve mentioned that before, what exactly are the Daedra?”
“While the subject is lengthy, in short, Daedra, specifically, the Daedric Princes are powerful entities, much like a god of sorts. There are over seventeen known Princes, and each one affects our world in a profound way. Each Prince has their own realm the rule over, as such, Vaermina is the Daedric Prince of dreams and nightmares. I wouldn’t be surprised if Vaermina had something to do with your appearance. Though, to be frank, I’ve never heard of anyone coming from another realm entirely.” Leif offered up. To Vera, he looked to be a swarthy pirate, though his mix of leather and steel armor contradicted that notion. With all of this talk of Daedric Princes, and some being called Vaermina, her head began to ache in confusion. She wanted nothing more than to wake up, and find herself in Shay’s arms.
“Tell us, Vera Addley, what do you do in London?” Sevine asked, pointing a three pronged fork at her.
“Oh well… I am apart of a syndicate, an organization that helps distribute the wealth from the rich to the poor.” She said carefully, did they have gangs in Sky-Rim?
“Are you a bandit by any means then?”
“Ah, no, well yes, but not quite so.” Oh boy, how could she explain this one to them.
“It sounds an awful lot like the Thieves Guild.” Grumbled Ilona. They certainly had odd accents, and odd names. It reminded her of Beowulf and the names in the epic poem.
“I’m not sure what this Thieves Guild is, but it sounds close to what we do.” Her face turned crimson, praying inwardly at the idea that she would not be cast out in the blizzard.
“Sometimes, people make bad choices.” Sevine began, “But all are not evil. Why, I have a friend, Rozalia, she is a thief, but a close friend of mine. While I do not enjoy the fact that she has chosen such a path, I cannot help but love her, as Mara, has taught me to do.”
“Mara? Is this that a woman? A teacher of yours?”
“Nay, she is the Goddess of Love. An Aedra, opposite of the Daedra.” There is little that Sevine could say that would make any sense to Vera at this point in time.
When the meal concluded, Sevine suggested that Vera stay the night, and cleared a space in front of the fireplace. She laid down several animal pelts, and then placed a woollen quilt over top. “You should get some rest.” The woman beside her said. Vera didn’t need to be told twice. She prayed that when she laid her head down to rest, that she would wake up next to Shay again. Sleep came quickly, taking her as soon as she closed her eyes.
Morning
Familiar scents filled her nose, and slowly, her eyes opened one by one. There staring back at her, was Shay Alden. “Good morning my love.” He crooned, and leaned forward to kiss her on the lips.
“Oh Shay!” She cried after pulling away from him, “I had the strangest dream.” She threw her arms about his neck, and rested her cheek on the warm flesh of his chest.
Frigid winds whipped past Vera Addley, snow blinded her. She could hardly make out a few feet in front of her. She tread upon a broken stone road, one that was unfamiliar to her. The last time she remembered, London didn’t have roads like this, or even Liverpool for that matter. As she tried to recall how she ended up here, a light in the distance caught her attention. She changed her direction, light meant something. It meant warmth, food, and people. In circumstances like this, she would have avoided heading directly for the light, but in her situation, lost and caught in a blizzard, she really didn’t have a choice.
’Shay, where are you?’ She wondered, her eyes burning with tears. The last thing she did remember, was that she had fallen asleep next to him that night, the warmth of his body surrounded her, until she woke up in a snow drift. In London, it was midsummer, so for it to be snowing like this made her confused.
With arms trembling, numb with cold, she pounded her fists upon the door to a stone cabin. The sound of merriment ongoing inside lulled her into the sense that perhaps these people would help her, instead of cutting out her tongue. Or worse. Just then, the door swung inward, revealing a frighteningly tall woman with a mane of fiery hair. Both gazed at one another in surprise. At the mystery woman’s hip, there gleamed the blade of axe. Her hand darted to it, curling around the wooden shaft.
“Who are you?” Her accent was unlike anything Vera had ever heard.
“I’m Vera Addley. Please, I need your help. I’m lost, and I have no idea where I am.” She returned, taking a step forward to come into the light. The red-haired woman eyed her with apparent suspicion, yet she stepped aside, and gestured for her to enter.
Once inside, Vera headed straight for a stone fireplace where she warmed her hands. When she turned to warm her backside, she noticed several faces seated around a hewn wooden table that shocked her. There was a man with long sandy-brown hair, dressed as if he were a knight, and a blonde woman that sat in his lap. While across from them, was the one that drew her attention the most. There was an oversized cat, who looked to be a mountain lion of some sort. Forcing the door shut against the howling winds, the red-haired woman came to stand before her, eyes sweeping over her.
“Where do you hail? You are dressed like no one I’ve seen. Are you from the Imperial City?” She asked, hands planted firmly on her hips.
“Imperial City?” Vera returned, the name of this place sounded unlike anything she had ever heard. “Is that where I am now?”
“No,” Here she chuckled, “You are in Skyrim. Falkreath Hold to be exact. So if you are not from the Imperial City, where do you come from?”
“I’m from London, England.” Vera said.
“London, England? Never heard of the place.” She said with a shrug of her shoulders. “What are you doing out in a blizzard dressed like that?” Here, the woman gestured to her clothes, giving her reason to look down at her own body. Sure enough, she had fallen asleep in her clothes, something that happened from time to time when she partook of her pipe. A black pleated skirt, with a button-down blouse, stockings and a pair of her Mary-Janes, and a cloche upon her head.
“I… I can’t say for certain. The last thing I remember is falling asleep, and when I woke up, I found myself here, in the middle of a blizzard.”
“Ah, sounds like the work of the Daedra.” Commented the man.
“This one would not doubt that indeed, the Daedra have had a hand to play in this.” When the cat-person spoke, her eyes widened.
“You can speak?” She asked, hoping that she really didn’t hear him speak.
“Yes, this one speaks.” His voice sounded like marmalade, thick with an accent, and honeyed.
“Allow me to introduce ourselves.” The woman that had let her in gestured with an open hand towards the cat-person/man-thing, “This is Do’Karth, my husband. And this is Leif Raven-Stone, with his wife Ilona. They come from Solitude.”
“Pardon me… you said that you are married to… Do’Karth? To a cat…?”
A flash of anger burst in the woman’s eyes at Vera’s words, “Watch your words, woman. Or I’ll carve your liver out.” Her hand curled around the axe at her hip.
“I’m terribly sorry! It’s just… ah… we don’t have his kind where I’m from.”
“You do not have Khajiit in this, London?” Do’Karth asked.
“No. Only humans.”
“What a strange place!” Exclaimed the blonde woman named Ilona, her arms were encircled around the man’s neck.
’I could say the same about this place,’ Vera mused bitterly. This felt like a bad dream she was never going to wake up from.
“Hmph.” The woman grumbled, and then stuck out her hand for Vera to shake, “I am Sevine Varg-t’uk. You might as well join us, we just sat down for supper.” With that, those seated around the table made room for Vera to join them.
It was now that Vera took in the welcoming scents of dinner, to be certain, the slab of a goat leg sitting on a wooden platter made her raise a brow. That was an entire leg of a goat… were they going to eat it? There were other normal looking foods, such as apples, and leeks. There were several rolls of bread in a basket. Her gaze shifted around the room, hands folded neatly in her lap, lest she cause offense. She landed on the curious sight of herbs drying over the fireplace, along with a pair of pheasants hung upside-down.
“Here you are, goat leg, bread, and a bowl of venison stew.” Sevine, as she called herself, set a plate and bowl down before her. To be frank, the food smelt normal, something that her mother would have cooked.
“Ah… Sevine? What year is it here?” She asked after a mouthful of stew.
“Why, it is 207CE. What year did you expect?”
207CE? Does this mean that I’ve gone back in time? No… Not once in my studies have I learned of a place called Sky-Rim or this Imperial City. Have I crossed into some multi-dimensional world?’ Vera thought, her eyes fixated on the stew. “Where I am from, it is June 3rd, 1920.”
“As I’ve said before, it’s the work of the Daedra. It sounds like Vaermina is having a hand in this.” Leif said with a disapproving grunt.
“You’ve mentioned that before, what exactly are the Daedra?”
“While the subject is lengthy, in short, Daedra, specifically, the Daedric Princes are powerful entities, much like a god of sorts. There are over seventeen known Princes, and each one affects our world in a profound way. Each Prince has their own realm the rule over, as such, Vaermina is the Daedric Prince of dreams and nightmares. I wouldn’t be surprised if Vaermina had something to do with your appearance. Though, to be frank, I’ve never heard of anyone coming from another realm entirely.” Leif offered up. To Vera, he looked to be a swarthy pirate, though his mix of leather and steel armor contradicted that notion. With all of this talk of Daedric Princes, and some being called Vaermina, her head began to ache in confusion. She wanted nothing more than to wake up, and find herself in Shay’s arms.
“Tell us, Vera Addley, what do you do in London?” Sevine asked, pointing a three pronged fork at her.
“Oh well… I am apart of a syndicate, an organization that helps distribute the wealth from the rich to the poor.” She said carefully, did they have gangs in Sky-Rim?
“Are you a bandit by any means then?”
“Ah, no, well yes, but not quite so.” Oh boy, how could she explain this one to them.
“It sounds an awful lot like the Thieves Guild.” Grumbled Ilona. They certainly had odd accents, and odd names. It reminded her of Beowulf and the names in the epic poem.
“I’m not sure what this Thieves Guild is, but it sounds close to what we do.” Her face turned crimson, praying inwardly at the idea that she would not be cast out in the blizzard.
“Sometimes, people make bad choices.” Sevine began, “But all are not evil. Why, I have a friend, Rozalia, she is a thief, but a close friend of mine. While I do not enjoy the fact that she has chosen such a path, I cannot help but love her, as Mara, has taught me to do.”
“Mara? Is this that a woman? A teacher of yours?”
“Nay, she is the Goddess of Love. An Aedra, opposite of the Daedra.” There is little that Sevine could say that would make any sense to Vera at this point in time.
When the meal concluded, Sevine suggested that Vera stay the night, and cleared a space in front of the fireplace. She laid down several animal pelts, and then placed a woollen quilt over top. “You should get some rest.” The woman beside her said. Vera didn’t need to be told twice. She prayed that when she laid her head down to rest, that she would wake up next to Shay again. Sleep came quickly, taking her as soon as she closed her eyes.
Morning
Familiar scents filled her nose, and slowly, her eyes opened one by one. There staring back at her, was Shay Alden. “Good morning my love.” He crooned, and leaned forward to kiss her on the lips.
“Oh Shay!” She cried after pulling away from him, “I had the strangest dream.” She threw her arms about his neck, and rested her cheek on the warm flesh of his chest.
By @POOHEAD189
Somewhere between the Whiterun tundra and The Pale...
Letting out grunting cries, the Elk staggered up the small rise, stubbornly clinging to its survival. The arrow within its flank left an easily track-able blood trail. The beast was understandably panicked, its leg muscles churning against the shaft embedded in its body, causing it great pain.
Dax lamented hurting such a creature for longer than needed. It was in his nature to finish prey quickly. He pursued, crouched low and making his way to a higher slope a few dozen meters north, hiding behind one of the many boulders that dotted the landscape. He drew another arrow and waited patiently, the Elk about to make it to the top of the short rise. He prayed to the Hist that this next shot would fell the creature, for he held it no ill will. It had been a perfect shot, but the wind had picked up and caused his arrow to strike the Elk's back leg.
Now that he had an easy view of the Elk, he knew this next shot was too close for the wind to do much damage. Dax placed one of his legs atop one of the smaller rocks to gain a bit of elevation, pulling his bowstring taut and waiting for the opportune moments He felt the time to fire nearing. The Elk was just within his sights...
A white blur leaped from the boulder atop the Elk just as it made it to the height of the rise. It was humanoid in shape, with strange, form fitting armor perhaps. It killed the Elk brutally, arm pumping as it stabbed the beast over and over, finally slitting its throat as it fell to the ground with a curious blue blade it held in its hand. Was that an Elvish weapon? Perhaps it was Glass, even. Dax realized he understood very little of what this shelled stranger was, much less who it could be.
He suspected that its shell was a sort of full body armor, and not this thing's skin. But it was unlike anything Daixanos had ever seen. The Argonian watched as this 'man' began to skin the Elk with his blue knife, using practiced cuts as if he'd done this before. It only took a short few moments before the man noticed Dax looking at him from the slope, bow in hand.
Pib Dosa stood up, having wiped his virbroblade on this native creature's hide. "This world seems too cold for your like, Trandoshan," he said. His voice echoed both within his helmet, and without. Somehow Dax could easily hear it. though it gave him little clarity as to what this one was speaking of. This newcomer spoke with a surety, it appeared.
Dax could not see the man's eyes from within his helm, but Pib was admiring the bow and Axe Daixanos carried. "Rudimentary weapons. Admirable," he admitted. He too examined Daixanos. This Trandoshan was certainly shorter than most, though still muscled and perhaps slightly taller than the Mandalorian himself. His tail was elongated, perhaps a enhancement Pib was not familiar with. He could be a Saurin subspecies. "What planet is this?"
That took Dax off guard. "Planet?... This world is called Nirn."
"Must be a in the Outer Rim..." Pib muttered to himself, before looking back to Dax. He gestured to the slain Elk, voice confindent. "Did I steal your kill?"
"Yes," Dax replied.
"The kill is mine now," Pib declared. His hand strayed to his DC-15A Blaster Rifle. "But it can be yours if you have the strength to take it."
Pib held no illusions. Transdoshans were avid hunters, and when they were cheated out of a kill, they would seek to settle the score. Little did he know that Dax was not quite so bloodthirsty. Unless pushed of course, which was exactly what was occurring.
Daixanos locked stares (he believed) with the Mandalorian. Even without seeing his eyes, and at this distance, he could tell they now stood upon the edge of a knife. He didn't know what this armored stranger was about to do, but he was sure that it was something Dax needed to be ready for. He looked confident at this range, which meant he had some sort of ranged capability.
Daixanos was about to speak once more, when Pib Dosa whipped out his Blaster Rifle and open fired. Even as he moved, Daixanos rolled behind the closest boulder on instinct, barely avoiding the lasfire that burned the landscape.
"Kaoc!" Dax cried, using the Jel word for what the Cyrodiil populace would consider 'shit!' By the Hist, what magic was this? No, no, it was not magic. That was nos stave the man was carrying, nor did Dax get that uneasy feeling whenever he had to deal with a mage. No, somehow, this was something different.
Quickly, he lifted himself above his cover and aimed his bow in a swift, fluid motion. Only to realize the man was gone! A thrumming noise from above betrayed his position.
Pib Dosa had used his jump pack to leap high into the air, going up the slope and now over Daixanos' cover. He aimed to fire, but was hit by an arrow, shot more out of a honed reaction by Daixanos than anything. It hit him in the chest, and though it did not break his Katarn armor, it sent him back in the air, his height advantage now lost. He was losing power to his Jump pack as well, for it was only supposed to be employed for small jumps. Pib had to land again back onto the middle of the slope.
He growled, and charged up the rise with his rifle at the ready. That Trandoshan was a fine shot, he admitted. Killing him would be quite the honor. Legs pumping, almost leaping from rock to root in order to gain speed up the slope, Pib made good time. He was just as surprised as anyone would be to find that Daixanos had disappeared. That is, until he saw movement in his peripheral vision.
Something had rustled the bushes in the wooded area not twenty meters away. Pib Dosa regarded the forest for a moment, trepidation and a thirst for combat welling up inside of him. He reloaded his DC-15A, and was about to pursue the reptilian alien into the frosted woods of this strange world before he halted. Realization hit him, for his armor was too much of a stark contrast to the trees, even with such heavy snow. He knelt down, and reached into the dirt to smear some of the chilled mud onto his armor. He was no fool, as this Trandoshan would soon find out.
Moments turned to minutes, Dosa keeping still just as much as he moved, going from tree to tree in tactical maneuvers. A veteran of jungle fighting, he grew up on the heavily forested planet of Dathomir and killed far more terrible things than this Trandoshan, even as formidable as he appeared. Still, he had to give Dax credit, for moments after he thought such things, he seemed to have found a cleverly laid trap. He knelt down before it.
Thin sinews of rope, hidden under ubiquitously laid brush was just along his path. He followed the string, seeing it loop around a tree to his right, looping once more upwards, to hold up a small log that would have snapped downward to slam into whatever had tripped the rope.
"Clever," he muttered, and stepped over the rope carefully.
An arrow sliced out of the forest. Dosa reacting on pure instinct, he spun on his feet, carefully avoiding both the arrow and rope with his intense and disciplined reflexes. Unfortunately, the arrow had severed the rope. The heavy limb now a subject of gravity, flying downwards. Pib Dosa dived, narrowly avoiding the log as it thudded into the earth.
The Mandalorian's dive turned into a tactical roll to end up on his knees, Blaster Rifle now firing into the arrow's last known source location. Lasfire flashes lit the forest. If Dax had stayed put, he would have been disintegrated by the plasma based solid shots now punching through the brush.
The Hunter had not, however, and to the left of Pib, Daixanos sprinted out of the forest with another arrow nocked and ready. He fired. Pib Dosa felt it was worth getting hit to strike this enemy back, and decided not to dodge. Perhaps it was based upon design, or perhaps it was the Manda testing him, but the arrow found itself embedded into the barrel of his rifle before Pib could shoot. Immediately, the Mandalorian could tell something was now off about his Rifle's firing capabilities.
Dax dropped his bow and reached for his Axe, now leaping and sending his weapon in a terrifying Arc. The Mandalorian swung his rifle in turn, for the DC-15A was a sturdy and heavy rifle, weighing in at 9.5 pounds. The Blaster Rifle hit the haft of the Axe, and the two bashed into one another and locked, the two testing each other's strength for a moment.
"Surely you can do better," Pib Dosa spat through gritted teeth. Dax merely growled in response.
The Mandalorian kicked out, his booted foot striking the Argonian's knee, causing Dax to grunt. Daixanos staggered, but used it to send his Axe haft down to jam into Pib's own leg, before shoving it forward to thrust into the Mandalorian's stomach, knocking the breath out of him. It was then Pib decided to switch tactics, dropping his Rifle and grabbing the haft of Dax's axe, and then jerking downward and to the left in a throw move, sending Dax flying end over end to hit the earth.
Pib pressed his knee onto Dax's chest, but the Argonian found purchase for his feet under the Mandalorian's abdomen, and shoved with his considerable leg strength. The Mandalorian flew, hitting the ground in a roll. Both made it to their feet simultaneously. Dax gave a growl that would have sent many Men quivering. Pib Dosa did not, and took out his strange blue long Knife. To Daixanos's surprise, another blue blade suddenly jutted out of Pib's opposite arm's bracers. The two took a moment to size one another up, measuring their stances and probable fight patterns.
Dax leaped forward, but not within Long Knife range, using his Axe as a thrusting weapon to send Dosa back. The Mandalorian sidestepped deftly, attempting to get within striking distance. Dax's powerful tail had been laying in wait, ripping the Mandalorian's feet out from under him. He hit the ground on his back, having barely any time to roll to the side as the great head of the Axe thudded into the ground.
The Mandalorian kicked Dax in the leg, even making a successful swipe with his Long Knife. It was a small cut on his calf, but Daixanos felt just how sharp that blade was. He did not know what sort of magicks it held, but he was not entirely sure his iron armor would be a suitable defense to it. Fortunately, Dax was too deep into combat to be anxious over his magick superstitions now. Pib Dosa jerked his legs, allowing him to leap upwards from a prone position without occupying his arms, landing in a crouch.
Poised and ready, it was his turn to go on the offensive. He cut and stabbed, Daixanos backpedaling, hands now holding his Axe as he would a PoleAxe, bottom on the middle and top near the head, to give greater control. He knew that he needed to think quickly, for the Knives were now a blue blur in his vision, and he moved on pure instinct to survive as he was forced back step by step to hit the base of a tree.
Somewhere between the Whiterun tundra and The Pale...
Letting out grunting cries, the Elk staggered up the small rise, stubbornly clinging to its survival. The arrow within its flank left an easily track-able blood trail. The beast was understandably panicked, its leg muscles churning against the shaft embedded in its body, causing it great pain.
Dax lamented hurting such a creature for longer than needed. It was in his nature to finish prey quickly. He pursued, crouched low and making his way to a higher slope a few dozen meters north, hiding behind one of the many boulders that dotted the landscape. He drew another arrow and waited patiently, the Elk about to make it to the top of the short rise. He prayed to the Hist that this next shot would fell the creature, for he held it no ill will. It had been a perfect shot, but the wind had picked up and caused his arrow to strike the Elk's back leg.
Now that he had an easy view of the Elk, he knew this next shot was too close for the wind to do much damage. Dax placed one of his legs atop one of the smaller rocks to gain a bit of elevation, pulling his bowstring taut and waiting for the opportune moments He felt the time to fire nearing. The Elk was just within his sights...
A white blur leaped from the boulder atop the Elk just as it made it to the height of the rise. It was humanoid in shape, with strange, form fitting armor perhaps. It killed the Elk brutally, arm pumping as it stabbed the beast over and over, finally slitting its throat as it fell to the ground with a curious blue blade it held in its hand. Was that an Elvish weapon? Perhaps it was Glass, even. Dax realized he understood very little of what this shelled stranger was, much less who it could be.
He suspected that its shell was a sort of full body armor, and not this thing's skin. But it was unlike anything Daixanos had ever seen. The Argonian watched as this 'man' began to skin the Elk with his blue knife, using practiced cuts as if he'd done this before. It only took a short few moments before the man noticed Dax looking at him from the slope, bow in hand.
Pib Dosa stood up, having wiped his virbroblade on this native creature's hide. "This world seems too cold for your like, Trandoshan," he said. His voice echoed both within his helmet, and without. Somehow Dax could easily hear it. though it gave him little clarity as to what this one was speaking of. This newcomer spoke with a surety, it appeared.
Dax could not see the man's eyes from within his helm, but Pib was admiring the bow and Axe Daixanos carried. "Rudimentary weapons. Admirable," he admitted. He too examined Daixanos. This Trandoshan was certainly shorter than most, though still muscled and perhaps slightly taller than the Mandalorian himself. His tail was elongated, perhaps a enhancement Pib was not familiar with. He could be a Saurin subspecies. "What planet is this?"
That took Dax off guard. "Planet?... This world is called Nirn."
"Must be a in the Outer Rim..." Pib muttered to himself, before looking back to Dax. He gestured to the slain Elk, voice confindent. "Did I steal your kill?"
"Yes," Dax replied.
"The kill is mine now," Pib declared. His hand strayed to his DC-15A Blaster Rifle. "But it can be yours if you have the strength to take it."
Pib held no illusions. Transdoshans were avid hunters, and when they were cheated out of a kill, they would seek to settle the score. Little did he know that Dax was not quite so bloodthirsty. Unless pushed of course, which was exactly what was occurring.
Daixanos locked stares (he believed) with the Mandalorian. Even without seeing his eyes, and at this distance, he could tell they now stood upon the edge of a knife. He didn't know what this armored stranger was about to do, but he was sure that it was something Dax needed to be ready for. He looked confident at this range, which meant he had some sort of ranged capability.
Daixanos was about to speak once more, when Pib Dosa whipped out his Blaster Rifle and open fired. Even as he moved, Daixanos rolled behind the closest boulder on instinct, barely avoiding the lasfire that burned the landscape.
"Kaoc!" Dax cried, using the Jel word for what the Cyrodiil populace would consider 'shit!' By the Hist, what magic was this? No, no, it was not magic. That was nos stave the man was carrying, nor did Dax get that uneasy feeling whenever he had to deal with a mage. No, somehow, this was something different.
Quickly, he lifted himself above his cover and aimed his bow in a swift, fluid motion. Only to realize the man was gone! A thrumming noise from above betrayed his position.
Pib Dosa had used his jump pack to leap high into the air, going up the slope and now over Daixanos' cover. He aimed to fire, but was hit by an arrow, shot more out of a honed reaction by Daixanos than anything. It hit him in the chest, and though it did not break his Katarn armor, it sent him back in the air, his height advantage now lost. He was losing power to his Jump pack as well, for it was only supposed to be employed for small jumps. Pib had to land again back onto the middle of the slope.
He growled, and charged up the rise with his rifle at the ready. That Trandoshan was a fine shot, he admitted. Killing him would be quite the honor. Legs pumping, almost leaping from rock to root in order to gain speed up the slope, Pib made good time. He was just as surprised as anyone would be to find that Daixanos had disappeared. That is, until he saw movement in his peripheral vision.
Something had rustled the bushes in the wooded area not twenty meters away. Pib Dosa regarded the forest for a moment, trepidation and a thirst for combat welling up inside of him. He reloaded his DC-15A, and was about to pursue the reptilian alien into the frosted woods of this strange world before he halted. Realization hit him, for his armor was too much of a stark contrast to the trees, even with such heavy snow. He knelt down, and reached into the dirt to smear some of the chilled mud onto his armor. He was no fool, as this Trandoshan would soon find out.
Moments turned to minutes, Dosa keeping still just as much as he moved, going from tree to tree in tactical maneuvers. A veteran of jungle fighting, he grew up on the heavily forested planet of Dathomir and killed far more terrible things than this Trandoshan, even as formidable as he appeared. Still, he had to give Dax credit, for moments after he thought such things, he seemed to have found a cleverly laid trap. He knelt down before it.
Thin sinews of rope, hidden under ubiquitously laid brush was just along his path. He followed the string, seeing it loop around a tree to his right, looping once more upwards, to hold up a small log that would have snapped downward to slam into whatever had tripped the rope.
"Clever," he muttered, and stepped over the rope carefully.
An arrow sliced out of the forest. Dosa reacting on pure instinct, he spun on his feet, carefully avoiding both the arrow and rope with his intense and disciplined reflexes. Unfortunately, the arrow had severed the rope. The heavy limb now a subject of gravity, flying downwards. Pib Dosa dived, narrowly avoiding the log as it thudded into the earth.
The Mandalorian's dive turned into a tactical roll to end up on his knees, Blaster Rifle now firing into the arrow's last known source location. Lasfire flashes lit the forest. If Dax had stayed put, he would have been disintegrated by the plasma based solid shots now punching through the brush.
The Hunter had not, however, and to the left of Pib, Daixanos sprinted out of the forest with another arrow nocked and ready. He fired. Pib Dosa felt it was worth getting hit to strike this enemy back, and decided not to dodge. Perhaps it was based upon design, or perhaps it was the Manda testing him, but the arrow found itself embedded into the barrel of his rifle before Pib could shoot. Immediately, the Mandalorian could tell something was now off about his Rifle's firing capabilities.
Dax dropped his bow and reached for his Axe, now leaping and sending his weapon in a terrifying Arc. The Mandalorian swung his rifle in turn, for the DC-15A was a sturdy and heavy rifle, weighing in at 9.5 pounds. The Blaster Rifle hit the haft of the Axe, and the two bashed into one another and locked, the two testing each other's strength for a moment.
"Surely you can do better," Pib Dosa spat through gritted teeth. Dax merely growled in response.
The Mandalorian kicked out, his booted foot striking the Argonian's knee, causing Dax to grunt. Daixanos staggered, but used it to send his Axe haft down to jam into Pib's own leg, before shoving it forward to thrust into the Mandalorian's stomach, knocking the breath out of him. It was then Pib decided to switch tactics, dropping his Rifle and grabbing the haft of Dax's axe, and then jerking downward and to the left in a throw move, sending Dax flying end over end to hit the earth.
Pib pressed his knee onto Dax's chest, but the Argonian found purchase for his feet under the Mandalorian's abdomen, and shoved with his considerable leg strength. The Mandalorian flew, hitting the ground in a roll. Both made it to their feet simultaneously. Dax gave a growl that would have sent many Men quivering. Pib Dosa did not, and took out his strange blue long Knife. To Daixanos's surprise, another blue blade suddenly jutted out of Pib's opposite arm's bracers. The two took a moment to size one another up, measuring their stances and probable fight patterns.
Dax leaped forward, but not within Long Knife range, using his Axe as a thrusting weapon to send Dosa back. The Mandalorian sidestepped deftly, attempting to get within striking distance. Dax's powerful tail had been laying in wait, ripping the Mandalorian's feet out from under him. He hit the ground on his back, having barely any time to roll to the side as the great head of the Axe thudded into the ground.
The Mandalorian kicked Dax in the leg, even making a successful swipe with his Long Knife. It was a small cut on his calf, but Daixanos felt just how sharp that blade was. He did not know what sort of magicks it held, but he was not entirely sure his iron armor would be a suitable defense to it. Fortunately, Dax was too deep into combat to be anxious over his magick superstitions now. Pib Dosa jerked his legs, allowing him to leap upwards from a prone position without occupying his arms, landing in a crouch.
Poised and ready, it was his turn to go on the offensive. He cut and stabbed, Daixanos backpedaling, hands now holding his Axe as he would a PoleAxe, bottom on the middle and top near the head, to give greater control. He knew that he needed to think quickly, for the Knives were now a blue blur in his vision, and he moved on pure instinct to survive as he was forced back step by step to hit the base of a tree.
Pib stabbed with an underhanded strike, upwards, with his freehand Vibroblade. Daixanos growled, using the haft of his blade to knock that striking arm downward, forcefully, before his left hand let go of his own weapon and caught the arm of the wristblade before it could complete its own stab. Hist guide me! Daixanos' corded muscles were finally tiring, but he used the last bits of his strength to do a one handed downward cut with the head of his Axe, now so very closely pressed to the Mandalorian.
It was a sign from the Hist, for the Axe head found a weak spot on this stranger's armor between the shoulder and the collarbone, slicing into the black fabric that seemed to keep the white plating together. Blood spurted out of the sudden wound, and Pib Dosa stepped back, trying to staunch the flow of blood with one hand while he held up his wristblade arm defensively.
Even with such a wound, he was ready to fight and die like a warrior it seemed. Daixanos would honor him, and moved forward, slashing to and fro. The Mandalorian did his best to dodge, and to his credit managed to, the first few times. But with the loss of blood, he was slowing. The Axe fractured his chest piece, sending the Mandalorian on the ground.
He still got up, and so surprised was Dax that the Mandalorian's lunge had his wristblade bury deep into Dax's flank. The Argonian howled, but ripping out his own skinning Knife, he jammed his own blade into the Mandalorian's weak point, burying it in Pib Dosa's throat and ending his life.
"A worthy foe," Daixanos said to the lifeless, frozen forest.
It was a sign from the Hist, for the Axe head found a weak spot on this stranger's armor between the shoulder and the collarbone, slicing into the black fabric that seemed to keep the white plating together. Blood spurted out of the sudden wound, and Pib Dosa stepped back, trying to staunch the flow of blood with one hand while he held up his wristblade arm defensively.
Even with such a wound, he was ready to fight and die like a warrior it seemed. Daixanos would honor him, and moved forward, slashing to and fro. The Mandalorian did his best to dodge, and to his credit managed to, the first few times. But with the loss of blood, he was slowing. The Axe fractured his chest piece, sending the Mandalorian on the ground.
He still got up, and so surprised was Dax that the Mandalorian's lunge had his wristblade bury deep into Dax's flank. The Argonian howled, but ripping out his own skinning Knife, he jammed his own blade into the Mandalorian's weak point, burying it in Pib Dosa's throat and ending his life.
"A worthy foe," Daixanos said to the lifeless, frozen forest.
Pib stabbed with an underhanded strike, upwards, with his freehand Vibroblade. Daixanos growled, using the haft of his blade to knock that arm downward, forcefully, before he let go of his own weapon with his left hand and caught the arm of the wristblade before it could complete its stab. But he was off balance, and he knew it. Swift as a viper, the Mandalorian used his vibroblade to finally shear through the Axehaft, causing the head to fall to the left and leaving nothing between the unarmed and tiring Argonian and Knife wielding Mandalorian save half a foot of empty air.
Dax pushed Pib away with his fading strength, only for Pib to slice downward on instinct, severing the Argonian's hand at the wrist. Daixanos cried out in pain and anger. Brutally, just as he had finished the deer, Pib Dosa slammed into the weakened Argonian and stabbed repeatedly, ending this strange Trandoshan's life on this strange planet, stab after stab. Daixanos the Hunter faded, and his soul found rest within his Homeland to be reborn many years later at the base of a Hist tree.
"Good fight, Hunter," Pib Dosa said, saluting the now fallen enemy.
Dax pushed Pib away with his fading strength, only for Pib to slice downward on instinct, severing the Argonian's hand at the wrist. Daixanos cried out in pain and anger. Brutally, just as he had finished the deer, Pib Dosa slammed into the weakened Argonian and stabbed repeatedly, ending this strange Trandoshan's life on this strange planet, stab after stab. Daixanos the Hunter faded, and his soul found rest within his Homeland to be reborn many years later at the base of a Hist tree.
"Good fight, Hunter," Pib Dosa said, saluting the now fallen enemy.
Stories from the Past - Canon (#2):
By @Dervish
Ten years ago
Riddle’Thar’s Rest, West of Orcest, Anequina
The blazing desert sun was unrelenting as it always was as rain seldom found its way to the deserts and savannahs of Anequina as if the clouds themselves found the heat too unbearable to stay for long. In the shifting sands, numerous ruins and ancient structures were buried over the years, signs of passed civilizations left derelict and forgotten throughout the ages, the large blocks of sandstone and granite extending through the sands like fingers of a buried giant consumed by an unforgiving void. It was, to an visitor from far off lands, as if life itself had deserted these lands, with no water and hardy withered vegetation to give credence of life. Like flesh and blood leaves behind a dry skeleton, the absence of water leaves the desert.
And yet, in these unimaginably harsh conditions, Khajiit had existed among the sands for thousands of years, some saying predating even the Elves. The people of Elsweyr are renowned for their wit and adaptability, their ability to pick up and move on from one thing to the next with the ease of the wind. It is these eternal wanderers and resourceful cats that can thrive in an unimaginably harsh environment that has mercilessly killed the unprepared since the beginning of time, and in the absence of great cities and castles an ancient culture based on community and the reliance on putting the needs of the many above the individual has long taken route. Tribes cannot survive unless everyone works together as a whole, and those who pull against the needs of the tribe are often cast away like a malignant tumour, damned to wander cold sands in lands of strangers if they wish to survive.
However, despite the Khajiiti predisposition to altruism and charity, there are always forces that work against the ideals of the people at large. For the Men and Mer and other Beasts, Khajiit are seen largely as smugglers and thieves, skooma addicts, and more darkly, assassins. It was the Renrijra’Krin that largely cemented this reputation as their reach extended far beyond the sands of Elsweyr, and if those who had Khajiit reside in their lands cared to ask the marginalized cat-folk for the truth, they would have known that many of the ‘Krin are what have caused the sordid reputation of the Khajiit in far off lands and the backlash against those who simply wish to live their lives in these foreign communities for the crimes of their kin ensures that the ‘Krin are never lacking for new recruits or fences for their cause. The Renrijra’Krin had a saying, ‘one should never stomp a hornets nest because one had been stung once, for one will find the stingers will never cease’. It is for this reason that the ‘Krin never lacked for influence and bodies to fill their cause, despite being contradictory to the Khajiiti way of life. It was a community, like any other, but one that dared ponder what would happen if an individual decided to take some of the fruits of their labour for themselves instead of giving it all back.
And so, in the ruins of Riddle’Thar’s Rest, named for the cosmic Khajiiti entity that taught its practitioners unparalleled unarmed combat skill, and these ruins made for an important layaway for the Sugar God’s messengers. First spoken of by the Mane Rid-Thar-ri’Datta, it would prove ironic why a very select group of the Renrijra’Krin were competing with one another in martial arts under the watchful eye of their Masters; the victor would be offered the most rare and infamous of tasks for their success. The initiates were not told the specifics, only that they would be asked to do something that no other Khajiit has done and their names would be written in the sands for eternity. It was, of course, an offer too enticing to resist.
Sixteen initiates, selected on the number of phases in the Lunar Lattice, had competed in a number of duals. The initiates were all of the bipedial breeds for practical reasons; the task they were competing for, by necessity, required use of hands and the ability to wear a uniform. It had been a few hours already, and as an incentive to test their resolve, they could have water any time they liked, provided they forfeit their place in the competition. Candidates were permitted up to three losses, since it was common knowledge that sometimes one simply had an unfavourable match up or made a slight mistake that cost them their round; if given another chance, they would often perform notably better, and if given a final chance, they would either succumb easily or not hold anything back. By not punishing failure, the Masters decided, they could really truly gather the full measure of one’s potential and see what they could do against different opponents. Was an Ohmes an incompetent warrior because they didn’t have claws nor the height and weight to defeat a Cathay-Raht, who were only seconded in size and mass to the Senche-Raht tigers? Of course not. A loss was a loss, and the real world didn’t offer second chances, but the beautiful part of training was it could prepare a Khajiit to face the real world with far more experience and skill than if they would have received otherwise.
Four initiates remained, and their fatigue was apparent. Even with fifteen minutes between rounds, several hours in the desert heat without water tested the physical and mental capacity of even the hardiest of warriors. Those disqualified sat in a shaded nook, water skins in hand. While some greedily drank back as much as they could hold, some stared with rapt attention at those who remained, both to determine who would be victorious and to perhaps learn from their betters.
Of the four, Daro’Sahana, a female Cathay, Ma’Tasrin, a female Ohmes-Raht, Dar’Jash, a male Cathay, and Dar’Turga, it was Dar’Turga who captured most of the attention. Whereas most were notable fighters and successful members of the Renrijra’Krin, it was Dar’Turga who had frequently proven himself to be a force to be reckoned with. His form was near-perfect, he was disciplined, and unlike most of the others, he did not have anyone that would be considered a friend. He had social acquaintances within the organization, sure, but almost all of his time was spent training and conditioning himself. It was known that he desired to make a name for himself, to become renowned and honoured, to become one of the heroes of legend. Great people accomplished great things, and he had felt that he would have the potential to become someone immortalized in tale if he worked for it. It was that drive that made him such a dangerous opponent; he remembered what his opponents were like from numerous years of training with them, their habits, preferences, strengths, and weaknesses. He himself, knowing that this tournament was upcoming, threw himself into frequent duels against as many opponents as he could find to agree with him, trying different stances and attempting to diminish his own preferences for strikes and movement. It had led to frequent losses, and in one case, and injury that some thought would keep him from competing, but here he was, and the fruits of his efforts paid off.
After a near-loss victory in his first round against a much larger opponent, the remaining bouts went by smoothly, alternating between immediately counter-attacking after letting the opponent make the first move and taking the fight to them aggressively as soon as the fight began, keeping them off balance enough that by the time they have an opening, they’re too sore to make any use of it. In short, for a young man of what was estimated to be around 17 or 18 years on Nirn, Dar’Turga’s fighting capacity was already far beyond what could have been expected for someone of his age. It was as if Riddle’Thar himself guided his hands and feet, and as Ma’Tasrin hit the sand arena, thrown to her back from a twisted arm-bar that almost certainly dislocated her arm, Dar’Turga stood victorious, panting, tongue white from dehydration. His body was covered in cuts, eye bruised over, two of his fingers broken, and a pronounced limp, he looked like a man who should have fallen down and succumbed an hour ago. He sat where the round had been concluded, placing his upturned wrists on his knees and began meditating, waiting for the next round to begin.
If Dar’Turga had one who could match his skill, it was Daro’Sahana and her ferocity. Far more muscular and scarred than most women, and many men for that matter, Daro’Sahana embodied the sentiment that if people wished to look at Khajiit like feral beasts, than she would act like one. Already sent on a few low-level murders and extortions, she had a reputation of leaving an impact anywhere she went. Conditioning her body to take pain by voluntarily being whipped, beat with staffs, or just antagonizing groups of people into fighting her at once, Daro’Sahana was covered in scars, leaving ghostly white lines and patches where tan fur should have been and her hands and knuckles were so calloused from punching soft stonework until she or it broke, more than one individual claimed that it would almost be preferable to being hit with a mace. She was a woman, one of 20 years, but one that even the most hardened of Orsimer would be hesitant to face. Even in this tournament, one of the initiates forfeit when paired against Daro’Sahana. He knew what she was capable of doing to people.
It wasn’t any surprise who the victor was when Daro’Sahana finished off Dar’Jash with a flurry of hammer blows into his ribs, his exposed skin cracking and bruising under the barrage, and then a cruel open palm strike into his face shattered his nose and caused the Mer-like Khajiit to fall backwards, knocked unconscious from the blow. Daro’Sahana roared in victory, sounding very much like a wildcat, before pointing at the still seated Dar’Turga. “You’ll receive worse, Dar’Turga. Your blood will quench the sand’s thirst.” She threatened, voice low and menacing. She went off to her own corner to stretch and inspect her own wounds. She wasn’t looking any better off than the Suthay-Raht, who seemed to be tranquil compared to the raging maelstrom that was Daro’Sahana.
Fifteen minutes passed, and both were lead to opposite ends of the twin crescents that were drawn in the sands. In the heat, the blood had had spilled had dried, and now only copper-scented dark spots remained of the crimson fluids that had been spilled. One of the Masters stood between them to the side, completing a triangle, and simply said, “Begin.”
As Dar’Turga predicted, Daro’Sahara took the fight to him, closing the distance in a charge; the one clear advantage over her was she was predictable. As she was nearly upon him, Dar’Turga, sidestepped into a supported crouch and swept his leg behind the Cathay, knocking her leg out from under her. She hit the ground hard, and he immediately gave space; the temptation to take advantage of a downed opponent was great, but Daro’Sahara was one that excelled at bringing aggressors down to her level. He knew if Daro’Sahara managed do get him to the ground, it would be over; she would be merciless and he would never get to his feet again. Instead, he let her get to her feet and square off again. The fight would truly begin in earnest.
She closed again, making jabs and wide slashes with her claws that Dar’Turga handily deflected or dodged with limber flexibility and easy footwork, not striking back himself. The rage was building up on Daro’Sahara’s expression. “Fight, coward!” She snarled, swiping high and clipping his ear, and then suddenly shifting into a roundhouse kick.
Dar’Turga managed to catch the leg in his arm, bracing against the impact with his torso and a supporting leg extended out opposite of the kick, and he twisted the leg, bringing his elbow down hard into the joint, dropping her as she howled in pain and rage. She hurried to her feet, her leg limping severely, and she stared daggers into the Suthay-Raht. She didn’t say anything, but murder was in her eyes. With claws extended, she advanced on Dar’Turga, who stood at a relaxed ready position. She swiped at him, and made purchase into his ribs. To her surprise, he grabbed her wrist with one hand, anchoring her in place and grabbing her other wrist, drove his skull into her snout repeatedly, bracing his leg behind hers to keep her from falling back. Hit after hit, her skin splitting, bone cracking, and teeth coming loose, her already uncomely appearance was becoming worse. Still, she dug in, attempting to tear flesh more, and suddenly, Dar’Turga released her and came up with an upper cut under her jaw, sending her off her feet and back hard into the sand. Long and bloody claw rakes marred his skin, bleeding profusely. Dazed but not quite out, Daro’Sahara tried to rise to her feet again but a hard kick to the throat kept her down and choking. She barely moved after that.
The Master clapped slowly, approaching Dar’Turga. “Well done, well done indeed.” He said, glancing at the crimson gashes and the mess of a woman on the ground. “She likely would have done far worse to you, but you know that, do you not?”
“This one does.” Dar’Turga confirmed, closing his remaining open eye, exhaling slowly to mediate through the pain. “She is skilled and ferocious, one prone to great acts of recklessness if it means certain defeat of her enemy. The swiftest way to victory was to do the same, use her own tactics against her, and take advantage of the momentary hesitation. She could not escape Dar’Turga’s blows, and this one achieved a victory that could only work once.” He said, clutching his side to try to staunch the bleeding. Healing Masters were in attendance, working tirelessly to mend the wounds of those who endured the tournament. Dar’Turga would receive his treatment soon enough. For now, a water skin would have to suffice. Taking it gratefully with a bow, the khajiit drank slowly, letting his try mouth saturate before letting his aching esophagus receive the same relief.
The Master smiled. “Daro’Sahara will not forgive you for this, you are aware. You will recover for the next week, and are dismissed from all obligations. Think of it as a perk of your victory. You will be vigilant, of course, from those who would like revenge.” He looked down at the prone woman. “Rest well, Dar’Turga. Your life as of this moment will be forever changed.”
The next week had passed and was perhaps the most boring of Dar’Turga’s life. Without training, his days were filled with nothingness. He largely sat in the garden of the Renrijra’Krin’s hideout, or enjoying his meal slower than usual, often being the last to leave the dining hall. He expected attacks or at the very least confrontations, but nothing came. Being unable to work his body, he instead turned to his mind, dedicating his hours to mediation and rest. When the week had passed, he had kneeled in front of his bed chamber door in the morning, waiting expectantly for the Master’s return.
When the Master did return, two similarly-aged Khajiit to Dar’Turga accompanied him, carrying backpacks and looking ready to travel. The Master offered a similar pack to Dar’Turga. “Get changed and come with me. Leave everything behind; it is no longer yours.”
Minutes later, the Master stood before the three young Renrijra’Krin warriors with two other Masters facing across from the other two Khajiit.
One of the Masters overseeing the meeting held up a simple iron dagger, old and pitted but still free of rust or tarnishing of any sort. Around its grip around through a loop on the cap was a red ribbon that flowed freely in the slight breeze. Himself a Suthay, the Master held the dagger up for all to see. “This dagger has no name.” He announced walking before the three apprentices, making eye contact with each as he passed. “But it is older than any of us. It has assassinated Emperors, Kings, Generals. It is a symbol of the Renrijra’Krin. This blade has been passed down from generation to generation as a symbol of our reach and power to change this world. This next time one of you sees this blade, it will mean that it is time for you to perform one of the greatest feats of our organization in history; you will have been selected to assassinate the Mane.” He said, taking in the wide eyed looks from the three apprentices; it was quite the revelation to suddenly drop on anyone, let alone three individuals whose responsibilities thus far had been nothing but training to become sleeper agents for unknown purposes. It was unheard of to target the Mane. The Master looked for signs of uncertainty, but was met with determination. Excellent.
“This dagger symbolizes that commitment to change and to ensure not only the Renrijra’Krin’s prosperity, but for all Khajiit! For too long we have suffered under the Thalmor’s thumb, and for that, it is time to cut it off to let us breathe again. This ancient, yet simple blade; it is your badge of office to do what needs to be done for all of our people. The three of you have been chosen based on your merits, your skills, your cunning, your strength. You all may be young, but old men do not walk as the Mane’s guards. What we ask of you, the victors in our respective tournaments that each of us designed and oversaw, is to give up everything you know and love to perform this one sacred task, and here under the watchful gaze of Magrus will your fate be decided.“ He announced, gesturing to the burning sun above, feeling the fire in the hearts of the Khajiit assembled as readily as the burning star above. The Master grinned at the determined stares that he received. It was quite the tale, to be sure, and one based only on half-truths. While it was true that daggers were often used to represent the assassination order for the organization, this was one he happened to buy in an Orcest market early on in the week. Absolutely nothing was special about it, but those who were being asked to do incredible things needed to have something incredible to believe in. For the Master, a little white lie was worth the end result.
Dar’Turga’s own Master spoke up next. “The three of you will no longer be members of this sanctuary, and everyone you have ever known will no longer be members of your lives. You will embrace your new identities as if Alkosh had given them to you himself; you will forget all but your training and your purpose.” He said gravely, looking each of them in the eyes. “When you step foot on the carriage, it all begins anew. Do you understand?” he asked, receiving a series of nods. “Good.” He nodded, smiling. Standing before Dar’Turga, he placed his hands on the younger Khajiit’s arms. “You are going to do great things, aren’t you, Do’Karth?” he asked.
Do’Karth. he thought, mulling over the name, trying to fit it to himself. He smiled in turn, replying, “Do’Karth will change the world”. he promised confidently, a determined stare meeting that of the Master.
“This one has no doubts that you will.”
Ten years ago
Riddle’Thar’s Rest, West of Orcest, Anequina
The blazing desert sun was unrelenting as it always was as rain seldom found its way to the deserts and savannahs of Anequina as if the clouds themselves found the heat too unbearable to stay for long. In the shifting sands, numerous ruins and ancient structures were buried over the years, signs of passed civilizations left derelict and forgotten throughout the ages, the large blocks of sandstone and granite extending through the sands like fingers of a buried giant consumed by an unforgiving void. It was, to an visitor from far off lands, as if life itself had deserted these lands, with no water and hardy withered vegetation to give credence of life. Like flesh and blood leaves behind a dry skeleton, the absence of water leaves the desert.
And yet, in these unimaginably harsh conditions, Khajiit had existed among the sands for thousands of years, some saying predating even the Elves. The people of Elsweyr are renowned for their wit and adaptability, their ability to pick up and move on from one thing to the next with the ease of the wind. It is these eternal wanderers and resourceful cats that can thrive in an unimaginably harsh environment that has mercilessly killed the unprepared since the beginning of time, and in the absence of great cities and castles an ancient culture based on community and the reliance on putting the needs of the many above the individual has long taken route. Tribes cannot survive unless everyone works together as a whole, and those who pull against the needs of the tribe are often cast away like a malignant tumour, damned to wander cold sands in lands of strangers if they wish to survive.
However, despite the Khajiiti predisposition to altruism and charity, there are always forces that work against the ideals of the people at large. For the Men and Mer and other Beasts, Khajiit are seen largely as smugglers and thieves, skooma addicts, and more darkly, assassins. It was the Renrijra’Krin that largely cemented this reputation as their reach extended far beyond the sands of Elsweyr, and if those who had Khajiit reside in their lands cared to ask the marginalized cat-folk for the truth, they would have known that many of the ‘Krin are what have caused the sordid reputation of the Khajiit in far off lands and the backlash against those who simply wish to live their lives in these foreign communities for the crimes of their kin ensures that the ‘Krin are never lacking for new recruits or fences for their cause. The Renrijra’Krin had a saying, ‘one should never stomp a hornets nest because one had been stung once, for one will find the stingers will never cease’. It is for this reason that the ‘Krin never lacked for influence and bodies to fill their cause, despite being contradictory to the Khajiiti way of life. It was a community, like any other, but one that dared ponder what would happen if an individual decided to take some of the fruits of their labour for themselves instead of giving it all back.
And so, in the ruins of Riddle’Thar’s Rest, named for the cosmic Khajiiti entity that taught its practitioners unparalleled unarmed combat skill, and these ruins made for an important layaway for the Sugar God’s messengers. First spoken of by the Mane Rid-Thar-ri’Datta, it would prove ironic why a very select group of the Renrijra’Krin were competing with one another in martial arts under the watchful eye of their Masters; the victor would be offered the most rare and infamous of tasks for their success. The initiates were not told the specifics, only that they would be asked to do something that no other Khajiit has done and their names would be written in the sands for eternity. It was, of course, an offer too enticing to resist.
Sixteen initiates, selected on the number of phases in the Lunar Lattice, had competed in a number of duals. The initiates were all of the bipedial breeds for practical reasons; the task they were competing for, by necessity, required use of hands and the ability to wear a uniform. It had been a few hours already, and as an incentive to test their resolve, they could have water any time they liked, provided they forfeit their place in the competition. Candidates were permitted up to three losses, since it was common knowledge that sometimes one simply had an unfavourable match up or made a slight mistake that cost them their round; if given another chance, they would often perform notably better, and if given a final chance, they would either succumb easily or not hold anything back. By not punishing failure, the Masters decided, they could really truly gather the full measure of one’s potential and see what they could do against different opponents. Was an Ohmes an incompetent warrior because they didn’t have claws nor the height and weight to defeat a Cathay-Raht, who were only seconded in size and mass to the Senche-Raht tigers? Of course not. A loss was a loss, and the real world didn’t offer second chances, but the beautiful part of training was it could prepare a Khajiit to face the real world with far more experience and skill than if they would have received otherwise.
Four initiates remained, and their fatigue was apparent. Even with fifteen minutes between rounds, several hours in the desert heat without water tested the physical and mental capacity of even the hardiest of warriors. Those disqualified sat in a shaded nook, water skins in hand. While some greedily drank back as much as they could hold, some stared with rapt attention at those who remained, both to determine who would be victorious and to perhaps learn from their betters.
Of the four, Daro’Sahana, a female Cathay, Ma’Tasrin, a female Ohmes-Raht, Dar’Jash, a male Cathay, and Dar’Turga, it was Dar’Turga who captured most of the attention. Whereas most were notable fighters and successful members of the Renrijra’Krin, it was Dar’Turga who had frequently proven himself to be a force to be reckoned with. His form was near-perfect, he was disciplined, and unlike most of the others, he did not have anyone that would be considered a friend. He had social acquaintances within the organization, sure, but almost all of his time was spent training and conditioning himself. It was known that he desired to make a name for himself, to become renowned and honoured, to become one of the heroes of legend. Great people accomplished great things, and he had felt that he would have the potential to become someone immortalized in tale if he worked for it. It was that drive that made him such a dangerous opponent; he remembered what his opponents were like from numerous years of training with them, their habits, preferences, strengths, and weaknesses. He himself, knowing that this tournament was upcoming, threw himself into frequent duels against as many opponents as he could find to agree with him, trying different stances and attempting to diminish his own preferences for strikes and movement. It had led to frequent losses, and in one case, and injury that some thought would keep him from competing, but here he was, and the fruits of his efforts paid off.
After a near-loss victory in his first round against a much larger opponent, the remaining bouts went by smoothly, alternating between immediately counter-attacking after letting the opponent make the first move and taking the fight to them aggressively as soon as the fight began, keeping them off balance enough that by the time they have an opening, they’re too sore to make any use of it. In short, for a young man of what was estimated to be around 17 or 18 years on Nirn, Dar’Turga’s fighting capacity was already far beyond what could have been expected for someone of his age. It was as if Riddle’Thar himself guided his hands and feet, and as Ma’Tasrin hit the sand arena, thrown to her back from a twisted arm-bar that almost certainly dislocated her arm, Dar’Turga stood victorious, panting, tongue white from dehydration. His body was covered in cuts, eye bruised over, two of his fingers broken, and a pronounced limp, he looked like a man who should have fallen down and succumbed an hour ago. He sat where the round had been concluded, placing his upturned wrists on his knees and began meditating, waiting for the next round to begin.
If Dar’Turga had one who could match his skill, it was Daro’Sahana and her ferocity. Far more muscular and scarred than most women, and many men for that matter, Daro’Sahana embodied the sentiment that if people wished to look at Khajiit like feral beasts, than she would act like one. Already sent on a few low-level murders and extortions, she had a reputation of leaving an impact anywhere she went. Conditioning her body to take pain by voluntarily being whipped, beat with staffs, or just antagonizing groups of people into fighting her at once, Daro’Sahana was covered in scars, leaving ghostly white lines and patches where tan fur should have been and her hands and knuckles were so calloused from punching soft stonework until she or it broke, more than one individual claimed that it would almost be preferable to being hit with a mace. She was a woman, one of 20 years, but one that even the most hardened of Orsimer would be hesitant to face. Even in this tournament, one of the initiates forfeit when paired against Daro’Sahana. He knew what she was capable of doing to people.
It wasn’t any surprise who the victor was when Daro’Sahana finished off Dar’Jash with a flurry of hammer blows into his ribs, his exposed skin cracking and bruising under the barrage, and then a cruel open palm strike into his face shattered his nose and caused the Mer-like Khajiit to fall backwards, knocked unconscious from the blow. Daro’Sahana roared in victory, sounding very much like a wildcat, before pointing at the still seated Dar’Turga. “You’ll receive worse, Dar’Turga. Your blood will quench the sand’s thirst.” She threatened, voice low and menacing. She went off to her own corner to stretch and inspect her own wounds. She wasn’t looking any better off than the Suthay-Raht, who seemed to be tranquil compared to the raging maelstrom that was Daro’Sahana.
Fifteen minutes passed, and both were lead to opposite ends of the twin crescents that were drawn in the sands. In the heat, the blood had had spilled had dried, and now only copper-scented dark spots remained of the crimson fluids that had been spilled. One of the Masters stood between them to the side, completing a triangle, and simply said, “Begin.”
As Dar’Turga predicted, Daro’Sahara took the fight to him, closing the distance in a charge; the one clear advantage over her was she was predictable. As she was nearly upon him, Dar’Turga, sidestepped into a supported crouch and swept his leg behind the Cathay, knocking her leg out from under her. She hit the ground hard, and he immediately gave space; the temptation to take advantage of a downed opponent was great, but Daro’Sahara was one that excelled at bringing aggressors down to her level. He knew if Daro’Sahara managed do get him to the ground, it would be over; she would be merciless and he would never get to his feet again. Instead, he let her get to her feet and square off again. The fight would truly begin in earnest.
She closed again, making jabs and wide slashes with her claws that Dar’Turga handily deflected or dodged with limber flexibility and easy footwork, not striking back himself. The rage was building up on Daro’Sahara’s expression. “Fight, coward!” She snarled, swiping high and clipping his ear, and then suddenly shifting into a roundhouse kick.
Dar’Turga managed to catch the leg in his arm, bracing against the impact with his torso and a supporting leg extended out opposite of the kick, and he twisted the leg, bringing his elbow down hard into the joint, dropping her as she howled in pain and rage. She hurried to her feet, her leg limping severely, and she stared daggers into the Suthay-Raht. She didn’t say anything, but murder was in her eyes. With claws extended, she advanced on Dar’Turga, who stood at a relaxed ready position. She swiped at him, and made purchase into his ribs. To her surprise, he grabbed her wrist with one hand, anchoring her in place and grabbing her other wrist, drove his skull into her snout repeatedly, bracing his leg behind hers to keep her from falling back. Hit after hit, her skin splitting, bone cracking, and teeth coming loose, her already uncomely appearance was becoming worse. Still, she dug in, attempting to tear flesh more, and suddenly, Dar’Turga released her and came up with an upper cut under her jaw, sending her off her feet and back hard into the sand. Long and bloody claw rakes marred his skin, bleeding profusely. Dazed but not quite out, Daro’Sahara tried to rise to her feet again but a hard kick to the throat kept her down and choking. She barely moved after that.
The Master clapped slowly, approaching Dar’Turga. “Well done, well done indeed.” He said, glancing at the crimson gashes and the mess of a woman on the ground. “She likely would have done far worse to you, but you know that, do you not?”
“This one does.” Dar’Turga confirmed, closing his remaining open eye, exhaling slowly to mediate through the pain. “She is skilled and ferocious, one prone to great acts of recklessness if it means certain defeat of her enemy. The swiftest way to victory was to do the same, use her own tactics against her, and take advantage of the momentary hesitation. She could not escape Dar’Turga’s blows, and this one achieved a victory that could only work once.” He said, clutching his side to try to staunch the bleeding. Healing Masters were in attendance, working tirelessly to mend the wounds of those who endured the tournament. Dar’Turga would receive his treatment soon enough. For now, a water skin would have to suffice. Taking it gratefully with a bow, the khajiit drank slowly, letting his try mouth saturate before letting his aching esophagus receive the same relief.
The Master smiled. “Daro’Sahara will not forgive you for this, you are aware. You will recover for the next week, and are dismissed from all obligations. Think of it as a perk of your victory. You will be vigilant, of course, from those who would like revenge.” He looked down at the prone woman. “Rest well, Dar’Turga. Your life as of this moment will be forever changed.”
The next week had passed and was perhaps the most boring of Dar’Turga’s life. Without training, his days were filled with nothingness. He largely sat in the garden of the Renrijra’Krin’s hideout, or enjoying his meal slower than usual, often being the last to leave the dining hall. He expected attacks or at the very least confrontations, but nothing came. Being unable to work his body, he instead turned to his mind, dedicating his hours to mediation and rest. When the week had passed, he had kneeled in front of his bed chamber door in the morning, waiting expectantly for the Master’s return.
When the Master did return, two similarly-aged Khajiit to Dar’Turga accompanied him, carrying backpacks and looking ready to travel. The Master offered a similar pack to Dar’Turga. “Get changed and come with me. Leave everything behind; it is no longer yours.”
Minutes later, the Master stood before the three young Renrijra’Krin warriors with two other Masters facing across from the other two Khajiit.
One of the Masters overseeing the meeting held up a simple iron dagger, old and pitted but still free of rust or tarnishing of any sort. Around its grip around through a loop on the cap was a red ribbon that flowed freely in the slight breeze. Himself a Suthay, the Master held the dagger up for all to see. “This dagger has no name.” He announced walking before the three apprentices, making eye contact with each as he passed. “But it is older than any of us. It has assassinated Emperors, Kings, Generals. It is a symbol of the Renrijra’Krin. This blade has been passed down from generation to generation as a symbol of our reach and power to change this world. This next time one of you sees this blade, it will mean that it is time for you to perform one of the greatest feats of our organization in history; you will have been selected to assassinate the Mane.” He said, taking in the wide eyed looks from the three apprentices; it was quite the revelation to suddenly drop on anyone, let alone three individuals whose responsibilities thus far had been nothing but training to become sleeper agents for unknown purposes. It was unheard of to target the Mane. The Master looked for signs of uncertainty, but was met with determination. Excellent.
“This dagger symbolizes that commitment to change and to ensure not only the Renrijra’Krin’s prosperity, but for all Khajiit! For too long we have suffered under the Thalmor’s thumb, and for that, it is time to cut it off to let us breathe again. This ancient, yet simple blade; it is your badge of office to do what needs to be done for all of our people. The three of you have been chosen based on your merits, your skills, your cunning, your strength. You all may be young, but old men do not walk as the Mane’s guards. What we ask of you, the victors in our respective tournaments that each of us designed and oversaw, is to give up everything you know and love to perform this one sacred task, and here under the watchful gaze of Magrus will your fate be decided.“ He announced, gesturing to the burning sun above, feeling the fire in the hearts of the Khajiit assembled as readily as the burning star above. The Master grinned at the determined stares that he received. It was quite the tale, to be sure, and one based only on half-truths. While it was true that daggers were often used to represent the assassination order for the organization, this was one he happened to buy in an Orcest market early on in the week. Absolutely nothing was special about it, but those who were being asked to do incredible things needed to have something incredible to believe in. For the Master, a little white lie was worth the end result.
Dar’Turga’s own Master spoke up next. “The three of you will no longer be members of this sanctuary, and everyone you have ever known will no longer be members of your lives. You will embrace your new identities as if Alkosh had given them to you himself; you will forget all but your training and your purpose.” He said gravely, looking each of them in the eyes. “When you step foot on the carriage, it all begins anew. Do you understand?” he asked, receiving a series of nods. “Good.” He nodded, smiling. Standing before Dar’Turga, he placed his hands on the younger Khajiit’s arms. “You are going to do great things, aren’t you, Do’Karth?” he asked.
Do’Karth. he thought, mulling over the name, trying to fit it to himself. He smiled in turn, replying, “Do’Karth will change the world”. he promised confidently, a determined stare meeting that of the Master.
“This one has no doubts that you will.”
By @MacabreFox
11th of Sun’s Height, Solitude 4e 199
The familiar beam of Solitude Lighthouse beckoned to the sailors aboard the Courtesan. Seated in the crow's nest, Leif's heart leapt with joy at the sight of the Blue Palace perched on its cliff. Scaling the ladder, he began the descent below to the main deck. The harrowing height of the climb no longer frightened him. In fact, the worn wooden planks underneath his palms provided him with a feeling of comfort. He knew how many planks he would touch before he reached the main deck, 44 in total.
The last remaining light of the evening sun illuminated the sky in a swathe of magenta and indigo. As the ship glided past the stone edifice of the lighthouse, Leif leaned against the railing. His gaze drifted to the water below, its colorless appearance still unsettled him. The tale of Yngol and the Sea-Ghosts came to mind. He recalled the tale in how Ysgramor battled the sea-ghosts to reclaim his kin. Ysgramor commanded the ghosts to return his kin to him, yet a mighty gale cast the sky in darkness. Two fortnights passed without a halt in the fighting. Churning and thrashing waves rose from the sea, while white lightning filled the sky. When the skies cleared and the sea calmed, Ygrasmor discovered the body of his son on the shore. Leif shivered at the thought of the eerie mists that blanketed the sea. Mysterious and apparitions often appeared in the veil of fog. The seasoned sailors aboard the Courtesan warned him of the hazards on sailing the Sea of Ghosts. According to myths and legends,
A firm hand clasped him on the shoulder, "It's always a good trip when Kyne gives us a challenge, eh?" Leif turned at the sound of the gravelly voice and gazed upon his mate, Halvar. The rugged Nord had befriended Leif during his first days aboard the Courtesan. His reddish-blond hair bore the tell-tale signs of age as streaks of grey peppered his locks. A vast majority of sailors on board the ship were apart of the original crew, starting with Captain Atgeir here in Solitude when he first set sail from this very same harbor a decade ago. That said, the core crew of the Courtesan consisted of Bjorn Strong-Fist, Halvar Rock-Jaw, and Orvar Red-Tree. On occasion, Atgeir would take on another hand when they were hauling larger loads.
“Aye.” Leif said with a widespread grin, “Have you any plans while we are here?”
“That depends,” Halvar returned with a wink, “if you can consider drinking a barrel full of ale, and flirting with the sweet lasses in the Skeever as a plan, then yes. What of yourself lad?”
“I have to admit, I had the same intentions in mind too.”
The Winking Skeever
Once the Courtesan had docked and the cargo unloaded, Atgeir dismissed the men from their duties for the night. In company, Leif and the other sailors of the Courtesan set out to enjoy their evening. Halvar, Orvar, and Leif made for The Winking Skeever while Atgeir and Bjorn went their separate ways. Not long after entering the tavern, Leif and his crew mates seated themselves at a table in the center of the room. The smell of baking bread and bubbling stew floated through the air while a young man, an apprentice from the Bard’s College strummed pathetically on a lyre. His thick fingers made it difficult to pluck the chords of his instrument with the learned eloquence of his teachers.
“Oi, bless my ears! I think we’re hearing the famed Sheogorath sing us a fine ditty.” Halvar howled as his fist pounded the table, frothy ale sloshed from the mug in his hand, spilling across the surface.
“Ey laddy-buck,” Orvar hooked his thumb over his shoulder at the caterwauling bard behind, “I think you ought to commandeer that from him before he makes our ears bleed.”
“Oh come now, he’s not that bad! Cut him some slack, he’s still learning. Learning that he’ll scare away the pretty lasses that is.” At the insistence of his friends, Leif downed his mugful of ale, and stood up from his chair.
Striding over to the young man, Leif held out his hand expectantly, in which the lyrist stopped mid-stroke in his song. At first he looked confused, uncertain what Leif wanted,when he demanded in a commanding tone. “Allow me.” The lyrist could be no more than a day over six and ten, for he had yet to grow an inch of hair on his chin. Timid, and desperate to avoid conflict, he handed the lyre over to Leif. With a playful grin, Leif guided the lad into a vacant chair. “It would do you well to pay close attention. I’ll show you how to win a woman’s heart.”
Leif moved to where the lad had stood moments ago, plucking the cat-gut strings to determine their tune. Adjusting the strings accordingly, he tested them again with a swipe of his hand. This time, a melodious tune resonated off the stone walls. Heads turned in his direction, curious to hear who could play music so sweet. Orvar and Halvar hid toothy grins behind their tankards, the Skeever would have a performance that they wouldn’t forget for many years to come. Closing his eyes, Leif cleared his head of any distractions where he inhaled deeply, on his exhaling breath he strummed another chord, this time of a higher note. When his eyes flew open to meet the curious stares of onlookers, Leif allowed himself a small grin before he burst into song.
“O, back in the days when I was a lad,
There was a lass that I knew I had to have.
Her eyes were the color of honey,
So sweet and so pure.
Her skin would make any sheep blush,
For it was white and smooth, like a winter’s morning hush.
Her hair glimmered and glistened under the fair sunlight,
The color o’ fire, that it shone so bright.
Sweet Oriela,
O’ my sweet Oriela.” As Leif finished the first verse of his song, Leif snatched a bundle of red mountain flowers from a planter. He moved towards a young lass, perhaps no more than twenty in age, and dropped to one knee. He propped the lyre up, and lowered his voice, where he continued on in song.
“O’ my sweet lady,
I never told thee, of how my heart beats.
When I hear the soft sighs pass o’er your lips,
You make me never want to stray from your side, e’er agin.
Sweet Oriela,
O’ my sweet Oriela.
How I would take up my sword in your name,
I would slay but a hundred men, if it meant I could see your face.
But alas!
So came the day, when I asked for your hand.
‘Twas here that I discovered,
That you had pledged yourself to another man.” Leif proffered the bundle of red flowers to the lass before him. She gasped aloud at the gesture and her cheeks turned a rosy hue. He smiled and then rose to his feet. The chords of lyre turned to a sombre note as he plucked at them in a tender fashion.
“O’ my sweet Oriela,
I never thought this day would come true.
Yet, there you were, adorned in blue,
A garland of flowers o’er your crown o’ fiery hair.
To him, ye were wed.
Mine heart,’twas broken forevermore.
Forevermore, forevermore.
I roamed the wilds o’ Skyrim, my home.
Many a bear did I slaughter, and many a broken bone
Did I suffer.”
Leif moved past the woman he gave flowers to, and ventured over to another lass, this one slightly older, evident of the laugh lines around her mouth. He strummed a few more chords before kneeling. Clasping her hand, he raised it to his lips and planted a kiss. She could not refrain a smile at his actions. He remained in his kneeling position as he returned to playing the lyre.
“O’ my sweet Oriela,
I thought you to be mine.
So beautiful and divine,
There is naught a man that would honor ye,
With the respect and love ye deserve.
So I carried on,
Through the wilds o’ Skyrim.
And I sharpened my sword,
And honed my words,
To be sharper than any dagger.
In my grief, did I stagger,
Ever onward. Ever onward.
To hear your voice agin,
O’ my sweet Oriela!”
With that, Leif’s ballad came to an end. The patrons of the Skeever erupted into a thunderous roar, they pounded the tables and begged for an encore. Yet, Leif did not heed their pleas, instead he made his way back to the lad. He sat with jaw agape as Leif returned his instrument to him.
“There you are my lad.” He said.
“I… thank you, sir. Thank you.”
“Oh don’t thank me.” Leif winked at him, “unless of course, you happen to bed a woman tonight. Use the song if you wish. It is a favorite among many men and women alike.” There he departed from the aspiring bard and made his way back to the table where Orvar and Halvar awaited him.
“Lad! You should have seen the looks on their faces.” Orvar said through a series of bellowing guffaws, his face and neck were crimson from laughter.
“Aye, you put that bard in his place, you did.” Halvar added. He waved at one of the serving girls in the tavern. When she approached, he placed an order for another pitcher full of ale. The rest of the evening, Leif and his comrades downed pitcher after pitcher of ale. Several women and men alike paid their thanks for his performance, they complimented him on his singing voice and ability to play the lyre. As such, they ordered him round after round of ale and plates stacked high with food. Neither of his mates denied the gifts, and ate with ravenous appetites, their thirst insatiable.
The remainder of that evening’s events disappeared from memory. He knew not when he left the Skeever, nor, more importantly, how he ended in up a horse stall outside of Solitude. He started at the sight of a chicken slumbering in his arms, he released the bird and shooed it away. As he sat up, bits of straw clung to his tunic and stuck out from his hair. Running a hand over his beard, he made an attempt to groom himself proper. Then, he pushed himself to his feet, and blinked away the dancing colors that obscured his vision. Staggering out of the horse stall, Leif gritted his teeth at the overwhelming brightness of the early morning sunshine. With unsteady footsteps, Leif began the long walk back to the docks, hopefully the Courtesan hadn’t sailed out of port yet.
11th of Sun’s Height, Solitude 4e 199
The familiar beam of Solitude Lighthouse beckoned to the sailors aboard the Courtesan. Seated in the crow's nest, Leif's heart leapt with joy at the sight of the Blue Palace perched on its cliff. Scaling the ladder, he began the descent below to the main deck. The harrowing height of the climb no longer frightened him. In fact, the worn wooden planks underneath his palms provided him with a feeling of comfort. He knew how many planks he would touch before he reached the main deck, 44 in total.
The last remaining light of the evening sun illuminated the sky in a swathe of magenta and indigo. As the ship glided past the stone edifice of the lighthouse, Leif leaned against the railing. His gaze drifted to the water below, its colorless appearance still unsettled him. The tale of Yngol and the Sea-Ghosts came to mind. He recalled the tale in how Ysgramor battled the sea-ghosts to reclaim his kin. Ysgramor commanded the ghosts to return his kin to him, yet a mighty gale cast the sky in darkness. Two fortnights passed without a halt in the fighting. Churning and thrashing waves rose from the sea, while white lightning filled the sky. When the skies cleared and the sea calmed, Ygrasmor discovered the body of his son on the shore. Leif shivered at the thought of the eerie mists that blanketed the sea. Mysterious and apparitions often appeared in the veil of fog. The seasoned sailors aboard the Courtesan warned him of the hazards on sailing the Sea of Ghosts. According to myths and legends,
A firm hand clasped him on the shoulder, "It's always a good trip when Kyne gives us a challenge, eh?" Leif turned at the sound of the gravelly voice and gazed upon his mate, Halvar. The rugged Nord had befriended Leif during his first days aboard the Courtesan. His reddish-blond hair bore the tell-tale signs of age as streaks of grey peppered his locks. A vast majority of sailors on board the ship were apart of the original crew, starting with Captain Atgeir here in Solitude when he first set sail from this very same harbor a decade ago. That said, the core crew of the Courtesan consisted of Bjorn Strong-Fist, Halvar Rock-Jaw, and Orvar Red-Tree. On occasion, Atgeir would take on another hand when they were hauling larger loads.
“Aye.” Leif said with a widespread grin, “Have you any plans while we are here?”
“That depends,” Halvar returned with a wink, “if you can consider drinking a barrel full of ale, and flirting with the sweet lasses in the Skeever as a plan, then yes. What of yourself lad?”
“I have to admit, I had the same intentions in mind too.”
The Winking Skeever
Once the Courtesan had docked and the cargo unloaded, Atgeir dismissed the men from their duties for the night. In company, Leif and the other sailors of the Courtesan set out to enjoy their evening. Halvar, Orvar, and Leif made for The Winking Skeever while Atgeir and Bjorn went their separate ways. Not long after entering the tavern, Leif and his crew mates seated themselves at a table in the center of the room. The smell of baking bread and bubbling stew floated through the air while a young man, an apprentice from the Bard’s College strummed pathetically on a lyre. His thick fingers made it difficult to pluck the chords of his instrument with the learned eloquence of his teachers.
“Oi, bless my ears! I think we’re hearing the famed Sheogorath sing us a fine ditty.” Halvar howled as his fist pounded the table, frothy ale sloshed from the mug in his hand, spilling across the surface.
“Ey laddy-buck,” Orvar hooked his thumb over his shoulder at the caterwauling bard behind, “I think you ought to commandeer that from him before he makes our ears bleed.”
“Oh come now, he’s not that bad! Cut him some slack, he’s still learning. Learning that he’ll scare away the pretty lasses that is.” At the insistence of his friends, Leif downed his mugful of ale, and stood up from his chair.
Striding over to the young man, Leif held out his hand expectantly, in which the lyrist stopped mid-stroke in his song. At first he looked confused, uncertain what Leif wanted,when he demanded in a commanding tone. “Allow me.” The lyrist could be no more than a day over six and ten, for he had yet to grow an inch of hair on his chin. Timid, and desperate to avoid conflict, he handed the lyre over to Leif. With a playful grin, Leif guided the lad into a vacant chair. “It would do you well to pay close attention. I’ll show you how to win a woman’s heart.”
Leif moved to where the lad had stood moments ago, plucking the cat-gut strings to determine their tune. Adjusting the strings accordingly, he tested them again with a swipe of his hand. This time, a melodious tune resonated off the stone walls. Heads turned in his direction, curious to hear who could play music so sweet. Orvar and Halvar hid toothy grins behind their tankards, the Skeever would have a performance that they wouldn’t forget for many years to come. Closing his eyes, Leif cleared his head of any distractions where he inhaled deeply, on his exhaling breath he strummed another chord, this time of a higher note. When his eyes flew open to meet the curious stares of onlookers, Leif allowed himself a small grin before he burst into song.
“O, back in the days when I was a lad,
There was a lass that I knew I had to have.
Her eyes were the color of honey,
So sweet and so pure.
Her skin would make any sheep blush,
For it was white and smooth, like a winter’s morning hush.
Her hair glimmered and glistened under the fair sunlight,
The color o’ fire, that it shone so bright.
Sweet Oriela,
O’ my sweet Oriela.” As Leif finished the first verse of his song, Leif snatched a bundle of red mountain flowers from a planter. He moved towards a young lass, perhaps no more than twenty in age, and dropped to one knee. He propped the lyre up, and lowered his voice, where he continued on in song.
“O’ my sweet lady,
I never told thee, of how my heart beats.
When I hear the soft sighs pass o’er your lips,
You make me never want to stray from your side, e’er agin.
Sweet Oriela,
O’ my sweet Oriela.
How I would take up my sword in your name,
I would slay but a hundred men, if it meant I could see your face.
But alas!
So came the day, when I asked for your hand.
‘Twas here that I discovered,
That you had pledged yourself to another man.” Leif proffered the bundle of red flowers to the lass before him. She gasped aloud at the gesture and her cheeks turned a rosy hue. He smiled and then rose to his feet. The chords of lyre turned to a sombre note as he plucked at them in a tender fashion.
“O’ my sweet Oriela,
I never thought this day would come true.
Yet, there you were, adorned in blue,
A garland of flowers o’er your crown o’ fiery hair.
To him, ye were wed.
Mine heart,’twas broken forevermore.
Forevermore, forevermore.
I roamed the wilds o’ Skyrim, my home.
Many a bear did I slaughter, and many a broken bone
Did I suffer.”
Leif moved past the woman he gave flowers to, and ventured over to another lass, this one slightly older, evident of the laugh lines around her mouth. He strummed a few more chords before kneeling. Clasping her hand, he raised it to his lips and planted a kiss. She could not refrain a smile at his actions. He remained in his kneeling position as he returned to playing the lyre.
“O’ my sweet Oriela,
I thought you to be mine.
So beautiful and divine,
There is naught a man that would honor ye,
With the respect and love ye deserve.
So I carried on,
Through the wilds o’ Skyrim.
And I sharpened my sword,
And honed my words,
To be sharper than any dagger.
In my grief, did I stagger,
Ever onward. Ever onward.
To hear your voice agin,
O’ my sweet Oriela!”
With that, Leif’s ballad came to an end. The patrons of the Skeever erupted into a thunderous roar, they pounded the tables and begged for an encore. Yet, Leif did not heed their pleas, instead he made his way back to the lad. He sat with jaw agape as Leif returned his instrument to him.
“There you are my lad.” He said.
“I… thank you, sir. Thank you.”
“Oh don’t thank me.” Leif winked at him, “unless of course, you happen to bed a woman tonight. Use the song if you wish. It is a favorite among many men and women alike.” There he departed from the aspiring bard and made his way back to the table where Orvar and Halvar awaited him.
“Lad! You should have seen the looks on their faces.” Orvar said through a series of bellowing guffaws, his face and neck were crimson from laughter.
“Aye, you put that bard in his place, you did.” Halvar added. He waved at one of the serving girls in the tavern. When she approached, he placed an order for another pitcher full of ale. The rest of the evening, Leif and his comrades downed pitcher after pitcher of ale. Several women and men alike paid their thanks for his performance, they complimented him on his singing voice and ability to play the lyre. As such, they ordered him round after round of ale and plates stacked high with food. Neither of his mates denied the gifts, and ate with ravenous appetites, their thirst insatiable.
The remainder of that evening’s events disappeared from memory. He knew not when he left the Skeever, nor, more importantly, how he ended in up a horse stall outside of Solitude. He started at the sight of a chicken slumbering in his arms, he released the bird and shooed it away. As he sat up, bits of straw clung to his tunic and stuck out from his hair. Running a hand over his beard, he made an attempt to groom himself proper. Then, he pushed himself to his feet, and blinked away the dancing colors that obscured his vision. Staggering out of the horse stall, Leif gritted his teeth at the overwhelming brightness of the early morning sunshine. With unsteady footsteps, Leif began the long walk back to the docks, hopefully the Courtesan hadn’t sailed out of port yet.
Another Perspective - Canon (#3):
By @MacabreFox
I watched her leave, and I watched her return a changed woman.
Thick gray clouds blanketed the sky over Falkreath bringing an unwelcome chill to the air. Nevertheless, I had finished my tasks for the day and took it upon myself to soften the aches in my muscles with a mugful of ale. All around me were familiar faces of the townsfolk, I knew every person here. Most of them knew my ma and pa, and I grew up with their children. There were weary faces this day, news reached us that the war had ended days before. The celebration of the Stormcloaks winning back Skyrim had had mixed reactions amongst the folk here. Those who had supported the Empire changed their attitudes weeks before the war came to a close, and even now they were tight-lipped and grim-faced. Even now, the atmosphere in Dead Man’s Drink held a tension unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
But I knew.
I knew why these people wore the expressions of mourners at a funeral pyre. They had yet to learn who had perished in the final battle at Solitude. There were countless men and women alike that had gone off to fight in the war. Edith Bright-Wings, Arnbjorg Cracked-Tooth, Helgi Thorn-Raker, Kjeld Stone-Crusher, Thranvir Fire-Nose and Sevine Varg-t’uk were the first to volunteer to aid in the fight against the Empire. Now, we waited in earnest for the day they would stroll through the gates of Falkreath, alive or dead. I raised the warm mug of ale to my lips and let the liquid wet the back of my throat. Out of nowhere, the door to the tavern flew open. Heads turned including my own, thundering cries erupted from everyone surrounding me. I gave a cry of surprise as well. There in the doorway stood our soldiers, alive, in the flesh. Chairs tipped backwards as they scrambled to welcome them home.
“Edith! Oh my dear girl!” Came the cry from her father as he wrestled through to crowd to reach her. I noticed immediately that not all of Falkreath’s warriors had returned. Amongst the ones present were Edith, Kjeld, Thranvir and Sevine. While other patrons brushed past me, I awaited my turn, that’s all I could do. Everyone embraced those that had returned home, tears were shed, cries of anguish and joy mixed together. My hands were cold, my head spun, I needed to sit down, but I refused. Then, I saw her. My sister. She pushed her way through the throngs of people, several of which clasped her on the shoulder and said things like, “It’s the Huntress!” and “Welcome home, Sevine.” or “Your father would be proud of you.”
She had changed. I could see it. Two years away at war, what more could I expect? Her shoulders drooped, her green eyes that were always bright with a fire had dimmed. Even her copper hair had dulled. The skin over her cheeks were pulled tight, and there were new lines on her face, lines that had not been there when she left. She wore her Stormcloak blue armor, an axe at her hip and her long bow strapped under a shield. My eyes burned as a strained smile crossed her lips.
“Little sister.” I lost it, the sound of her voice after so many years pushed me over the edge. The lump in my throat made it hard to breathe, much less speak. She pulled me to her chest, her arms wrapping tight around me. I couldn’t hold it back anymore, so I buried my face into her, I let myself cry, I didn’t care. No. She was home now. And that’s all I had ever wanted. “Oh Lili.” Her strong arms held me tighter, one hand stroking my back just like she used to when I was a child. She rested her chin atop my head, rocking me back and forth.
When I found the courage, I lifted my chin and found her own eyes red with tears, “I missed you so much.” Her face split into a smile as she chuckled, she placed a hand on my head and ruffled my hair.
“I am home now.” Sevine stooped down and kissed my brow, her lips were cold against my flushed skin.
“I heard so much about you, about your heroic deeds.” I said, perking up at the thought that my sister, Sevine, had earned a Name for herself. At the mention of my words, a dark cloud crossed her features, but passed within seconds. “Is something wrong?” I asked, I knew my sister too well.
“I… am tired.” She said with a heavy sigh, it reminded me of pa, how he sighed after a long day of tending to the garden. “Shall we go home?”
“You don’t want to stay and celebrate? Valga promised a feast whenever our soldiers returned home. She’s already run off to fetch Solaf and Bolund to help.” I glanced around, watching as Valga darted out of the door to the inn.
“No, little sister. Let us go.” Her face screwed up into an odd expression, one that I couldn’t identify. I had an inkling something had happened that she withheld from me. I relented with a nod, I wasn’t going to argue with her, not now of all times. Together, we strolled out of Dead Man’s Drink and made our way back home.
For the most part, I was surprised that Asper had come home too. The dark bay stallion appeared lean in my eyes, and like my sister, his coat had lost his luster. Sevine hoisted herself into the saddle, and extended her arm out to me. I took her hand in mine, noticing that her hands were cold and calloused. With one pull, she had me behind her, and at the cluck of her tongue, we set off down the road at a fast trot. What would have taken close to an hour, we made the trek home in thirty minutes. We turned off the road near Pine Watch and onto a dirt path well-worn from Pa’s wagon. My stomach plummeted at the realization that I had yet to tell her of the tragic news. Days before, our father had passed away. He had a cough for months that would not leave him, and a fever in the last week that would not break. I had just sold a chicken to pay for his medicine when I returned home to find him not breathing. Were it not for the people of Falkreath checking on me, I would have had to bury our father alone.
We crested the hill where the pine trees cast us in shadows. With my arms wrapped tightly around her, I noticed that my sister’s scent had changed, she smelt… foreign to me. Like the earth and of steel. Even with my arms about her, she felt thinner. To our left, the pine trees thinned out into a clearing where our house stood. No smoke rose from the chimney, and the garden had become a wild jungle of weeds. My face grew hot from shame. I wanted to cry then, but I resisted the urge. I leapt off from Asper first and watched as Sevine dismounted. Her brows were furrowed, as if she sensed something amiss. She glanced once at me, before turning her attention back to the log and stone cabin. I watched her cross the clearing in long, powerful strides, where she pushed opened the door with a thunderous bang. I could see where I stood how her shoulders dropped, she disappeared inside. Her shouts echoed across the clearing, calling for our father. She emerged moments later, her cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.
“Lili-” She couldn’t finish her sentence, she must have seen the look on my face. I watched as my sister fell against the doorframe, a hand covering her face, she never wanted me to see her cry. I don’t know why. Within seconds, I crossed the clearing and wrapped my arms around her. She tried to push me away, but I held on tight. I regretted my decision then. I knew I should have told her when I first saw her. Eventually she quit fighting as I weaseled my way against her chest. As I rested my head on her chest, I could hear the struggle in her, how she fought back the tears, the anguish and turmoil rising in her.
“I’m so sorry.” I whispered, if I could take her into my being to shield her from the pain, I would have done just that.
“How?” She croaked, her voice cracking through the grief. I inhaled, fighting past the lump in my own throat that made talking difficult.
“He had a cough that wouldn’t go. A fever that wouldn’t break. I went to town and sold a chicken, we didn’t have any money, and I bought him medicine. But when I returned…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish my own sentence. A sob escaped from my mouth as continued, “We buried him in the cemetery next to Ma.”
Later that night, we ate dinner in silence. Sevine used to tease me about my cooking, but tonight she said not a word, just stared languidly at the food on her plate. Even I found it difficult to eat, the food was tasteless and I could barely swallow a bite. Nevertheless, I cleaned up after dinner, and went to bed. As I lay in my bed, I tossed and turned restlessly on my mattress. I wanted this night to end, but I couldn’t unwind. Downstairs, I heard Sevine bustling around the room, I wondered what she was doing, but I didn’t bother to check. It would be best to leave her be, or so I thought. Each person dealt with grief in their own way.
I lost track of time, I think I slept, because I jumped at the sound of Sevine’s feet climbing the ladder to the loft. Night had fallen, casting the loft in absolute darkness. I could feel her presence lingering over the foot of my bed, was she angry with me? I couldn’t tell. I wanted to open my eyes, but I didn’t want her to know that I was awake. The floorboards creaked under her boots and I heard her sink into the bed across from me. I listened for a while, her breathing was shaky and unstable. I wanted to reach out to her, to tell her to come sleep with me like we used to when we were little. But tonight I refrained, she let out a trembling exhale where she sniffled. I knew she had been crying, and the urge to comfort her washed anew over me. I fell asleep from my own weariness, too tired from tending to the animals that day to stay awake any longer.
When I woke next to the grey light of dawn filling the house, I saw Sevine still asleep on her bed. And for the first time in a long time, she slept.
I watched her leave, and I watched her return a changed woman.
Thick gray clouds blanketed the sky over Falkreath bringing an unwelcome chill to the air. Nevertheless, I had finished my tasks for the day and took it upon myself to soften the aches in my muscles with a mugful of ale. All around me were familiar faces of the townsfolk, I knew every person here. Most of them knew my ma and pa, and I grew up with their children. There were weary faces this day, news reached us that the war had ended days before. The celebration of the Stormcloaks winning back Skyrim had had mixed reactions amongst the folk here. Those who had supported the Empire changed their attitudes weeks before the war came to a close, and even now they were tight-lipped and grim-faced. Even now, the atmosphere in Dead Man’s Drink held a tension unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
But I knew.
I knew why these people wore the expressions of mourners at a funeral pyre. They had yet to learn who had perished in the final battle at Solitude. There were countless men and women alike that had gone off to fight in the war. Edith Bright-Wings, Arnbjorg Cracked-Tooth, Helgi Thorn-Raker, Kjeld Stone-Crusher, Thranvir Fire-Nose and Sevine Varg-t’uk were the first to volunteer to aid in the fight against the Empire. Now, we waited in earnest for the day they would stroll through the gates of Falkreath, alive or dead. I raised the warm mug of ale to my lips and let the liquid wet the back of my throat. Out of nowhere, the door to the tavern flew open. Heads turned including my own, thundering cries erupted from everyone surrounding me. I gave a cry of surprise as well. There in the doorway stood our soldiers, alive, in the flesh. Chairs tipped backwards as they scrambled to welcome them home.
“Edith! Oh my dear girl!” Came the cry from her father as he wrestled through to crowd to reach her. I noticed immediately that not all of Falkreath’s warriors had returned. Amongst the ones present were Edith, Kjeld, Thranvir and Sevine. While other patrons brushed past me, I awaited my turn, that’s all I could do. Everyone embraced those that had returned home, tears were shed, cries of anguish and joy mixed together. My hands were cold, my head spun, I needed to sit down, but I refused. Then, I saw her. My sister. She pushed her way through the throngs of people, several of which clasped her on the shoulder and said things like, “It’s the Huntress!” and “Welcome home, Sevine.” or “Your father would be proud of you.”
She had changed. I could see it. Two years away at war, what more could I expect? Her shoulders drooped, her green eyes that were always bright with a fire had dimmed. Even her copper hair had dulled. The skin over her cheeks were pulled tight, and there were new lines on her face, lines that had not been there when she left. She wore her Stormcloak blue armor, an axe at her hip and her long bow strapped under a shield. My eyes burned as a strained smile crossed her lips.
“Little sister.” I lost it, the sound of her voice after so many years pushed me over the edge. The lump in my throat made it hard to breathe, much less speak. She pulled me to her chest, her arms wrapping tight around me. I couldn’t hold it back anymore, so I buried my face into her, I let myself cry, I didn’t care. No. She was home now. And that’s all I had ever wanted. “Oh Lili.” Her strong arms held me tighter, one hand stroking my back just like she used to when I was a child. She rested her chin atop my head, rocking me back and forth.
When I found the courage, I lifted my chin and found her own eyes red with tears, “I missed you so much.” Her face split into a smile as she chuckled, she placed a hand on my head and ruffled my hair.
“I am home now.” Sevine stooped down and kissed my brow, her lips were cold against my flushed skin.
“I heard so much about you, about your heroic deeds.” I said, perking up at the thought that my sister, Sevine, had earned a Name for herself. At the mention of my words, a dark cloud crossed her features, but passed within seconds. “Is something wrong?” I asked, I knew my sister too well.
“I… am tired.” She said with a heavy sigh, it reminded me of pa, how he sighed after a long day of tending to the garden. “Shall we go home?”
“You don’t want to stay and celebrate? Valga promised a feast whenever our soldiers returned home. She’s already run off to fetch Solaf and Bolund to help.” I glanced around, watching as Valga darted out of the door to the inn.
“No, little sister. Let us go.” Her face screwed up into an odd expression, one that I couldn’t identify. I had an inkling something had happened that she withheld from me. I relented with a nod, I wasn’t going to argue with her, not now of all times. Together, we strolled out of Dead Man’s Drink and made our way back home.
For the most part, I was surprised that Asper had come home too. The dark bay stallion appeared lean in my eyes, and like my sister, his coat had lost his luster. Sevine hoisted herself into the saddle, and extended her arm out to me. I took her hand in mine, noticing that her hands were cold and calloused. With one pull, she had me behind her, and at the cluck of her tongue, we set off down the road at a fast trot. What would have taken close to an hour, we made the trek home in thirty minutes. We turned off the road near Pine Watch and onto a dirt path well-worn from Pa’s wagon. My stomach plummeted at the realization that I had yet to tell her of the tragic news. Days before, our father had passed away. He had a cough for months that would not leave him, and a fever in the last week that would not break. I had just sold a chicken to pay for his medicine when I returned home to find him not breathing. Were it not for the people of Falkreath checking on me, I would have had to bury our father alone.
We crested the hill where the pine trees cast us in shadows. With my arms wrapped tightly around her, I noticed that my sister’s scent had changed, she smelt… foreign to me. Like the earth and of steel. Even with my arms about her, she felt thinner. To our left, the pine trees thinned out into a clearing where our house stood. No smoke rose from the chimney, and the garden had become a wild jungle of weeds. My face grew hot from shame. I wanted to cry then, but I resisted the urge. I leapt off from Asper first and watched as Sevine dismounted. Her brows were furrowed, as if she sensed something amiss. She glanced once at me, before turning her attention back to the log and stone cabin. I watched her cross the clearing in long, powerful strides, where she pushed opened the door with a thunderous bang. I could see where I stood how her shoulders dropped, she disappeared inside. Her shouts echoed across the clearing, calling for our father. She emerged moments later, her cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.
“Lili-” She couldn’t finish her sentence, she must have seen the look on my face. I watched as my sister fell against the doorframe, a hand covering her face, she never wanted me to see her cry. I don’t know why. Within seconds, I crossed the clearing and wrapped my arms around her. She tried to push me away, but I held on tight. I regretted my decision then. I knew I should have told her when I first saw her. Eventually she quit fighting as I weaseled my way against her chest. As I rested my head on her chest, I could hear the struggle in her, how she fought back the tears, the anguish and turmoil rising in her.
“I’m so sorry.” I whispered, if I could take her into my being to shield her from the pain, I would have done just that.
“How?” She croaked, her voice cracking through the grief. I inhaled, fighting past the lump in my own throat that made talking difficult.
“He had a cough that wouldn’t go. A fever that wouldn’t break. I went to town and sold a chicken, we didn’t have any money, and I bought him medicine. But when I returned…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish my own sentence. A sob escaped from my mouth as continued, “We buried him in the cemetery next to Ma.”
Later that night, we ate dinner in silence. Sevine used to tease me about my cooking, but tonight she said not a word, just stared languidly at the food on her plate. Even I found it difficult to eat, the food was tasteless and I could barely swallow a bite. Nevertheless, I cleaned up after dinner, and went to bed. As I lay in my bed, I tossed and turned restlessly on my mattress. I wanted this night to end, but I couldn’t unwind. Downstairs, I heard Sevine bustling around the room, I wondered what she was doing, but I didn’t bother to check. It would be best to leave her be, or so I thought. Each person dealt with grief in their own way.
I lost track of time, I think I slept, because I jumped at the sound of Sevine’s feet climbing the ladder to the loft. Night had fallen, casting the loft in absolute darkness. I could feel her presence lingering over the foot of my bed, was she angry with me? I couldn’t tell. I wanted to open my eyes, but I didn’t want her to know that I was awake. The floorboards creaked under her boots and I heard her sink into the bed across from me. I listened for a while, her breathing was shaky and unstable. I wanted to reach out to her, to tell her to come sleep with me like we used to when we were little. But tonight I refrained, she let out a trembling exhale where she sniffled. I knew she had been crying, and the urge to comfort her washed anew over me. I fell asleep from my own weariness, too tired from tending to the animals that day to stay awake any longer.
When I woke next to the grey light of dawn filling the house, I saw Sevine still asleep on her bed. And for the first time in a long time, she slept.
By @Peik
Years of my Life, 190-220, by Pakseech Otuwei - Chapter 3, During the War of 203
…It had been some time since the ambush, but despite the hostilities having been brought to a cease thanks to our hurtful bondage, our losses had not ceased. Xil-Aah and Tan-Shai had died to infection by then, and I feared that exhaustion could begin taking a toll on us if the marching did not stop. Already Jee-Teeus was lagging behind despite the extra whipping he’d been getting for it. The officers were discussing on whether to have us carry him, or just put him out of his misery. I myself would have preferred the latter, many of my kin also would, but, something just drove us on, through the pain and humiliation.
One time, the one-armed one berated one of their men, for unnecessary whipping. It is not out of compassion that he did this, I know. He didn’t even look at us like cattle. It’s almost as if he didn’t have anything that came to mind when he did look. Maybe he wanted to isolate us from the mercy a shepherd would show to his herd. Maybe he thought we weren’t worthy of his attention.
It wasn’t until later on that they realized I spoke their language. Only two groups of the three spoke Dunmeris – the third group mostly kept to the common tongue, and seemed to show contempt for the others who kept to their native language. It makes me think even now. Why even fight for your nation if you aren’t going to abide to its principles? Then again, it is not hard to expect such hypocrisy from a people who worship Boethiah.
The fat one constantly talked about his home in Cheydinhal, about how easy life was there, despite the Empire’s situation. I wished to ask him why he had come here to fight us, then, but I was afraid of getting a whipping, or worse. Our leader, Sakeneen, had insulted the Redoran after he had spat on Sakeneen, and was nearly beaten to death for it. Had the redheaded one not interrupted, he would’ve likely not stopped with Sakeneen. The Redoran would have nearly attacked the redhead, too, but he was stopped by the one-armed one, who later had one of the tattooed women put Sakeneen out of his misery.
-
It was only towards the end of the journey that they found out that I spoke common. The fat one, whose name I would learn that day to be Fermal, noticed it when he shouted that one of the guars were running away and I reflexively looked at the guar pack despite not facing them. This would prove to be a big mistake.
My bilinguality became the cause of many complications. Fermal, for some reason, gave me his name, and began trying to socialize with me, make jokes, despite the situation. Had the one-armed one not stopped and berated Fermal in a stoic and rare display of empathy, I would have likely attempted to bash Fermal’s brains out with a rock.
The one-armed one then approached me and asked me if I really spoke the Common tongue. After giving him confirmation, I was repositioned to the front of the row, as some sort of spokesman. Immediately I felt regret, for I was afraid that my new position could put a distance between me and my kin, and I would be proven right. At nights I would be given the leftovers from their dinner, even though the rest of my kin were rarely fed, and despite either throwing it away or dividing it between all of my group, I could notice aside glances at me, hateful of my new, privileged station.
There was still some positive parts of my situation – my position as middleman made me less likely to get beatings, and I could use their prejudice of us as ‘savages’ to indirectly insult them whenever possible. I would refer to Fermal as ‘Fat Fermal’ whenever I had to refer to him, as if I had learned his name as such, knowing that being called fat made him very angry, and he would get heavily irritated, but unable to do anything about it.
-
…Of course, by then, few of us were in any condition to walk long distances, but our captors were also heavily battered, and more importantly, heavily spiteful of each other.
Thanks to the Redoran’s insistence on chasing the skirmishers who had killed Fermal, they had gotten most of their animals killed, while passing a bridge that was trapped. I noticed that the trap wasn’t sprung and was operated by one of our kinsmen, who quickly disappeared after a curt nod. To his precision and restraint I and many others owe our lives.
With their pack animals gone, the Redoran quickly had his retinue put to work the idea of using us as pack animals, which made the tattooed sisters, and the redhead, very angry. They argued and exchanged insults on how it was the other one’s fault that they had lost the guars, and eventually the Redoran slapped the redhead to the ground and began kicking him, which caused the argument into escalate into a proper fight, and from there, a mutiny.
We watched as the tattooed sister with grey hair punched the Redoran in the face for his treatment of the redhead. As retribution, the Redoran stabbed her in the gut with his ceremonial dagger. Seeing this, the Ashlanders amongst our captors pulled their arms and attacked the Redoran and all those affiliated with him. The fight was very bloody – I can say that the Dunmer fight most ferociously and ruthlessly against their own kin, which, even when I first saw it, did not come off as very surprising.
After a couple of minutes of fighting, the two parties killed most of each other. The foreign born had chosen to stay out of the combat in a display of cautiousness and cowardice, although it was obvious that they supported the Ashlanders, given how they had fought for their sake. Again, we were forgotten as we, chained to each other and immobilized by shackles, watched the foreigners gather the goods of the dead, and gather up the surviving Ashlanders – the Redoran group, too damaged by the fight, were unwilling to risk an offensive on the unscathed foreigners and the surviving Ashlanders that circled them. The three that remained of them were gathered around the nobleman who had killed the grey-haired woman, who was pinned to the ground, his thigh pierced by a chitin spear.
That was when the one-armed one approached me. He sighed, and said, ‘’Funny, don’t you think?’’
I did not answer him at first. He continued.
‘’I know you think it’s funny. I think it’s funny. It’s as sad as shit.’’
‘’Why kill your own kin?’’ I asked. We Argonians also fought each other, but I had never seen a group that had shared meals that morning kill each other with such brutality.
‘’Oblivion if I know, pal,’’ he said, dejected.
I looked at his face. He pulled out a key and approached the lock that kept our group together. We were no longer bound together – our arms were still cuffed, but the collars around our necks that held us together were now gone. I could feel newfound strength coursing through my veins.
‘’The Redoran have the key for your handcuffs,’’ he said, before he ran back to his group and they hurriedly left, leaving the fifteen of us face to face with the four Redoran.
Years of my Life, 190-220, by Pakseech Otuwei - Chapter 3, During the War of 203
…It had been some time since the ambush, but despite the hostilities having been brought to a cease thanks to our hurtful bondage, our losses had not ceased. Xil-Aah and Tan-Shai had died to infection by then, and I feared that exhaustion could begin taking a toll on us if the marching did not stop. Already Jee-Teeus was lagging behind despite the extra whipping he’d been getting for it. The officers were discussing on whether to have us carry him, or just put him out of his misery. I myself would have preferred the latter, many of my kin also would, but, something just drove us on, through the pain and humiliation.
One time, the one-armed one berated one of their men, for unnecessary whipping. It is not out of compassion that he did this, I know. He didn’t even look at us like cattle. It’s almost as if he didn’t have anything that came to mind when he did look. Maybe he wanted to isolate us from the mercy a shepherd would show to his herd. Maybe he thought we weren’t worthy of his attention.
It wasn’t until later on that they realized I spoke their language. Only two groups of the three spoke Dunmeris – the third group mostly kept to the common tongue, and seemed to show contempt for the others who kept to their native language. It makes me think even now. Why even fight for your nation if you aren’t going to abide to its principles? Then again, it is not hard to expect such hypocrisy from a people who worship Boethiah.
The fat one constantly talked about his home in Cheydinhal, about how easy life was there, despite the Empire’s situation. I wished to ask him why he had come here to fight us, then, but I was afraid of getting a whipping, or worse. Our leader, Sakeneen, had insulted the Redoran after he had spat on Sakeneen, and was nearly beaten to death for it. Had the redheaded one not interrupted, he would’ve likely not stopped with Sakeneen. The Redoran would have nearly attacked the redhead, too, but he was stopped by the one-armed one, who later had one of the tattooed women put Sakeneen out of his misery.
-
It was only towards the end of the journey that they found out that I spoke common. The fat one, whose name I would learn that day to be Fermal, noticed it when he shouted that one of the guars were running away and I reflexively looked at the guar pack despite not facing them. This would prove to be a big mistake.
My bilinguality became the cause of many complications. Fermal, for some reason, gave me his name, and began trying to socialize with me, make jokes, despite the situation. Had the one-armed one not stopped and berated Fermal in a stoic and rare display of empathy, I would have likely attempted to bash Fermal’s brains out with a rock.
The one-armed one then approached me and asked me if I really spoke the Common tongue. After giving him confirmation, I was repositioned to the front of the row, as some sort of spokesman. Immediately I felt regret, for I was afraid that my new position could put a distance between me and my kin, and I would be proven right. At nights I would be given the leftovers from their dinner, even though the rest of my kin were rarely fed, and despite either throwing it away or dividing it between all of my group, I could notice aside glances at me, hateful of my new, privileged station.
There was still some positive parts of my situation – my position as middleman made me less likely to get beatings, and I could use their prejudice of us as ‘savages’ to indirectly insult them whenever possible. I would refer to Fermal as ‘Fat Fermal’ whenever I had to refer to him, as if I had learned his name as such, knowing that being called fat made him very angry, and he would get heavily irritated, but unable to do anything about it.
-
…Of course, by then, few of us were in any condition to walk long distances, but our captors were also heavily battered, and more importantly, heavily spiteful of each other.
Thanks to the Redoran’s insistence on chasing the skirmishers who had killed Fermal, they had gotten most of their animals killed, while passing a bridge that was trapped. I noticed that the trap wasn’t sprung and was operated by one of our kinsmen, who quickly disappeared after a curt nod. To his precision and restraint I and many others owe our lives.
With their pack animals gone, the Redoran quickly had his retinue put to work the idea of using us as pack animals, which made the tattooed sisters, and the redhead, very angry. They argued and exchanged insults on how it was the other one’s fault that they had lost the guars, and eventually the Redoran slapped the redhead to the ground and began kicking him, which caused the argument into escalate into a proper fight, and from there, a mutiny.
We watched as the tattooed sister with grey hair punched the Redoran in the face for his treatment of the redhead. As retribution, the Redoran stabbed her in the gut with his ceremonial dagger. Seeing this, the Ashlanders amongst our captors pulled their arms and attacked the Redoran and all those affiliated with him. The fight was very bloody – I can say that the Dunmer fight most ferociously and ruthlessly against their own kin, which, even when I first saw it, did not come off as very surprising.
After a couple of minutes of fighting, the two parties killed most of each other. The foreign born had chosen to stay out of the combat in a display of cautiousness and cowardice, although it was obvious that they supported the Ashlanders, given how they had fought for their sake. Again, we were forgotten as we, chained to each other and immobilized by shackles, watched the foreigners gather the goods of the dead, and gather up the surviving Ashlanders – the Redoran group, too damaged by the fight, were unwilling to risk an offensive on the unscathed foreigners and the surviving Ashlanders that circled them. The three that remained of them were gathered around the nobleman who had killed the grey-haired woman, who was pinned to the ground, his thigh pierced by a chitin spear.
That was when the one-armed one approached me. He sighed, and said, ‘’Funny, don’t you think?’’
I did not answer him at first. He continued.
‘’I know you think it’s funny. I think it’s funny. It’s as sad as shit.’’
‘’Why kill your own kin?’’ I asked. We Argonians also fought each other, but I had never seen a group that had shared meals that morning kill each other with such brutality.
‘’Oblivion if I know, pal,’’ he said, dejected.
I looked at his face. He pulled out a key and approached the lock that kept our group together. We were no longer bound together – our arms were still cuffed, but the collars around our necks that held us together were now gone. I could feel newfound strength coursing through my veins.
‘’The Redoran have the key for your handcuffs,’’ he said, before he ran back to his group and they hurriedly left, leaving the fifteen of us face to face with the four Redoran.
Ancestry - Canon (#4):
By @Dervish
The tale of Do’Karth’s great grandfather
4E105 14 Second Seed, Anvil, 2342 in the evening…
The Jewel of the Golden Coast, Anvil was a cosmopolitan trading city that was nestled cozily between the sun-scorched deserts of Hammerfell and the subtropical paradise of Alinor, acting as an intermediary location where in happier times, goods came from all over the West, like bees pollinating a flower, that made Anvil a rich city from the trade tariffs alone and its comfortable climate and bountiful work opportunities made it a popular draw for citizens all across the Septim Empire. That was over 100 years ago.
Now with the Third Aldmeri Dominion having seceded from the Empire, Anvil’s affluence was diminished greatly. While pirates and the Thieves Guild always operated in the city, tolerated by the authorities if only barely so long as they didn’t overstep the law while in city limits; it was impossible to keep a lid on all the illicit underbelly that the city attracted, and lacking the manpower and resources to fully tackle what might as well have been a cultural cornerstone. And so, the city had something of an unofficial motto, It’s not illegal if you don’t get caught. And considering the guards’ predisposition to turning a blind eye to whatever was happening on the docks and shady but not overtly questionable activities, a sort of equilibrium existed in the city for a number of centuries. The only difference between this night and 100 years ago was that the city was in such an economic slump that the new motto might as well have been, Any business is good business. Even the Thieves Guild made the most bare and half-hearted effort at concealment these days to the point they might as well have been wearing uniforms and handing out pamphlets. However, that wasn’t to say that wealth wasn’t still found in the city; it just meant that those who had more coin than the average man had gotten exceedingly talented at locking it away. That was where Dar’Makzhi came in; the Renrijra’Krin had appointed him as one of the organization’s foreign field “providers”, which was a sneaky way of saying that he was a paid thief.
And a damn good one, at that.
Being Ohmes, Dar’Makzhi looked a lot like a shorter Bosmer to all but the most discerning observers, but his eyes were a giveaway; not that he had slit-like pupils like many Khajiit, but because his blue eyes were very similar to what most Men and several Khajiit adorned upon their faces. However, he could still see perfectly fine in the dark, and as such to conceal his true nature when working, he operated mostly in the dead of night. Since he looked so much like an elf, he often adopted the alias “Wyndel” to see him through his day to day routines. The only thing about his appearance that truly stood out was the yellow bar tattoo that bisected his nose and crossed under his eyes in the shape of a downturned crescent. It was the only bit of heritage that the Khajiit carried with him, and truth be told, acting like something he wasn’t for so long and only being in Elsweyr sporadically made him feel rather distinct from his kin; he preferred High Elf cuisine and fashion and he spoke in a well-learned Valenwood accent to the extent that it felt weird to go back to personal-pronouns. Still, although he felt apart from his homeland, he still was loyal to it with all of his heart… after the Renrijra’Krin, of course. That association happened to make him fabulously wealthy. And after this particular haul, he’d be able to purchase quite the manor and maybe, just maybe, consider taking a few years off. However, the thing about thieves was that it was a trade where one had to constantly hone their skills or risk losing everything from a careless blunder, and Dar’Makzhi had a reputation to uphold; he was the best of the best, or so he told himself frequently.
Sitting on the red tile roof across from his target with a dagger in hand, Dar’Makzhi had been meticulously peeling an apple for the past hour, going slowly enough that only the red skin and none of the fruit within came free. It was a relaxing habit of his, one that gave his hands and mind something to keep occupied during the long waits of canvassing a target to determine what the occupants were up to, and if there was anything that could bungle a heist. He’d never had to kill a person on the job, although he’d always been more than prepared to defend himself to the death if need be, but a master thief simply couldn’t call themselves that if they were constantly having confrontations; that was a great way to end a career and get yourself killed. Instead, outside of his dagger, which in truth was used to pry stubborn lids and peel fruits more often than for any insidious purpose, upon his belt were three bolas, each a length of thin rope with an iron ball on each end, which were his primary means of dealing with interlopers. Cheap and easy to make and an effective if humiliating way of slowing, if not outright stopping, a pursuer, they’d pulled Dar’Makzhi out of a few tight situations that kept his conscious clear; even the best thief ran into bad luck. It was all depending on Nocturnal’s whims that particular night. She often rewarded the bold, but she was equally quick to test one’s talent and resolve. She was a finicky patron, that much was for sure.
That’s fine, Rajhin is much more my speed anyways. Ah, there we are. he thought, setting the apple down on the tile gently and moved into a crouch, his soft-soled boots silently flexing with the muscles in his feet. Coming out of the heavy oak door of the manor Dar’Makzhi was casing was an Imperial man in his late 40s named Varian Ponferus, a former big shot in the East Empire Company who used his accumulated fortune to start his own trading enterprise, one that was much more likely to turn to less than reputable individuals to turn a profit. He wasn’t being targeted for his moral failings, indeed the thought the Khajiit would be aroused to others’ inscrutable dealings was laughable, but rather because he was both wealthy and had a dwelling that was presumably filled with a number of things that could go missing and would be untraceable because dear Varian would be incriminating himself to report some of his ill-gotten goods to the authorities as missing. Once a valuable artifact changed hands between two or three thieves, it might as well have disappeared from Nirn as far as the original owner was concerned. They’d never see it again.
For a man who had lived his entire life following an extremely regimented schedule, Varian was infuriatingly inconsistent of when he left his home at night. A man with a loveless marriage, Varian evidently had a mistress he snuck off to visit when his wife had retired for the evening. The trouble was finding which days he was out of the house, but the times were consistent, and he was gone nearly three hours per sortie out of the home to bury himself between some dusky Redguard woman’s thighs a few times a week. All men needed their vices, but would it have hurt the man to be somewhat more punctual? It was rather inconsiderate. To his wife, of course, but also those wishing to make off with a fair deal of coin, perhaps enough to purchase an island in Topal Bay.
Now, now. The key to happiness is low expectations. Maybe a small island. he thought, waiting until Varian was well down the cobblestone street before clambering down from the roof, using the generous holds provided by the over-extended stonework on the marble white walls that dominated the city architecture. Touching down on the street, the Khajiit moved swiftly and silently in the dark space between the reaches of the street lamps and was soon at the manor’s privacy wall, a three meter high construct that was easily defeated by getting enough of a running start at it to run up high enough to grab at the edge and pull himself up and over. Now safe from prying eyes in the street, Dar’Makzhi crouched and listened for several moments, listening for any signs that something was amiss. A thief had to rely on both senses and instincts to know when to move forward and call it off. Nothing was valuable enough in this world to make a risk worth it if you were caught and unable to make off with it. Hearing, seeing, and smelling nothing was out of place, the thief made his way to the side of the manor and located the cellar doors he’d spotted earlier and using the lock pick set from a custom bracelet on his left wrist soon had the lock defeated, the tumblers succumbing to his nimble prodding and masterful finger work. From a leather pouch at the small of his back, Dar’Makzhi produced a small oil bottle that he used to lubricate the hinges before opening the cellar door. It was such a small and simple thing to do, but it was one that eliminated a foolish risk. He made his way inside the cellar and within a few short moments, his eyes adjusted to the almost complete lack of light and he continued into the manor proper.
The manor was old, perhaps 80 years old and filled with a number of antiquities that immediately caught the eye. A lion pelt rug dominated the study, and the hearth was adorned with a rather fetching pair of glass scimitars from some Altmeri craftsman, that much Dar’Makzhi was certain. Display cases of priceless gemstones, polished and yet the size of his fist loomed tantalizingly. And yet, Dar’Makzhi’s instincts told him that the things his Imperial quarry could afford to lose were the ones in plain sight; something much more valuable was hidden away somewhere. He’s just have to find it.
It was in the ground floor’s library where Dar’Makzhi noticed something; one of the book cases had scuff marks on the floor in front of it, only just visible under a patterned rug. Pulling the rug back, he saw an distinct indentation in the wood, as if it had routinely had a considerable weight pulled across it. Tracing his fingers along the inner siding of the case, the Khajiit found a finger hold and pulled. The entire shelf came towards him easily. Pulling it forward enough to slip behind, he noticed that the entire shelf was resting on a pair of rollers. That certainly was one way to do it.
The room gave off a ghostly blue sheen from a pair of Varla stones that seemed to be acting as an everlasting source of illumination, cast in iron torch scones that had been obviously retrofitted for the stones’ proportions. The only other things in the small room were a case with a beautiful, yet peculiar staff resting inside of it, along with an ancient looking journal and another much newer booklet. Carefully unlocking the case with a smaller set of lock picks, Dar’Makzhi unlocked the case and opened it ever slowly. Pulling the newer booklet from its position, sunken in velvet, he opened it up to the single filled out page, it read.
While this likely is a cunning reproduction as the original artifact is rumoured to have been banished or destroyed, it is authentic enough to the original Staff of Chaos that Jagar Tharn wielded when he usurped the Imperial Throne while under the false guise of Emperor Uriel Septim VII that Lady Barenziah had a visible reaction to this staff when it was discovered that she ordered it destroyed. There is documentation that it was crafted by Loreth himself in the First Era, although this is something that can be called into question. If it is authentic, perhaps it was a spare that was not enchanted as the original Staff of Chaos was in case of failure in the enchantment process. If a cunning replica, than it dates back easily to the Second Era, perhaps by a smith who was privy to Loreth’s lost techniques. Regardless, it is uniquely valuable and should be kept in either the Imperial Library or Arcane University for safekeeping and posterity.
The document was signed by a signature that Dar’Makzhi found rather illegible, but it had a wax stamp belonging to the Curator of the Mythic Archives in the Arcane University, one he readily recognized. Whatever he had here, it was worth a lot of money to someone. As the thief reached out to grab the staff, a stern voice came behind him.
“You made a dear mistake breaking into my home, thief.” Varian Pomferus stood in the entryway of the chamber, his face red and with the distinct impressions of a hand print upon his cheek. Apparently his indiscretions had caught up with him. The chamber must have muffled the sound of his return; Dar’Makzhi normally had excellent hearing. He silently cursed Nocturnal for his terrible luck, turning his side to the Imperial as a concealed hand unfastened a clasp upon his belt.
“I must have gotten turned around looking for your wife’s chambers, but from that mark on your face, I’d say she isn’t home right now.” The Khajiit remarked with a coy smile. That seemed to work. Varian’s face contorted with rage and with a scream, the Imperial charged at Dar’Makzhi screaming bloody murder, easy to bait with emotions running so high and his failure smeared across his face. With a swift motion as if he were skipping a stone, Dar’Makzhi loosed a bolas at Varian’s ankles, the iron balls and chord wrapping about his ankles and tripping him up, causing the imperial to trip and smash his teeth off of one of the Varla stones, which was knocked loose from the impact, thudding loudly on the floor a moment after the Imperial. While the man was reeling from the pain of probably a few broken teeth and scrambling to find out what was wrapped about his ankles, the Khajiit grabbed the two books and the staff from the case and ran towards the exit, kicking off the wall beside Varian so the man couldn’t grab at his ankles. Treasures in tow and the need for subterfuge gone, Dar’Makzhi sprint out the front door of the manor and a few twists and turns later down side passages and streets was gone from Varian’s grasp.
Hours later, sitting by the waterfront with his package carefully wrapped in a protective leather sheathe, the Khajiit chanced a look at the lime-green stonework, so intricately carved with perfect symmetry and cuts that were such that the moonlight above made the entire gem glow as if it were enchanted. It was a beautiful piece, to be sure, and in all, not a bad catch. Perhaps it would be enough for a small island, after all.
Assuming he ever found someone to buy it.
The tale of Do’Karth’s great grandfather
4E105 14 Second Seed, Anvil, 2342 in the evening…
The Jewel of the Golden Coast, Anvil was a cosmopolitan trading city that was nestled cozily between the sun-scorched deserts of Hammerfell and the subtropical paradise of Alinor, acting as an intermediary location where in happier times, goods came from all over the West, like bees pollinating a flower, that made Anvil a rich city from the trade tariffs alone and its comfortable climate and bountiful work opportunities made it a popular draw for citizens all across the Septim Empire. That was over 100 years ago.
Now with the Third Aldmeri Dominion having seceded from the Empire, Anvil’s affluence was diminished greatly. While pirates and the Thieves Guild always operated in the city, tolerated by the authorities if only barely so long as they didn’t overstep the law while in city limits; it was impossible to keep a lid on all the illicit underbelly that the city attracted, and lacking the manpower and resources to fully tackle what might as well have been a cultural cornerstone. And so, the city had something of an unofficial motto, It’s not illegal if you don’t get caught. And considering the guards’ predisposition to turning a blind eye to whatever was happening on the docks and shady but not overtly questionable activities, a sort of equilibrium existed in the city for a number of centuries. The only difference between this night and 100 years ago was that the city was in such an economic slump that the new motto might as well have been, Any business is good business. Even the Thieves Guild made the most bare and half-hearted effort at concealment these days to the point they might as well have been wearing uniforms and handing out pamphlets. However, that wasn’t to say that wealth wasn’t still found in the city; it just meant that those who had more coin than the average man had gotten exceedingly talented at locking it away. That was where Dar’Makzhi came in; the Renrijra’Krin had appointed him as one of the organization’s foreign field “providers”, which was a sneaky way of saying that he was a paid thief.
And a damn good one, at that.
Being Ohmes, Dar’Makzhi looked a lot like a shorter Bosmer to all but the most discerning observers, but his eyes were a giveaway; not that he had slit-like pupils like many Khajiit, but because his blue eyes were very similar to what most Men and several Khajiit adorned upon their faces. However, he could still see perfectly fine in the dark, and as such to conceal his true nature when working, he operated mostly in the dead of night. Since he looked so much like an elf, he often adopted the alias “Wyndel” to see him through his day to day routines. The only thing about his appearance that truly stood out was the yellow bar tattoo that bisected his nose and crossed under his eyes in the shape of a downturned crescent. It was the only bit of heritage that the Khajiit carried with him, and truth be told, acting like something he wasn’t for so long and only being in Elsweyr sporadically made him feel rather distinct from his kin; he preferred High Elf cuisine and fashion and he spoke in a well-learned Valenwood accent to the extent that it felt weird to go back to personal-pronouns. Still, although he felt apart from his homeland, he still was loyal to it with all of his heart… after the Renrijra’Krin, of course. That association happened to make him fabulously wealthy. And after this particular haul, he’d be able to purchase quite the manor and maybe, just maybe, consider taking a few years off. However, the thing about thieves was that it was a trade where one had to constantly hone their skills or risk losing everything from a careless blunder, and Dar’Makzhi had a reputation to uphold; he was the best of the best, or so he told himself frequently.
Sitting on the red tile roof across from his target with a dagger in hand, Dar’Makzhi had been meticulously peeling an apple for the past hour, going slowly enough that only the red skin and none of the fruit within came free. It was a relaxing habit of his, one that gave his hands and mind something to keep occupied during the long waits of canvassing a target to determine what the occupants were up to, and if there was anything that could bungle a heist. He’d never had to kill a person on the job, although he’d always been more than prepared to defend himself to the death if need be, but a master thief simply couldn’t call themselves that if they were constantly having confrontations; that was a great way to end a career and get yourself killed. Instead, outside of his dagger, which in truth was used to pry stubborn lids and peel fruits more often than for any insidious purpose, upon his belt were three bolas, each a length of thin rope with an iron ball on each end, which were his primary means of dealing with interlopers. Cheap and easy to make and an effective if humiliating way of slowing, if not outright stopping, a pursuer, they’d pulled Dar’Makzhi out of a few tight situations that kept his conscious clear; even the best thief ran into bad luck. It was all depending on Nocturnal’s whims that particular night. She often rewarded the bold, but she was equally quick to test one’s talent and resolve. She was a finicky patron, that much was for sure.
That’s fine, Rajhin is much more my speed anyways. Ah, there we are. he thought, setting the apple down on the tile gently and moved into a crouch, his soft-soled boots silently flexing with the muscles in his feet. Coming out of the heavy oak door of the manor Dar’Makzhi was casing was an Imperial man in his late 40s named Varian Ponferus, a former big shot in the East Empire Company who used his accumulated fortune to start his own trading enterprise, one that was much more likely to turn to less than reputable individuals to turn a profit. He wasn’t being targeted for his moral failings, indeed the thought the Khajiit would be aroused to others’ inscrutable dealings was laughable, but rather because he was both wealthy and had a dwelling that was presumably filled with a number of things that could go missing and would be untraceable because dear Varian would be incriminating himself to report some of his ill-gotten goods to the authorities as missing. Once a valuable artifact changed hands between two or three thieves, it might as well have disappeared from Nirn as far as the original owner was concerned. They’d never see it again.
For a man who had lived his entire life following an extremely regimented schedule, Varian was infuriatingly inconsistent of when he left his home at night. A man with a loveless marriage, Varian evidently had a mistress he snuck off to visit when his wife had retired for the evening. The trouble was finding which days he was out of the house, but the times were consistent, and he was gone nearly three hours per sortie out of the home to bury himself between some dusky Redguard woman’s thighs a few times a week. All men needed their vices, but would it have hurt the man to be somewhat more punctual? It was rather inconsiderate. To his wife, of course, but also those wishing to make off with a fair deal of coin, perhaps enough to purchase an island in Topal Bay.
Now, now. The key to happiness is low expectations. Maybe a small island. he thought, waiting until Varian was well down the cobblestone street before clambering down from the roof, using the generous holds provided by the over-extended stonework on the marble white walls that dominated the city architecture. Touching down on the street, the Khajiit moved swiftly and silently in the dark space between the reaches of the street lamps and was soon at the manor’s privacy wall, a three meter high construct that was easily defeated by getting enough of a running start at it to run up high enough to grab at the edge and pull himself up and over. Now safe from prying eyes in the street, Dar’Makzhi crouched and listened for several moments, listening for any signs that something was amiss. A thief had to rely on both senses and instincts to know when to move forward and call it off. Nothing was valuable enough in this world to make a risk worth it if you were caught and unable to make off with it. Hearing, seeing, and smelling nothing was out of place, the thief made his way to the side of the manor and located the cellar doors he’d spotted earlier and using the lock pick set from a custom bracelet on his left wrist soon had the lock defeated, the tumblers succumbing to his nimble prodding and masterful finger work. From a leather pouch at the small of his back, Dar’Makzhi produced a small oil bottle that he used to lubricate the hinges before opening the cellar door. It was such a small and simple thing to do, but it was one that eliminated a foolish risk. He made his way inside the cellar and within a few short moments, his eyes adjusted to the almost complete lack of light and he continued into the manor proper.
The manor was old, perhaps 80 years old and filled with a number of antiquities that immediately caught the eye. A lion pelt rug dominated the study, and the hearth was adorned with a rather fetching pair of glass scimitars from some Altmeri craftsman, that much Dar’Makzhi was certain. Display cases of priceless gemstones, polished and yet the size of his fist loomed tantalizingly. And yet, Dar’Makzhi’s instincts told him that the things his Imperial quarry could afford to lose were the ones in plain sight; something much more valuable was hidden away somewhere. He’s just have to find it.
It was in the ground floor’s library where Dar’Makzhi noticed something; one of the book cases had scuff marks on the floor in front of it, only just visible under a patterned rug. Pulling the rug back, he saw an distinct indentation in the wood, as if it had routinely had a considerable weight pulled across it. Tracing his fingers along the inner siding of the case, the Khajiit found a finger hold and pulled. The entire shelf came towards him easily. Pulling it forward enough to slip behind, he noticed that the entire shelf was resting on a pair of rollers. That certainly was one way to do it.
The room gave off a ghostly blue sheen from a pair of Varla stones that seemed to be acting as an everlasting source of illumination, cast in iron torch scones that had been obviously retrofitted for the stones’ proportions. The only other things in the small room were a case with a beautiful, yet peculiar staff resting inside of it, along with an ancient looking journal and another much newer booklet. Carefully unlocking the case with a smaller set of lock picks, Dar’Makzhi unlocked the case and opened it ever slowly. Pulling the newer booklet from its position, sunken in velvet, he opened it up to the single filled out page, it read.
While this likely is a cunning reproduction as the original artifact is rumoured to have been banished or destroyed, it is authentic enough to the original Staff of Chaos that Jagar Tharn wielded when he usurped the Imperial Throne while under the false guise of Emperor Uriel Septim VII that Lady Barenziah had a visible reaction to this staff when it was discovered that she ordered it destroyed. There is documentation that it was crafted by Loreth himself in the First Era, although this is something that can be called into question. If it is authentic, perhaps it was a spare that was not enchanted as the original Staff of Chaos was in case of failure in the enchantment process. If a cunning replica, than it dates back easily to the Second Era, perhaps by a smith who was privy to Loreth’s lost techniques. Regardless, it is uniquely valuable and should be kept in either the Imperial Library or Arcane University for safekeeping and posterity.
The document was signed by a signature that Dar’Makzhi found rather illegible, but it had a wax stamp belonging to the Curator of the Mythic Archives in the Arcane University, one he readily recognized. Whatever he had here, it was worth a lot of money to someone. As the thief reached out to grab the staff, a stern voice came behind him.
“You made a dear mistake breaking into my home, thief.” Varian Pomferus stood in the entryway of the chamber, his face red and with the distinct impressions of a hand print upon his cheek. Apparently his indiscretions had caught up with him. The chamber must have muffled the sound of his return; Dar’Makzhi normally had excellent hearing. He silently cursed Nocturnal for his terrible luck, turning his side to the Imperial as a concealed hand unfastened a clasp upon his belt.
“I must have gotten turned around looking for your wife’s chambers, but from that mark on your face, I’d say she isn’t home right now.” The Khajiit remarked with a coy smile. That seemed to work. Varian’s face contorted with rage and with a scream, the Imperial charged at Dar’Makzhi screaming bloody murder, easy to bait with emotions running so high and his failure smeared across his face. With a swift motion as if he were skipping a stone, Dar’Makzhi loosed a bolas at Varian’s ankles, the iron balls and chord wrapping about his ankles and tripping him up, causing the imperial to trip and smash his teeth off of one of the Varla stones, which was knocked loose from the impact, thudding loudly on the floor a moment after the Imperial. While the man was reeling from the pain of probably a few broken teeth and scrambling to find out what was wrapped about his ankles, the Khajiit grabbed the two books and the staff from the case and ran towards the exit, kicking off the wall beside Varian so the man couldn’t grab at his ankles. Treasures in tow and the need for subterfuge gone, Dar’Makzhi sprint out the front door of the manor and a few twists and turns later down side passages and streets was gone from Varian’s grasp.
Hours later, sitting by the waterfront with his package carefully wrapped in a protective leather sheathe, the Khajiit chanced a look at the lime-green stonework, so intricately carved with perfect symmetry and cuts that were such that the moonlight above made the entire gem glow as if it were enchanted. It was a beautiful piece, to be sure, and in all, not a bad catch. Perhaps it would be enough for a small island, after all.
Assuming he ever found someone to buy it.
By @MacabreFox
The winds of a blizzard howled around the ancient structure. House Raven-Stone, one of the only houses in the Gray Quarter occupied by a Nord family. As fate would have it, Leif was left with no living family. His mother, Sanja passed from consumption, and his father, Jorrlak, soon after. He was an only child, leaving him to inherit all property and belongings that were once his parents. The house was silent, save for the winds. He sank into the chair behind a wooden desk his father once sat at, it was strange, to be the only one left alive. A part of him couldn’t shake the veil of regret for being away so long, while the other half… well, he didn’t feel much of anything. Just a numbness that he couldn’t quite escape.
After his father’s passing, Leif busied himself with cleaning the house, giving away items he had no use for, while taking inventory of the household contents. Days ago, as he rifled through his father’s chest did he stumble upon a peculiar item. This item? A worn leather journal wrapped in cotton, and buried at the bottom of the chest. When he opened the journal, careful not to damage the pages, Leif stared in awe at the faded ink scrawled across the first page. He closed the journal shut, and placed it on the desk. He intended to open the journal when he found the time, but weeks had passed since he first discovered the journal resting at the bottom of the chest.
Each night he eyed the journal before climbing in bed, he wanted to open it up and read the contents. He had his own ideas as to what the journal might be about, perhaps it was something his father wrote? Though the faded ink, tinged brown with age suggested that it came from an older time.
‘I’ll never know unless I open that blasted thing.’ He chastised himself as one hand removed the cotton wrapping. He peeled back the cover, his eyes sweeping over the ink.
[3E 433
25th of Midyear ~
The day of reckoning has come.
Word has reached us here in Windhelm that the skies in Cyrodiil are awash with crimson clouds, daedra have attacked the city of Kvatch. I fear that this is the end of days. There is but one path I must take. I must bury the stone.
1st of Sun’s Height ~
I have left home. Brunhilda cried when I kissed her goodbye, and even the little ones clung to me. It pains my heart to leave them behind, but Brunhilda is a strong woman. That is why I married her. She will look after the children in my stead, whether or not I come back alive.
I head south from Windhelm. I carry nothing with me save for this accursed stone.
5th of Sun’s Height ~
I made it to Whiterun. I encountered several people on the road who spoke of the disaster in Cyrodiil. They speak of evil creatures that lurk in the night. Daedra. Awful beings from Oblivion. They say that the sky in some places, as in Kvatch has a tear in the sky, this seems to be the source where the Daedra come. Kyne keep us safe.
Tonight I checked my belongings. Even that damned stone. For generations, my family has kept this artifact out of the hands of those who would do the world ill. No one knows why I left. Not even Brunhilda. Oh how I miss her horker meat pies. I have eaten nothing but dried meat and any apples that I could forage. I gave up this life of the road long ago. It has been over eleven years since I traipsied across Skyrim in search of adventure. Til I took an arrow to the knee, that is.
I have the stone on my body at all times. I hate to look at it, not because of fear, but of what it represents. When my father’s father was just a boy, his father had trouble with a group of cultists that worshipped Nocturnal, the mistress of the Night. The keeper of the Shadows. At the time, my grandfather, Elof, lived close to Riften with his folks. From what I recall, these cultists kidnapped children, and oftentimes small children in which they offered as a sacrifice to the lady of the Night. The hour grows late, I must sleep for my eyes grow heavy.
7th of Sun’s Height ~
I reached Riverwood yestereve. When I woke this morning, the sky was a sad mixture of dark grey clouds. There is a heavy chill in the air as rain pours from the heavens. I cannot journey in this weather. I shall wait for the storm to clear.
Elof’s father, his name escapes me at this hour, gathered with his friends. He spoke unto them, pleading for them to join his cause, to help rid their small settlement of the cultists. These men, who had suffered just as much pain as he, agreed without hesitation. Elof told me the tale when I was a wee lad of just five years, so the details are a bit hazy.
They didn’t attack right away, after all, they had no clue where the cultists gathered. So they waited. The men kept close watch over the children in the village, while setting traps for no-good-doers. Traps were set with chickens, calves, foals, and lambs. Most evaded the trap, and made off with the young creatures. That is until a heavy rain swept through the area. One of them men rushed to Elof’s house, they had found impressions of a pair of boots all around his house in the fresh mud. They were eager to discover their location and set off at once. Elof told me that his father and the men were gone for days on end. His mother began to fear the worst and had begun to make her peace with Kyne. That was until his father came barreling through the door of their house.
He was covered head-to-toe in mud and gore. In his arms he cradled a curious object, the one I carry with me now. Elof’s father relayed the tale of what happened in his disappearance.
His father and the men tracked the prints back to a cave. They staked out the area and waited in the shadows for one of the cultists to emerge. It wasn’t until late in the evening that he saw, not a man, but a shadow. It seemed to know that they were watching, for it did not leave the entrance. Instead, it retreated into the depths. He said that the men with his father did not hold back on their anger, and charged forth into the darkness of the cave. They were but simple farmers, what more could he expect?
In the darkness, they felt their way along until they came to a chamber illuminated by torchlight. There they found a group of the daedra worshippers waiting for them in front of a curious door.
But this story will wait, the hour is late.
9th of Sun’s Height ~
The rain has stopped.
14th of Sun’s Height ~
I made it to Solitude. I am glad to have a bed to under my aching bones. The best years are gone from me. Brunhilda says that I am to be 54 this year. I feel much older than that. My joints creak and pop each time I stand, my back cannot handle the countless hours spent in the saddle. Walking is worse though it helps relieve the stiffness in my back.
Now then, I was about to reach the climax of the story.
Elof’s father and the men were met head on with a throng of swirling black mist. At first, they were scared, but the anger of losing their loved ones and livestock quickly overcame them, and so they charged headlong into the fray. It was soon discovered that the black mists were men, the work of some evil magic. With the knowledge that the mists were human, his father and his friends cut each one of them down. When none were left standing, the men searched the bodies in hopes of discovering an answer to who they were. It was then that they uncovered a stone, the one I carry now.
At first they were puzzled at what it was, until his father suggested it might be a key to the door. This door, stood floor to ceiling and was made of black stone, perhaps ebony. There were interlocking stone rings, and in the center, a hole in the shape of the stone. His father took it upon himself to open the door, and placed the stone inside. A heavy grating noise filled the chamber as the rings rotated into place. Then, the door dropped into the floor and revealed what lay beyond.
My food has arrived, the barmaid is most kind. She reminds me of my daughter, Svanna.
15th of Sun’s Height ~
Tomorrow I shall set out for the northern most tip of Haafingar. But today I rest. My legs are too sore for me to walk.
I shall write while I can.
Beyond the door lay a central chamber where the statue of Nocturne rose. At her feet were offerings, a mound of bones, while a handmade cloak of feathers adorned her shoulders. In the center of this chamber was a circle with a language he did not know. They searched the chambers and found no remnants of their children, so they took the bones at the altar and carried them home. There were tiny skulls, most likely of the children that were taken.
That is how Elof’s father came to hold the stone. None wanted to handle this god-forsaken thing, and now I understand why. My grandfather grew to keep the stone safe, and when his father passed, he took the name Raven-Stone. When my father never returned from his voyage at sea, I was charged with the task of keeping the stone safe. I often feel that this stone has greater power than just a key, sometimes when I peer into the eyes, I feel as if I am whisked away to an entirely different world. A shadowy veil covers my field of vision, and I hear mysterious whispering. Sometimes I cannot pull myself away, and when I do, I can still hear those whispers in my head. They speak in a language I cannot understand.
The stone is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It is the shape of a raven, or a crow. The color is the deepest shade of black, like a shadow. It is as big as my hand, so I must carry it with two hands. It weighs as much as a barrel of potatoes, which is quite heavy for something so small.
21st of Sun’s Height ~
It is finished. I destroyed the stone, in a sense. I threw it into a lake in a cave no one will ever find.
I head home to Brunhilda now.
May the Gods Keep Us.
Leif closed the journal and sat back, his eyes locked on the faded leather. Is this… could it be… this is how he became the Raven-Stone? There were more pages to read, but this… this was all he could handle for today.
The winds of a blizzard howled around the ancient structure. House Raven-Stone, one of the only houses in the Gray Quarter occupied by a Nord family. As fate would have it, Leif was left with no living family. His mother, Sanja passed from consumption, and his father, Jorrlak, soon after. He was an only child, leaving him to inherit all property and belongings that were once his parents. The house was silent, save for the winds. He sank into the chair behind a wooden desk his father once sat at, it was strange, to be the only one left alive. A part of him couldn’t shake the veil of regret for being away so long, while the other half… well, he didn’t feel much of anything. Just a numbness that he couldn’t quite escape.
After his father’s passing, Leif busied himself with cleaning the house, giving away items he had no use for, while taking inventory of the household contents. Days ago, as he rifled through his father’s chest did he stumble upon a peculiar item. This item? A worn leather journal wrapped in cotton, and buried at the bottom of the chest. When he opened the journal, careful not to damage the pages, Leif stared in awe at the faded ink scrawled across the first page. He closed the journal shut, and placed it on the desk. He intended to open the journal when he found the time, but weeks had passed since he first discovered the journal resting at the bottom of the chest.
Each night he eyed the journal before climbing in bed, he wanted to open it up and read the contents. He had his own ideas as to what the journal might be about, perhaps it was something his father wrote? Though the faded ink, tinged brown with age suggested that it came from an older time.
‘I’ll never know unless I open that blasted thing.’ He chastised himself as one hand removed the cotton wrapping. He peeled back the cover, his eyes sweeping over the ink.
[3E 433
25th of Midyear ~
The day of reckoning has come.
Word has reached us here in Windhelm that the skies in Cyrodiil are awash with crimson clouds, daedra have attacked the city of Kvatch. I fear that this is the end of days. There is but one path I must take. I must bury the stone.
1st of Sun’s Height ~
I have left home. Brunhilda cried when I kissed her goodbye, and even the little ones clung to me. It pains my heart to leave them behind, but Brunhilda is a strong woman. That is why I married her. She will look after the children in my stead, whether or not I come back alive.
I head south from Windhelm. I carry nothing with me save for this accursed stone.
5th of Sun’s Height ~
I made it to Whiterun. I encountered several people on the road who spoke of the disaster in Cyrodiil. They speak of evil creatures that lurk in the night. Daedra. Awful beings from Oblivion. They say that the sky in some places, as in Kvatch has a tear in the sky, this seems to be the source where the Daedra come. Kyne keep us safe.
Tonight I checked my belongings. Even that damned stone. For generations, my family has kept this artifact out of the hands of those who would do the world ill. No one knows why I left. Not even Brunhilda. Oh how I miss her horker meat pies. I have eaten nothing but dried meat and any apples that I could forage. I gave up this life of the road long ago. It has been over eleven years since I traipsied across Skyrim in search of adventure. Til I took an arrow to the knee, that is.
I have the stone on my body at all times. I hate to look at it, not because of fear, but of what it represents. When my father’s father was just a boy, his father had trouble with a group of cultists that worshipped Nocturnal, the mistress of the Night. The keeper of the Shadows. At the time, my grandfather, Elof, lived close to Riften with his folks. From what I recall, these cultists kidnapped children, and oftentimes small children in which they offered as a sacrifice to the lady of the Night. The hour grows late, I must sleep for my eyes grow heavy.
7th of Sun’s Height ~
I reached Riverwood yestereve. When I woke this morning, the sky was a sad mixture of dark grey clouds. There is a heavy chill in the air as rain pours from the heavens. I cannot journey in this weather. I shall wait for the storm to clear.
Elof’s father, his name escapes me at this hour, gathered with his friends. He spoke unto them, pleading for them to join his cause, to help rid their small settlement of the cultists. These men, who had suffered just as much pain as he, agreed without hesitation. Elof told me the tale when I was a wee lad of just five years, so the details are a bit hazy.
They didn’t attack right away, after all, they had no clue where the cultists gathered. So they waited. The men kept close watch over the children in the village, while setting traps for no-good-doers. Traps were set with chickens, calves, foals, and lambs. Most evaded the trap, and made off with the young creatures. That is until a heavy rain swept through the area. One of them men rushed to Elof’s house, they had found impressions of a pair of boots all around his house in the fresh mud. They were eager to discover their location and set off at once. Elof told me that his father and the men were gone for days on end. His mother began to fear the worst and had begun to make her peace with Kyne. That was until his father came barreling through the door of their house.
He was covered head-to-toe in mud and gore. In his arms he cradled a curious object, the one I carry with me now. Elof’s father relayed the tale of what happened in his disappearance.
His father and the men tracked the prints back to a cave. They staked out the area and waited in the shadows for one of the cultists to emerge. It wasn’t until late in the evening that he saw, not a man, but a shadow. It seemed to know that they were watching, for it did not leave the entrance. Instead, it retreated into the depths. He said that the men with his father did not hold back on their anger, and charged forth into the darkness of the cave. They were but simple farmers, what more could he expect?
In the darkness, they felt their way along until they came to a chamber illuminated by torchlight. There they found a group of the daedra worshippers waiting for them in front of a curious door.
But this story will wait, the hour is late.
9th of Sun’s Height ~
The rain has stopped.
14th of Sun’s Height ~
I made it to Solitude. I am glad to have a bed to under my aching bones. The best years are gone from me. Brunhilda says that I am to be 54 this year. I feel much older than that. My joints creak and pop each time I stand, my back cannot handle the countless hours spent in the saddle. Walking is worse though it helps relieve the stiffness in my back.
Now then, I was about to reach the climax of the story.
Elof’s father and the men were met head on with a throng of swirling black mist. At first, they were scared, but the anger of losing their loved ones and livestock quickly overcame them, and so they charged headlong into the fray. It was soon discovered that the black mists were men, the work of some evil magic. With the knowledge that the mists were human, his father and his friends cut each one of them down. When none were left standing, the men searched the bodies in hopes of discovering an answer to who they were. It was then that they uncovered a stone, the one I carry now.
At first they were puzzled at what it was, until his father suggested it might be a key to the door. This door, stood floor to ceiling and was made of black stone, perhaps ebony. There were interlocking stone rings, and in the center, a hole in the shape of the stone. His father took it upon himself to open the door, and placed the stone inside. A heavy grating noise filled the chamber as the rings rotated into place. Then, the door dropped into the floor and revealed what lay beyond.
My food has arrived, the barmaid is most kind. She reminds me of my daughter, Svanna.
15th of Sun’s Height ~
Tomorrow I shall set out for the northern most tip of Haafingar. But today I rest. My legs are too sore for me to walk.
I shall write while I can.
Beyond the door lay a central chamber where the statue of Nocturne rose. At her feet were offerings, a mound of bones, while a handmade cloak of feathers adorned her shoulders. In the center of this chamber was a circle with a language he did not know. They searched the chambers and found no remnants of their children, so they took the bones at the altar and carried them home. There were tiny skulls, most likely of the children that were taken.
That is how Elof’s father came to hold the stone. None wanted to handle this god-forsaken thing, and now I understand why. My grandfather grew to keep the stone safe, and when his father passed, he took the name Raven-Stone. When my father never returned from his voyage at sea, I was charged with the task of keeping the stone safe. I often feel that this stone has greater power than just a key, sometimes when I peer into the eyes, I feel as if I am whisked away to an entirely different world. A shadowy veil covers my field of vision, and I hear mysterious whispering. Sometimes I cannot pull myself away, and when I do, I can still hear those whispers in my head. They speak in a language I cannot understand.
The stone is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It is the shape of a raven, or a crow. The color is the deepest shade of black, like a shadow. It is as big as my hand, so I must carry it with two hands. It weighs as much as a barrel of potatoes, which is quite heavy for something so small.
21st of Sun’s Height ~
It is finished. I destroyed the stone, in a sense. I threw it into a lake in a cave no one will ever find.
I head home to Brunhilda now.
May the Gods Keep Us.
Leif closed the journal and sat back, his eyes locked on the faded leather. Is this… could it be… this is how he became the Raven-Stone? There were more pages to read, but this… this was all he could handle for today.
By @MacabreFox
“Pa, why is our name different than other people?” The tiny voice of Lili broke the silence over their morning breakfast. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled up to his elbows, revealing a swath of dark red hair over his forearms. Seated at his right hand sat Liliana, his youngest daughter, while Sevine sat adjacent to him on the left side.
“Why is it you ask, my dear?” He reclined back into the chair while his hands tore a loaf of bread in half.
“I just noticed. We don’t have a last name like the others in the village. Why is it so funny? What does it mean? Varg-t’uk.” She uttered their surname as her face pulled into a twist, as if she drank sour milk. At her expression, both Sevine and Agnar couldn’t help but laugh.
“It is a very old name. There are not many people in our country with a name like ours, that is true. But it is a proud name. When Ysgrammor settled our beautiful land, our ancestors came with him. My mind has forgotten much of the story, but I will tell you what I know.” A tender twinkle appeared in his eyes as he crossed an ankle over his knee.
“When our forefathers landed in Skyrim, we came as a clan. Then, we were a bountiful and prosperous family. There were five brothers, though I remember the name of one, that is our grandfather that fathered my kin. His name was Torrik the Crooked, and he was a man of impressive height and girth. Tale tells that he could down two barrels of ale without succumbing to drunkenness…”
“Our ancestors sailed across the Sea of Ghosts, and landed here in Skyrim. As tale has been told, the Varg-t’uk clan were fierce people, most of my kin is gone now, save for us, so I can only tell you what my grandfather told me. We were not yet named Varg-t’uk until Torrik the Crooked. In his day, he fought many a warrior, and drew many a circle. As such, he accumulated many scars, but his name comes from not his behaviour, but from his crooked nose. In one particular fight, his opponent, whose name is now long forgotten, smashed his nose with the pommel of his sword. The bone shattered into many pieces, and the healers of the day did their best to restore the bones to their original place. Alas, they could not, and so, Torrik’s face was left with a massive, crooked nose. The damage was so great, that his crooked nose gave his entire face a crooked disposition. But that is not why we are called Varg-t’uk.
You see, Torrik lived to the lengthy age of seven and fifty. He died a well-respected man, though where he is buried, I can say not. When he was but nine and forty, Torrik left his wife, Helga, to hunt before the clutches of winter swept across the land. It was here that he earned his name. For whatever reason, he had a poor diet, or so my grandfather told me, and as such, he lost many of his teeth. Only his molars remained. You can imagine the wretched sight he must have been when he smiled.
Now, Torrik was an exceptional hunter. He often carried a sword for fighting, and a bow for hunting. On this particular expedition into the wilderness, Torrik chose to leave behind his sword. An action that would nearly cost him his life. He hunted for days on end, most of the elk had migrated to their breeding grounds, making tracking especially difficult. That year’s harvest yielded little, and if he did not bring back meat, Helga and him would face starvation.” Agnar said.
“Pa, why did not he ask his neighbors for help, if he were to go hungry?” Liliana asked, she rose from her chair, and climbed into her father’s lap.
“That is a good question, my little flower. You see, in the early days of Skyrim, people were few, and Torrik was a prideful man. From the words of my grandfather, Torrik enjoyed his solitude, and so he chose to live far away from his kinsmen. He would not have accepted charity from his fellow neighbors, such is why he went hunting.
Now then, he spent nearly a week following the tracks of the elk, until he came upon an elk with a broken leg. The elk was too weak to continue on with the herd, and so he slaughtered the creature. When he made camp for the night, he gutted and skinned the elk. He quartered the animal so that he could carry it back on his steed. As such, he left it to dry. Torrik failed to anticipate that there would be wolves in the area, for most of the wolves had followed the herd.
As he lay under the furs in his tent, Torrik was roused from his sleep by the sound of his horse braying. He rushed from his tent to find a wolf lunging at his steed. With a great and mighty bellow, he grabbed a burning log and swung it at the wolf. He struck the wolf, saving his horse from an untimely death, when the wolf turned on him.
Man and beast came together, fangs were bared and fists were swung. Each blow he landed upon the wolf, the wolf sank his fangs into his flesh. Blood soaked the ground, and Torrik began to grow weak. He could barely stand upon his own two feet, death seemed inevitable now. As he lingered on his knees, the wolf circled around him, waiting for the right time to attack.
When the wolf lunged at him, Torrik knew he had to give every last breath to fight off this beast before he left Helga without a husband. The wolf leaped, fangs bared in a fearsome snarl as it aimed for his throat. Kyne blessed Torrik that day. His hands flew to the throat of the wolf, where his massive hands closed around its windpipe. There, the wolf’s snapping jaw inches from his face, grew still as he strangled the very life out of the wolf. In minutes, the creature that had tried to kill him, lay limp at his feet. Torrik decided that he would not let the wolf go to waste, and in the morning, he carried home the elk he felled, and the wolf.
When he returned home to Helga, they had enough meat to last them through the winter, and new pelts to sell. However, when he sat down to skin the wolf, he decided that he would wear the wolf’s teeth.”
“As a necklace?” Lili asked, her fair brows furrowed at her father’s words.
“Nay, he wore the wolf’s teeth as his own teeth. That is how we became Varg-t’uk. It means wolf tooth in Ancient Nord. When Torrik smiled, his teeth were the fangs of the very wolf that tried to kill him.” Agnar said with a chuckle, he ruffled her hair as he lifted Lili from his lap. “Now, help your sister with her chores, and if you finish early, I will take you to the village to-day.”
“Pa, why is our name different than other people?” The tiny voice of Lili broke the silence over their morning breakfast. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled up to his elbows, revealing a swath of dark red hair over his forearms. Seated at his right hand sat Liliana, his youngest daughter, while Sevine sat adjacent to him on the left side.
“Why is it you ask, my dear?” He reclined back into the chair while his hands tore a loaf of bread in half.
“I just noticed. We don’t have a last name like the others in the village. Why is it so funny? What does it mean? Varg-t’uk.” She uttered their surname as her face pulled into a twist, as if she drank sour milk. At her expression, both Sevine and Agnar couldn’t help but laugh.
“It is a very old name. There are not many people in our country with a name like ours, that is true. But it is a proud name. When Ysgrammor settled our beautiful land, our ancestors came with him. My mind has forgotten much of the story, but I will tell you what I know.” A tender twinkle appeared in his eyes as he crossed an ankle over his knee.
“When our forefathers landed in Skyrim, we came as a clan. Then, we were a bountiful and prosperous family. There were five brothers, though I remember the name of one, that is our grandfather that fathered my kin. His name was Torrik the Crooked, and he was a man of impressive height and girth. Tale tells that he could down two barrels of ale without succumbing to drunkenness…”
“Our ancestors sailed across the Sea of Ghosts, and landed here in Skyrim. As tale has been told, the Varg-t’uk clan were fierce people, most of my kin is gone now, save for us, so I can only tell you what my grandfather told me. We were not yet named Varg-t’uk until Torrik the Crooked. In his day, he fought many a warrior, and drew many a circle. As such, he accumulated many scars, but his name comes from not his behaviour, but from his crooked nose. In one particular fight, his opponent, whose name is now long forgotten, smashed his nose with the pommel of his sword. The bone shattered into many pieces, and the healers of the day did their best to restore the bones to their original place. Alas, they could not, and so, Torrik’s face was left with a massive, crooked nose. The damage was so great, that his crooked nose gave his entire face a crooked disposition. But that is not why we are called Varg-t’uk.
You see, Torrik lived to the lengthy age of seven and fifty. He died a well-respected man, though where he is buried, I can say not. When he was but nine and forty, Torrik left his wife, Helga, to hunt before the clutches of winter swept across the land. It was here that he earned his name. For whatever reason, he had a poor diet, or so my grandfather told me, and as such, he lost many of his teeth. Only his molars remained. You can imagine the wretched sight he must have been when he smiled.
Now, Torrik was an exceptional hunter. He often carried a sword for fighting, and a bow for hunting. On this particular expedition into the wilderness, Torrik chose to leave behind his sword. An action that would nearly cost him his life. He hunted for days on end, most of the elk had migrated to their breeding grounds, making tracking especially difficult. That year’s harvest yielded little, and if he did not bring back meat, Helga and him would face starvation.” Agnar said.
“Pa, why did not he ask his neighbors for help, if he were to go hungry?” Liliana asked, she rose from her chair, and climbed into her father’s lap.
“That is a good question, my little flower. You see, in the early days of Skyrim, people were few, and Torrik was a prideful man. From the words of my grandfather, Torrik enjoyed his solitude, and so he chose to live far away from his kinsmen. He would not have accepted charity from his fellow neighbors, such is why he went hunting.
Now then, he spent nearly a week following the tracks of the elk, until he came upon an elk with a broken leg. The elk was too weak to continue on with the herd, and so he slaughtered the creature. When he made camp for the night, he gutted and skinned the elk. He quartered the animal so that he could carry it back on his steed. As such, he left it to dry. Torrik failed to anticipate that there would be wolves in the area, for most of the wolves had followed the herd.
As he lay under the furs in his tent, Torrik was roused from his sleep by the sound of his horse braying. He rushed from his tent to find a wolf lunging at his steed. With a great and mighty bellow, he grabbed a burning log and swung it at the wolf. He struck the wolf, saving his horse from an untimely death, when the wolf turned on him.
Man and beast came together, fangs were bared and fists were swung. Each blow he landed upon the wolf, the wolf sank his fangs into his flesh. Blood soaked the ground, and Torrik began to grow weak. He could barely stand upon his own two feet, death seemed inevitable now. As he lingered on his knees, the wolf circled around him, waiting for the right time to attack.
When the wolf lunged at him, Torrik knew he had to give every last breath to fight off this beast before he left Helga without a husband. The wolf leaped, fangs bared in a fearsome snarl as it aimed for his throat. Kyne blessed Torrik that day. His hands flew to the throat of the wolf, where his massive hands closed around its windpipe. There, the wolf’s snapping jaw inches from his face, grew still as he strangled the very life out of the wolf. In minutes, the creature that had tried to kill him, lay limp at his feet. Torrik decided that he would not let the wolf go to waste, and in the morning, he carried home the elk he felled, and the wolf.
When he returned home to Helga, they had enough meat to last them through the winter, and new pelts to sell. However, when he sat down to skin the wolf, he decided that he would wear the wolf’s teeth.”
“As a necklace?” Lili asked, her fair brows furrowed at her father’s words.
“Nay, he wore the wolf’s teeth as his own teeth. That is how we became Varg-t’uk. It means wolf tooth in Ancient Nord. When Torrik smiled, his teeth were the fangs of the very wolf that tried to kill him.” Agnar said with a chuckle, he ruffled her hair as he lifted Lili from his lap. “Now, help your sister with her chores, and if you finish early, I will take you to the village to-day.”
GM
ButtsnBalls Goderator
Member
Seen
4 days ago
(Part 2/2)
Spirit Animal - Canon (#5):
By @Spoopy Scary
The strands of sunlight that filtered through the cloudy skies shown upon the frosted fields of Whiterun hold. On this day, the second day of First Seed and year one ninety-nine of the fourth era, the frost shone like glimmering stars that had fallen from the skies. The sun was dipping behind Skyrim's mountains, casting a orange and pink hue over Tamriel. In Whiterun stands a wondrous tree at the feet of the castle of Dragonsreach, one that is revered by the holy men and women who reside in the temple it shares a space with.
It is in this house of faith where a particular young elf and her mentor has spent numerous hours in the study of conjuration; where the magic comes from, how it is harnessed, and the dangers inherent in its practice. The summoning of familiars was a tradition among the priests and priestesses of Kyne the Nordic patron of the hunt, as the animal spirits would act as their guardians. These holy men and women took a more combative perspective of Wylendriel's lady, Kynareth, but their origins were derived from the same concept: she was the most powerful of the wind spirits. This was common ground they could find where there was enough to elicit understanding on both ends.
Regardless of the differences in their faiths, her mentor, Jadis Starhearth, an older nord woman with salt and pepper hair, was very knowledgeable in both magic and the divines. In that respect, she was very careful in treading the line where her faith would collide with hers, but keen on preaching what she felt she knew to be the truth. She stood a few paces beside Wy with her hands held behind her.
"...as such, the summoning of your familiar draws from a different energy than the entities in classical conjuration spells. This school of magic generally draws upon daedric power from one of the realms of Oblivion. Channeling magic through both incantation and binding runes usually ensures a safe conjuration - but is never promised. Your familiar is the summoning of an animal spirit you are familiar with after you have built a connection with them."
"There's an important distinction to be made however," Wy's mentor continued, "and that is to understand that not all daedra are the same. The difference between aedra and daedra is that the daedra chose not to give their power in creating the world, but that alone is reason enough to approach them cautiously... for their decision was made in opposition of your existence in the first place. It is that same decision that gives them more presence on Nirn than the Nine. In order to banish summoned daedra, you must sever the magic that binds them to Nirn and the summoner. But first, you must learn how that binding works."
Wy nodded and closed her eyes. Session after session, they have gone through this. Building a relationship with animal spirits was a complicated task, for it was one of those things where you needed experience to summon one, but need to summon one for experience. To find a spirit required a spirit of your own which was compatible with the animal in question. It was for this reason that what few nord conjurers existed usually conjured wolves, since ingrained in their culture was a fierce sense of loyalty and honor (and quite often enjoying the carnal aspects of life). Rare exceptions among them could call upon hawks, elks, and even bears.
She had to picture an image in her mind of the spirit she sought to conjure forth: a doe. Feel the energies around her and communicate with the spirits, connect - she struggled. She strained her body to squeeze out what magicka she could, but the magicka went nowhere. With a sharp breath, she relaxed her body and squeezed her eyes shut in frustration.
"Again, Wylendriel?" Jadis asked, sounding surprised. "Strange. You're such a focused study."
"I don't know why this is so hard for me! Back home, we hold such reverence for nature and her spirits." Wylendriel bemoaned.
Her mentor smiled at her, though solemn it seemed, and she sat beside the bosmer girl and rested an arm around her shoulder. "Still thinking of home?" She asked.
"How can I not?" Wy replied.
"You torment yourself with your own thoughts. Little wonder, how can the spirits trust you if you do not trust in yourself?"
"But what if I never left?" Wylendriel argued, her voice escalating to a panicked tone. "I could've stayed and helped my people more than I would've by abandoning them."
Jadis looked slightly disappointed and began her incoming lecture with a huff. "You waste the time the Divines have given you by dawdling on the past. We can only move forward. Remember, it's natural to doubt yourself - but don't ever second guess what you know is moral."
Wy took deep breaths with closed eyes while she took in her mentor's wisdom. Part of her debated it - what if, despite her intentions, she made the wrong choice. But like Jadis said, there was no changing what happened. She was left with the question: was resisting the Dominion on behalf of her people, some of whom who were suffering by their hands, a moral decision? The question answered itself.
"So," Jadis continued, "what kind of spirit did you try reaching out to?"
"A doe," she answered.
"A doe?" She parroted incredulously. Jadis knew that the temple's newest initiate had earned the reputation in Whiterun for being doe-like. The smallest thing in a town full of mountain sized nords, wary and cautious in a new land and ever on the look-out for the Thalmor, all while exuding an aura of innocence... the kind of reputation she has obtained must have gotten to her head. Jadis has seen first hand what her spirit was really like. Wylendriel shrugged awkwardly, prompting her mentor to sigh. "And why do you think that?" She asked.
"I... don't know." Wy replied. Her answer caused Jadis's wrinkles to furrow, and her express became stern.
"I think it's time that you've spent some time in meditation." She finally said.
"Meditation? But I usually--"
"Not like this you haven't." Jadis said. "You've become disconnected from nature. I want you to stay outdoors for up to a week. No contact with civilization." Wylendriel's eyes went wide with surprise, but said nothing, allowing her mentor to continue. "Once you discover what you've been looking for, or until the allotted time is up, you may return. I trust that you, as a bosmer, will be self-sufficient enough to handle this?"
"Y-yes... of course." Wy muttered, staring at the ground, trying to understand Jadis' decision. Spending time outside the walls didn't bother her. She wasn't afraid of nature - she'd take towards the south to be among the woods in which she could easily traverse and be outside saber cat territory. The question was why. Why did she want her to do this? What was she planning?
The two bid their farewells to each other that evening, and what remained of that night was to be devoted to rest so that she may prepare for the following day... but sleep did not come easily to Wy that night. She tossed and turned, and sometimes layed totally still - but that air was as still as she was, the night quiet from the chill air which warded insects back into their burrows. A nearly maddening silence that provided no relief by means of white noise to distract her from her own thoughts and reflection upon the day.
Today in particular was a gross reminder of failure, inadequacy, and insecurity. Still hunted and reviled by the Thalmor, no conjuration has been yet mastered, and each passing day leaves her longer away from home than ever before. She was an outsider here who didn't quite belong, neither her nor there - which leaves her to wonder about her mentor's feelings. She has committed to teaching her all about the Divines, but there are times like these where she'd send her away. What was she planning? Was there even a plan? And what can she expect from the trials ahead?
The time between brief periods of shut eye was spent on prayer and meditation so that she could find answers to her questions. Sometimes, sprawled out on the floor, she'd write letters that will never be sent. They were on sometimes on these peculiar sheets of parchment made from thin layer over thin layer of peeled goat skin, traded from the local butcher and pressed, and then dried into a single sheet. The burnt end of a bird quill was her pen, and a small candle her ink jar. Each pen stroke done gently, singing and staining with black ash, and in the Bosmeri language of her people.
"To my dear friends and family - to all the cherished people of my homeland - to the entire breadth of Valenwood;
Traveling the world has both costs and merits. While on one hand, the experience has broadened my perspective far beyond the horizons I thought to have known. In this, I am blessed with the opportunity to learn from the multitudes of people I have crossed paths with along my journey, and even now in Skyrim, my eyes have opened wide enough to see a world I was previously blind to - to this I thank a most wise and gracious elder by whom I'm being mentored.
But at the same time, I feel home-sick. I live in a land so different from my beloved home where everything I think I know feels wrong, as if I feel my head falling towards the sky, but lose my footing upon the ground. In the most disorienting of fashions, my identity struggles to resist becoming unraveled. I fear this culture-shock will be my undoing if I cannot find familiarity in the frozen north. Not all is lost, though. I find comfort in knowing that by the end, we all become one with the Earth Bones and I will find my way home to Y'ffre. Kynareth's guidance provided, I will find the Storyteller having lived a fulfilled life.
The Thalmor has not found me yet, and I swear upon the green, that neither they nor any mortal force upon Nirn will bring me to heel. Do not worry for me. No matter my outcome, the cycle will live on and I will see you again when we become one. With any luck, we’ll have our reunion before then.
Your own, Wylendriel Greensky."
Practice of such correspondence, even unsent, at least reminded her that there was a place in which she could belong. She folded the paper - if one could call it that - into a small square and stuck it into a side pocket of her satchel that sat upon the floor beside her. It somewhat renewed her resolve, and with that, she finally turned herself into bed that night and let the chill air lull her to sleep beneath her warm fur covers.
It is in this house of faith where a particular young elf and her mentor has spent numerous hours in the study of conjuration; where the magic comes from, how it is harnessed, and the dangers inherent in its practice. The summoning of familiars was a tradition among the priests and priestesses of Kyne the Nordic patron of the hunt, as the animal spirits would act as their guardians. These holy men and women took a more combative perspective of Wylendriel's lady, Kynareth, but their origins were derived from the same concept: she was the most powerful of the wind spirits. This was common ground they could find where there was enough to elicit understanding on both ends.
Regardless of the differences in their faiths, her mentor, Jadis Starhearth, an older nord woman with salt and pepper hair, was very knowledgeable in both magic and the divines. In that respect, she was very careful in treading the line where her faith would collide with hers, but keen on preaching what she felt she knew to be the truth. She stood a few paces beside Wy with her hands held behind her.
"...as such, the summoning of your familiar draws from a different energy than the entities in classical conjuration spells. This school of magic generally draws upon daedric power from one of the realms of Oblivion. Channeling magic through both incantation and binding runes usually ensures a safe conjuration - but is never promised. Your familiar is the summoning of an animal spirit you are familiar with after you have built a connection with them."
"There's an important distinction to be made however," Wy's mentor continued, "and that is to understand that not all daedra are the same. The difference between aedra and daedra is that the daedra chose not to give their power in creating the world, but that alone is reason enough to approach them cautiously... for their decision was made in opposition of your existence in the first place. It is that same decision that gives them more presence on Nirn than the Nine. In order to banish summoned daedra, you must sever the magic that binds them to Nirn and the summoner. But first, you must learn how that binding works."
Wy nodded and closed her eyes. Session after session, they have gone through this. Building a relationship with animal spirits was a complicated task, for it was one of those things where you needed experience to summon one, but need to summon one for experience. To find a spirit required a spirit of your own which was compatible with the animal in question. It was for this reason that what few nord conjurers existed usually conjured wolves, since ingrained in their culture was a fierce sense of loyalty and honor (and quite often enjoying the carnal aspects of life). Rare exceptions among them could call upon hawks, elks, and even bears.
She had to picture an image in her mind of the spirit she sought to conjure forth: a doe. Feel the energies around her and communicate with the spirits, connect - she struggled. She strained her body to squeeze out what magicka she could, but the magicka went nowhere. With a sharp breath, she relaxed her body and squeezed her eyes shut in frustration.
"Again, Wylendriel?" Jadis asked, sounding surprised. "Strange. You're such a focused study."
"I don't know why this is so hard for me! Back home, we hold such reverence for nature and her spirits." Wylendriel bemoaned.
Her mentor smiled at her, though solemn it seemed, and she sat beside the bosmer girl and rested an arm around her shoulder. "Still thinking of home?" She asked.
"How can I not?" Wy replied.
"You torment yourself with your own thoughts. Little wonder, how can the spirits trust you if you do not trust in yourself?"
"But what if I never left?" Wylendriel argued, her voice escalating to a panicked tone. "I could've stayed and helped my people more than I would've by abandoning them."
Jadis looked slightly disappointed and began her incoming lecture with a huff. "You waste the time the Divines have given you by dawdling on the past. We can only move forward. Remember, it's natural to doubt yourself - but don't ever second guess what you know is moral."
Wy took deep breaths with closed eyes while she took in her mentor's wisdom. Part of her debated it - what if, despite her intentions, she made the wrong choice. But like Jadis said, there was no changing what happened. She was left with the question: was resisting the Dominion on behalf of her people, some of whom who were suffering by their hands, a moral decision? The question answered itself.
"So," Jadis continued, "what kind of spirit did you try reaching out to?"
"A doe," she answered.
"A doe?" She parroted incredulously. Jadis knew that the temple's newest initiate had earned the reputation in Whiterun for being doe-like. The smallest thing in a town full of mountain sized nords, wary and cautious in a new land and ever on the look-out for the Thalmor, all while exuding an aura of innocence... the kind of reputation she has obtained must have gotten to her head. Jadis has seen first hand what her spirit was really like. Wylendriel shrugged awkwardly, prompting her mentor to sigh. "And why do you think that?" She asked.
"I... don't know." Wy replied. Her answer caused Jadis's wrinkles to furrow, and her express became stern.
"I think it's time that you've spent some time in meditation." She finally said.
"Meditation? But I usually--"
"Not like this you haven't." Jadis said. "You've become disconnected from nature. I want you to stay outdoors for up to a week. No contact with civilization." Wylendriel's eyes went wide with surprise, but said nothing, allowing her mentor to continue. "Once you discover what you've been looking for, or until the allotted time is up, you may return. I trust that you, as a bosmer, will be self-sufficient enough to handle this?"
"Y-yes... of course." Wy muttered, staring at the ground, trying to understand Jadis' decision. Spending time outside the walls didn't bother her. She wasn't afraid of nature - she'd take towards the south to be among the woods in which she could easily traverse and be outside saber cat territory. The question was why. Why did she want her to do this? What was she planning?
The two bid their farewells to each other that evening, and what remained of that night was to be devoted to rest so that she may prepare for the following day... but sleep did not come easily to Wy that night. She tossed and turned, and sometimes layed totally still - but that air was as still as she was, the night quiet from the chill air which warded insects back into their burrows. A nearly maddening silence that provided no relief by means of white noise to distract her from her own thoughts and reflection upon the day.
Today in particular was a gross reminder of failure, inadequacy, and insecurity. Still hunted and reviled by the Thalmor, no conjuration has been yet mastered, and each passing day leaves her longer away from home than ever before. She was an outsider here who didn't quite belong, neither her nor there - which leaves her to wonder about her mentor's feelings. She has committed to teaching her all about the Divines, but there are times like these where she'd send her away. What was she planning? Was there even a plan? And what can she expect from the trials ahead?
The time between brief periods of shut eye was spent on prayer and meditation so that she could find answers to her questions. Sometimes, sprawled out on the floor, she'd write letters that will never be sent. They were on sometimes on these peculiar sheets of parchment made from thin layer over thin layer of peeled goat skin, traded from the local butcher and pressed, and then dried into a single sheet. The burnt end of a bird quill was her pen, and a small candle her ink jar. Each pen stroke done gently, singing and staining with black ash, and in the Bosmeri language of her people.
"To my dear friends and family - to all the cherished people of my homeland - to the entire breadth of Valenwood;
Traveling the world has both costs and merits. While on one hand, the experience has broadened my perspective far beyond the horizons I thought to have known. In this, I am blessed with the opportunity to learn from the multitudes of people I have crossed paths with along my journey, and even now in Skyrim, my eyes have opened wide enough to see a world I was previously blind to - to this I thank a most wise and gracious elder by whom I'm being mentored.
But at the same time, I feel home-sick. I live in a land so different from my beloved home where everything I think I know feels wrong, as if I feel my head falling towards the sky, but lose my footing upon the ground. In the most disorienting of fashions, my identity struggles to resist becoming unraveled. I fear this culture-shock will be my undoing if I cannot find familiarity in the frozen north. Not all is lost, though. I find comfort in knowing that by the end, we all become one with the Earth Bones and I will find my way home to Y'ffre. Kynareth's guidance provided, I will find the Storyteller having lived a fulfilled life.
The Thalmor has not found me yet, and I swear upon the green, that neither they nor any mortal force upon Nirn will bring me to heel. Do not worry for me. No matter my outcome, the cycle will live on and I will see you again when we become one. With any luck, we’ll have our reunion before then.
Your own, Wylendriel Greensky."
Practice of such correspondence, even unsent, at least reminded her that there was a place in which she could belong. She folded the paper - if one could call it that - into a small square and stuck it into a side pocket of her satchel that sat upon the floor beside her. It somewhat renewed her resolve, and with that, she finally turned herself into bed that night and let the chill air lull her to sleep beneath her warm fur covers.
Dawn followed after dusk in what felt like no time, and with only brief periods of sleep throughout the night to ready herself, she awoke that morning feeling vastly unprepared. She felt beaten and exhausted, and every shred of light felt like burning needles sticking into her eyes. Despite how she felt, however, she knew that it would be best to leave before her mentor awoke. She took a moment to compose herself - taking deep, slow breaths and a brief prayer to Kynareth in order to thank her for the breath she has taken, and went to work.
Quickly constructing a bindle to fill in simple necessities and rations, such as aged cheeses, cured meats, a couple of salt blocks, and a water skin. She felt it would betray the experience of the challenge if she brought her satchel that was full of most of what she'll ever need. She headed straight out the door to meet the blue-pink skies of today's dawn and hurried down the steps towards the market level before following the street that led her to the gates. The pitter-patter of her feet along the masonry did nothing to disturb the city's quiet slumber.
From there on, she followed the road eastbound past the local farmland, so that within minutes she can take the south road that would eventually take her up the misty mountains. She took in the refreshing smell of pine and fresh rain that had a mint-like coolness that barely stung her airways, and it felt almost homey. Out here, she can avoid some of the most dangerous of Skyrim's fauna. For instance, giant territory were often on large expanses of land - it was difficult for them to navigate the forests. Most especially saber cats, which preferred lurking in the tall grasslands, and their fur kept them warm in the tundra, so that their powerful legs can jump over snow banks. Out here, the easily distinguishable color of their fur would make them easy to spot among the evergreens, and the elks could take off at an impressive pace long before the cat could close enough to stalk them.
The most she had to worry about out in the southern stretch of Whiterun Hold were wolves. A clumsy lot, truth be told, and Wy was confident she could stay at least a step or two ahead of them. They weren't like hoarvor or stranglers, which relied on subterfuge to get the drop on their prey, they were flat-footed noisy things. So when she climbed up the trail and found old tracks of, say, three dogs or something similar, she wasn't worried. Still, this early in the morning when all the bugs and birds start making all of their racket, the wolves may be waking on empty stomachs, which meant that she might want to perch herself in the trees for a little more rest soon.
Gods, the rest she could have! Only hours ago had she awoken from one of the worst nights of bed rest thus far, and it would do her well to catch up on some shut eye. Even so, all this time she still had her mind on her purpose for being out here in the first place. This was post-failure in her conjuration practice, and Jadis wanted her to find something out here. Find a compatible spirit, perhaps? It seemed all so contrived - the bosmer people had a profound connection with nature and it's creatures, so it wasn't like she misunderstood the nature of these creatures. With each little critter that scurried past, she kept a trained eye on - but nothing clicked.
Her stomach growled and an ache shot through her gut. She should probably find something to eat out here before she rested while she has the chance. Not wanting to waste her rations so soon in her adventure, she did some searching. The Green Pact forbade destroying or consuming vegetation in the wilds of Valenwood, but… the mere idea of taking the berries off a nearby bush, even if it was in Skyrim, just seemed so wrong and disgusting to her. Instead, she thought she could instead find a small treat to hold her over - and she knew exactly what to look for.
She had to find a tree with high branches near a flowering field. A flowering field required sunlight, so it had to be in less dense part of the wood… closer to the river, further eastward and down from the mountain, and that wasn’t very far. It took only a few minutes of navigating the rocky terrain until Wylendriel found one such tree, and high enough in its branches hung a beehive, but not so high that it would be buffeted by the cold winds. This early in the morning, as chilly as it was, the hive was mostly inactive while the bees inside kept warm. She lifted a long fallen stick from the ground to carry on her robe, and began climbing a nearby tree with lower branches.
The elf nimbly climbed higher and higher with each branch; swinging with grace and using her weight to throw herself up to the next level, and fearlessly bounding from one side to the other like she has been all of her life. By the time she was fifteen feet off the ground, she moved onto a branch thicker towards the trunk and aimed at the tree that had the beehive in its branches. From the branch of the first tree, Wy leaped and caught the branch of the second in her hands. She let herself hang for a moment as a big smile stretched over her face - relishing in the moment of what it felt like to be at home again - before she swung her feet to wrap herself around the branch and finally crawled around until she was back upright with her back pressing against the trunk. With a stick in hand, she leaned over and slowly inserted it through the main entrance point of the hive. She felt the writhing swarm inside through the stick, but with as cold as it was outside, they remained quiet and dormant.
She pulled the stick out with care and covered with honey - the bees on it, exposed to the air, quickly crawled back inside the hive for warmth, just like how Wy inched closer back towards the trunk and - at last - leaned back comfortably, licking away at the sweet, raw honey. It was made from… mountain flowers. A hint of lavender. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply, transferring the honey to her mouth using her finger, taking this moment to relax and let the sun’s rays warm her body. The faint sound of a wolf’s howl echoed in the distance, confirming Wy’s concerns, but as high up as she was, she wasn’t concerned about them.
When her fill of the honey that coated the stick was met, she tossed it to the ground and used her waterskin to wash her face and hands of the sticky mess so that the hive wouldn’t smell the honey on her when they became active. She hopped a few more branches until she found two that made a narrow v-shape and nestled herself between them. Closing her eyes once more, she finally allowed herself a moment of rest while she thought about the road ahead. There were few minutes to spare in the time allotted to her, so she had to figure out the challenge Jadis issued. What was her familiar? What spirit was she compatible with? Unlike last night, she drifted off to sleep in very little time.
This sleep would only last a couple of hours. Still, in spite of that, it was a couple of hours of needed rest.
When she later found herself joining the waking world once more, it was when the midday sun was beating on her face through the thicket of leaves. It wasn’t the most pleasant of ways to be awoken, for sure, and she groggily reached for the waterskin at her side while shielding her face from the sun. Taking a quick swig to hydrate her parched mouth, she looked around at the forest floor just as quickly to take a quick assessment of her surroundings. It was quiet. The bees were investigating the stick Wylendriel had tossed before she took her nap, apparently collecting what they could to return to their hive. Judging from the lack of pain on her body, she must’ve cleaned up well enough to avoid inciting their wrath. Just as she started budging, she heard a rustle in the grass below - Wy stopped. Looking down again, this time she saw something she did not before. The shape of a dog resting in the shade, staring at her with hungry yellow eyes. One of the wolves. It must’ve saw her up in the trees and decided to wait for her to come down. Strange… strange and clever. Especially considering how Wylendriel’s robes should’ve provided her with some camouflage - but still strange.
'I would’ve suspected this behavior from saber cats. I guess he’s having a hard time finding food.'
It was looking as though she had to stay up in this tree longer than she thought. It was doubtful there was a single, lone wolf out here. There had to have been others lurking about, or at least within earshot. Her eyes locked onto the wolf below and narrowed. It must have known she had saw it by now. Even with her people’s affinity, she doubted she could pacify it. Sociability didn’t take precedence in a creature’s instincts before hunger. The smartest move would be to wait it out.
In the meantime, Wylendriel watched the natural world pass her by. The sun had shifted in the sky by about forty-five degrees, so about an hour and a half must have passed since then. Her eyes were no longer trained on the wolf that still waited impatiently at the base of the tree, pacing around and occasionally fixing its eyes on something in the far off bushes - likely others of its pack - but instead on other life, keenly studying them. Wondrous things could be discovered if one just stopped and looked. At the top of a nearby tree was an eagle’s nest. The mother wasn’t home, but her chicks waited patiently for their food to be delivered to them. One of them was flapping their little wings over and over without getting anywhere, jumping up and down, it's little wings wasn't quite strong enough for its fat body.
Then a gust of wind picked up, cutting through the air, and curling underneath the eagle chick’s wings. It was carried out of the nest and started falling - the chick flapped its wings like crazy, but all it did was slow its fall to the ground. Her heart began to ache - it was surely a death sentence for the poor thing. It landed on a soft pile of grass, and the sudden rustling and all the crying it made captured the wolf’s attention. It's eyes were now fixed on the helpless bird, which was the size of a small cat. Plenty big enough to satisfy its appetite. Wylendriel felt her heart ache for the poor thing… but it would betray Y’ffre’s lessons to interfere, disrupting the circle. One swift chomp - crack! - and the bird’s neck went limp. The sound of wet chewing and cracking bones was difficult to ignore. A shriek cut the air. A large eagle was circling overhead, having heard the earlier cries of her baby. She swooped down with talons bared, clawing at its back, and the wolf jumped back and yelped in pain and surprise. The eagle persisted and the wolf grabbed her by the end of one of her wings and pulled her to the ground.
Though wounded, the eagle pulled free and scrambled to her feet. She bravely stretched her huge wingspan out and slowly stepped towards the wolf. The bird must have known it wasn't a fight she could win, but she still bothered with trying to scare the wolf off. However, the wolf had only snarled and took a few steps towards the mother eagle. Wylendriel narrowed her eyes. Now the wolf was being greedy. He had already eaten, he shouldn't be worrying himself with fighting the angry mother. Furthermore… Wylendriel’s eyes fell back to the nest. The wolf would be killing more than just the mother.
The priestess got to her feet and balanced on the branch, then leaped to an adjacent branch and climbed back onto the branch which held up the beehive. She crawled as cautiously and as gently as she could to avoid disturbing the hive, but quickly enough to act.
“Song of night-tide canopy - stars woven between your leaves. Crow's watching eye; snake's empty belly - moving, dancing in every moment... forgetting what comes and what is gone."
Murmuring her quick prayer to Y’ffre, she took her skinning knife and cut the stem holding the hive to the branch and let it plummet near the two creatures below - this would hurt the hive to some extent, but it could be easily rebuilt. She just retreated to the branch she was resting in earlier and watched the angry swarm target the two nearby animals as the hive busted open. A couple stings in the wolf’s muzzle and it was gone. The eagle was mostly unbothered by them and weakly flapped her wings and flew back up to the top of the tree to tend to her wound and her chicks. Wylendriel sighed and let the wolf put distance between them, thankful that she was forgotten about. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that the eagle was watching her until every time Wylendriel looked back at them.
Quickly constructing a bindle to fill in simple necessities and rations, such as aged cheeses, cured meats, a couple of salt blocks, and a water skin. She felt it would betray the experience of the challenge if she brought her satchel that was full of most of what she'll ever need. She headed straight out the door to meet the blue-pink skies of today's dawn and hurried down the steps towards the market level before following the street that led her to the gates. The pitter-patter of her feet along the masonry did nothing to disturb the city's quiet slumber.
From there on, she followed the road eastbound past the local farmland, so that within minutes she can take the south road that would eventually take her up the misty mountains. She took in the refreshing smell of pine and fresh rain that had a mint-like coolness that barely stung her airways, and it felt almost homey. Out here, she can avoid some of the most dangerous of Skyrim's fauna. For instance, giant territory were often on large expanses of land - it was difficult for them to navigate the forests. Most especially saber cats, which preferred lurking in the tall grasslands, and their fur kept them warm in the tundra, so that their powerful legs can jump over snow banks. Out here, the easily distinguishable color of their fur would make them easy to spot among the evergreens, and the elks could take off at an impressive pace long before the cat could close enough to stalk them.
The most she had to worry about out in the southern stretch of Whiterun Hold were wolves. A clumsy lot, truth be told, and Wy was confident she could stay at least a step or two ahead of them. They weren't like hoarvor or stranglers, which relied on subterfuge to get the drop on their prey, they were flat-footed noisy things. So when she climbed up the trail and found old tracks of, say, three dogs or something similar, she wasn't worried. Still, this early in the morning when all the bugs and birds start making all of their racket, the wolves may be waking on empty stomachs, which meant that she might want to perch herself in the trees for a little more rest soon.
Gods, the rest she could have! Only hours ago had she awoken from one of the worst nights of bed rest thus far, and it would do her well to catch up on some shut eye. Even so, all this time she still had her mind on her purpose for being out here in the first place. This was post-failure in her conjuration practice, and Jadis wanted her to find something out here. Find a compatible spirit, perhaps? It seemed all so contrived - the bosmer people had a profound connection with nature and it's creatures, so it wasn't like she misunderstood the nature of these creatures. With each little critter that scurried past, she kept a trained eye on - but nothing clicked.
Her stomach growled and an ache shot through her gut. She should probably find something to eat out here before she rested while she has the chance. Not wanting to waste her rations so soon in her adventure, she did some searching. The Green Pact forbade destroying or consuming vegetation in the wilds of Valenwood, but… the mere idea of taking the berries off a nearby bush, even if it was in Skyrim, just seemed so wrong and disgusting to her. Instead, she thought she could instead find a small treat to hold her over - and she knew exactly what to look for.
She had to find a tree with high branches near a flowering field. A flowering field required sunlight, so it had to be in less dense part of the wood… closer to the river, further eastward and down from the mountain, and that wasn’t very far. It took only a few minutes of navigating the rocky terrain until Wylendriel found one such tree, and high enough in its branches hung a beehive, but not so high that it would be buffeted by the cold winds. This early in the morning, as chilly as it was, the hive was mostly inactive while the bees inside kept warm. She lifted a long fallen stick from the ground to carry on her robe, and began climbing a nearby tree with lower branches.
The elf nimbly climbed higher and higher with each branch; swinging with grace and using her weight to throw herself up to the next level, and fearlessly bounding from one side to the other like she has been all of her life. By the time she was fifteen feet off the ground, she moved onto a branch thicker towards the trunk and aimed at the tree that had the beehive in its branches. From the branch of the first tree, Wy leaped and caught the branch of the second in her hands. She let herself hang for a moment as a big smile stretched over her face - relishing in the moment of what it felt like to be at home again - before she swung her feet to wrap herself around the branch and finally crawled around until she was back upright with her back pressing against the trunk. With a stick in hand, she leaned over and slowly inserted it through the main entrance point of the hive. She felt the writhing swarm inside through the stick, but with as cold as it was outside, they remained quiet and dormant.
She pulled the stick out with care and covered with honey - the bees on it, exposed to the air, quickly crawled back inside the hive for warmth, just like how Wy inched closer back towards the trunk and - at last - leaned back comfortably, licking away at the sweet, raw honey. It was made from… mountain flowers. A hint of lavender. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply, transferring the honey to her mouth using her finger, taking this moment to relax and let the sun’s rays warm her body. The faint sound of a wolf’s howl echoed in the distance, confirming Wy’s concerns, but as high up as she was, she wasn’t concerned about them.
When her fill of the honey that coated the stick was met, she tossed it to the ground and used her waterskin to wash her face and hands of the sticky mess so that the hive wouldn’t smell the honey on her when they became active. She hopped a few more branches until she found two that made a narrow v-shape and nestled herself between them. Closing her eyes once more, she finally allowed herself a moment of rest while she thought about the road ahead. There were few minutes to spare in the time allotted to her, so she had to figure out the challenge Jadis issued. What was her familiar? What spirit was she compatible with? Unlike last night, she drifted off to sleep in very little time.
This sleep would only last a couple of hours. Still, in spite of that, it was a couple of hours of needed rest.
When she later found herself joining the waking world once more, it was when the midday sun was beating on her face through the thicket of leaves. It wasn’t the most pleasant of ways to be awoken, for sure, and she groggily reached for the waterskin at her side while shielding her face from the sun. Taking a quick swig to hydrate her parched mouth, she looked around at the forest floor just as quickly to take a quick assessment of her surroundings. It was quiet. The bees were investigating the stick Wylendriel had tossed before she took her nap, apparently collecting what they could to return to their hive. Judging from the lack of pain on her body, she must’ve cleaned up well enough to avoid inciting their wrath. Just as she started budging, she heard a rustle in the grass below - Wy stopped. Looking down again, this time she saw something she did not before. The shape of a dog resting in the shade, staring at her with hungry yellow eyes. One of the wolves. It must’ve saw her up in the trees and decided to wait for her to come down. Strange… strange and clever. Especially considering how Wylendriel’s robes should’ve provided her with some camouflage - but still strange.
'I would’ve suspected this behavior from saber cats. I guess he’s having a hard time finding food.'
It was looking as though she had to stay up in this tree longer than she thought. It was doubtful there was a single, lone wolf out here. There had to have been others lurking about, or at least within earshot. Her eyes locked onto the wolf below and narrowed. It must have known she had saw it by now. Even with her people’s affinity, she doubted she could pacify it. Sociability didn’t take precedence in a creature’s instincts before hunger. The smartest move would be to wait it out.
In the meantime, Wylendriel watched the natural world pass her by. The sun had shifted in the sky by about forty-five degrees, so about an hour and a half must have passed since then. Her eyes were no longer trained on the wolf that still waited impatiently at the base of the tree, pacing around and occasionally fixing its eyes on something in the far off bushes - likely others of its pack - but instead on other life, keenly studying them. Wondrous things could be discovered if one just stopped and looked. At the top of a nearby tree was an eagle’s nest. The mother wasn’t home, but her chicks waited patiently for their food to be delivered to them. One of them was flapping their little wings over and over without getting anywhere, jumping up and down, it's little wings wasn't quite strong enough for its fat body.
Then a gust of wind picked up, cutting through the air, and curling underneath the eagle chick’s wings. It was carried out of the nest and started falling - the chick flapped its wings like crazy, but all it did was slow its fall to the ground. Her heart began to ache - it was surely a death sentence for the poor thing. It landed on a soft pile of grass, and the sudden rustling and all the crying it made captured the wolf’s attention. It's eyes were now fixed on the helpless bird, which was the size of a small cat. Plenty big enough to satisfy its appetite. Wylendriel felt her heart ache for the poor thing… but it would betray Y’ffre’s lessons to interfere, disrupting the circle. One swift chomp - crack! - and the bird’s neck went limp. The sound of wet chewing and cracking bones was difficult to ignore. A shriek cut the air. A large eagle was circling overhead, having heard the earlier cries of her baby. She swooped down with talons bared, clawing at its back, and the wolf jumped back and yelped in pain and surprise. The eagle persisted and the wolf grabbed her by the end of one of her wings and pulled her to the ground.
Though wounded, the eagle pulled free and scrambled to her feet. She bravely stretched her huge wingspan out and slowly stepped towards the wolf. The bird must have known it wasn't a fight she could win, but she still bothered with trying to scare the wolf off. However, the wolf had only snarled and took a few steps towards the mother eagle. Wylendriel narrowed her eyes. Now the wolf was being greedy. He had already eaten, he shouldn't be worrying himself with fighting the angry mother. Furthermore… Wylendriel’s eyes fell back to the nest. The wolf would be killing more than just the mother.
The priestess got to her feet and balanced on the branch, then leaped to an adjacent branch and climbed back onto the branch which held up the beehive. She crawled as cautiously and as gently as she could to avoid disturbing the hive, but quickly enough to act.
“Song of night-tide canopy - stars woven between your leaves. Crow's watching eye; snake's empty belly - moving, dancing in every moment... forgetting what comes and what is gone."
Murmuring her quick prayer to Y’ffre, she took her skinning knife and cut the stem holding the hive to the branch and let it plummet near the two creatures below - this would hurt the hive to some extent, but it could be easily rebuilt. She just retreated to the branch she was resting in earlier and watched the angry swarm target the two nearby animals as the hive busted open. A couple stings in the wolf’s muzzle and it was gone. The eagle was mostly unbothered by them and weakly flapped her wings and flew back up to the top of the tree to tend to her wound and her chicks. Wylendriel sighed and let the wolf put distance between them, thankful that she was forgotten about. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that the eagle was watching her until every time Wylendriel looked back at them.
Three days later…
The sun was inching closer towards sunset, and the air was hot.
‘Why is that thing here? Of all places!’
Wylendriel’s breath, weak and raspy, panting. The grass and leaves rustled with every step. An unnoticed flower trampled underfoot. No Green Pact bosmer would ever dare…
‘No wonder the past couple days have been so quiet! To think… up here? In the mountains?’
A loud, earth-trembling quake reverberated through the woods. Then another - footsteps of something utterly massive.
“Why is that giant chasing me?” She cried. An old, low hanging branch of a tree she had been too distracted to notice whipped her in the face as she ran for dear life, scraping her and drawing droplets of blood. The pain, as much as it stung, didn’t seem to matter so much when escaping the threat of being crushed into paste or being torn limb from limb. That moment of gazing upon an old elk, so great in its majesty with a rack of antlers as wide as a carriage, were but fleeting seconds before the instant it took for an even greater giant to crush the poor creature in the palm of its hand. Then his sights were set on her, and he dropped it… she wasn’t even sure if the giant was hungry or not. If that was the case, why did it even bother pursuing her?
The trees behind her exploded into splinters as the giant bull rushed her direction. It seemed that what stamina she had drained from him had returned, and he was well on his way to being right on her heels… rather, it might be more appropriate to say he'd be right on top of her!
’Damn it! I have to do something! She thought in the midst of her panic. The further down the mountain she ran, the steeper some of drops were and the thicker the foliage was, but the ledges were but minor steps for the giant and the thickets did nothing to slow him down. If memory served correctly, there should be a caverns up here, east of Whiterun and the river. It was a delve favorited by bandits, but…
Wylendriel turned around briefly and saw the giant charging closer, shouting a guttural roar and spewing spittle with a fallen tree serving as the club in his hand. She doubted that the club was the thing he actually wanted to kill her with. Ugh, fine! There wasn't any time to be worrying about bandits. Wylendriel’s mad sprint brought her to the river soon enough, and she seemed inches away from the giant’s grasp, but she took a sharp left towards the north and avoided the massive paw. The giant’s foot tripped upon the edge of the riverbank and slippery slopes and brought the creature tumbling down onto his side with a thunderous crash. He roared after the little bosmer in anger. In the time it took for him to get up, the fleet footed elf was already making progress towards a slope up the next mountain, and White River Watch was coming into sight.
It was a minute or two later and her feet were smacking against the wooden stairs that were built against the mountain slope. The muffled sound of thunder was following her. She had to get inside the cave before the giant--
“What's a pretty little knife-eared bitch doing here, eh?” Sneered a voice up ahead. From the cavern’s shadows came a bandit, who was currently notching an arrow on his bowstring. She barely noticed the smaller nord man behind the first, who was resting a short blade on his leather shoulder armor.
“Pretty? Nah, Brim, you're thinking of them high elves,” he said, putting particular emphasis on what kind of elf, indicating no particular love for any sort of elf. “She's one of them gross cannibal sorts. Ain't no mouth I wanna be stickin’ my tongue in.”
As revolting as the discourse was, she was in a panic and didn't have time to be disgusted with them. Still, it was clear to her that these two had no intention of just leaving her be - she had to think of something.
“I am a priestess from the Temple of Kyne!” Wylendriel spat. “Let me through, I don't have--”
“Gee, Jold, now that I think of it, I did hear that temple took in a cannibal.” Brim mused.
“Ain't no temple o’ mine!” Jold added. “Now Zenithar - mister money bags - that’s a god I can get behind!”
Wy’s senses, far sharper as they were, could tell that the giant was just around the corner, and was visibly anxious to get moving. “You're wasting time!” She urged.
“I agree,” replied Jold. “Kill ‘er.”
It was as soon as Brim pulled back the string of his bow that the giant peered around the mountain. As quickly as Brim saw it, turned and shot the arrow at the giant when it started running up the mountain slope. Wy flinched, and was momentarily confused, but looked back when the giant roared out in pain. Brim started notching another arrow and, like a doe, Jold was frozen solid upon sight. Wy pushed past the both of them and scrambled towards the caverns, breaking Jold’s fearful trance. As the giant inched closer, Jold followed after Wy into the caverns and Brim shot another arrow only for it to get caught by the giant’s massive club. The bow-wielding nord was too slow to get away from the monster’s swing and was batted off the mountain, where he'd presumably land in The Pale. Unrealistic, yes, but she couldn't help but wonder how far his body would fly from a swing like that. He was probably dead upon impact. She'd pray for the loss of life, but…
”You elven bitch!” Jold screamed, jumping atop of her, fighting with her in trying to wrap his hands around her throat. “You led that thing here!”
Wy stopped trying to slap his hands and instead grabbed his wrists. After a brief second, her hands started glowing green and it wasn't long after then she felt herself slowly reenergizing and the bandit’s grip growing weaker. When he finally released her, she gasped for air and threw the man off of her with strength unseemly of a priestess thanks to that magic. Unfortunately, she didn't notice the giant reaching its arm through the cavern, and Jold was within reach. The giant pulled him closer with his fingers, probably grinding him into the floor a little bit and crushing his bones. After he was pulled into the giant’s palm, the monster squeezed hard with a grunt. Wy just heard sickly wet noises and breaking bones mixed with the he screams that were suddenly silenced. She felt like throwing up. The giant just dropped dead Jold and tried its damnedest to inch after Wy, and she kicked her feet trying to get as far away as she could. This greedy thing… it wasn't like the wolf, it wasn't concerned with eating at all! It was hunting for sport!
Wy climbed to her feet and started running deeper into the caverns. If the layout was what she thought it was, if her brief survey from the outside was any indicator, there should be an exit that could help her escape for good. Running through the caverns, barely noticing the lack of bandits present (were there only two?), her hunch was right as the end of the cavern ended at another wooden platform. She looked all around her… it was like a steep drop on every side. She tried to look around the edge of the mountain to see if the giant was still peering into entrance or if he finally gave up… much to her dismay, it was neither of the two, but was looking straight at her and he definitely seemed to be trying to figure out how to get to her. Wy sighed and let her shoulders drop… finally, she can relax.
The tree that giant has been using as a club came flying right at her.
She dove out of the way back towards the cavern as half of the platform broke into splinters. “Oblivion damn you!” She shrieked, covering her head from the falling debris. Her hands got scraped up pretty badly, though it was manageable. She was more alarmed by the sound of the nearby rock tumbling down the mountainside. She sneaked a peek around the mouth of the cavern. Nothing. Was he gone? She peeked a little bit further...
Just as Wy inched closer, the giant’s face swung around from the other side of the rock, staring at her from a mere few feet away.
’That bastard climbed the side of the mountain. Like a damn imga!’
The priestess jumped to her feet and bolted back towards the cavern, and the giant was pulling himself up to be level with the cavern’s exist. She was far enough inside that she would be out of the giant’s reach, but now she was on her hands and knees trying to catch her breath.
’I can’t believe this. He has me trapped inside. Kynareth, how am I going to get out?’
She was answered with a half-hour of silence. Why was she so quiet? Was this a test? Every time she thought the giant was gone, he’d peer in through the hole to see if she were still there. That damn, crafty… ugh! She has been waiting so long for him to leave!. She can’t just wait until he brings the damn mountain down on her head. If she headed out the other way, the giant would simply see her leaving and climb back over. It was just like the time with the wolf… how did she get out of that mess? A gust of wind from outside blew through the tunnel, and as cold as it was, sent shivers up her spine. Her memories flashed before her eyes - a gust of wind and the chicks fell. Cried for help - eaten. The mother arrives… the mother arrived and she fought. Fell wounded… she stood her ground. Wings out. Stood her ground… wings out. Wylendriel looked up at the giant, half of whom’s face was looking into the inside of the caverns. Stand her ground. That’s the only way she was gonna get out of here.
“I think I finally understand...” Wy muttered. "Thank you, Jadis."
She pulled herself up to her feet and dusted herself off, stung her hands a little bit. They were still roughed up, but they were so minor that went the priestess brought her hands together and bathed them in a restorative light, they were healed over in a moment’s notice. She took a deep breath, drew her skinning knife, and paced forward with her hands at her sides. Chin up. Lip steadied. The giant’s interest was evidently piqued as she started moving closer to his reach.
“Forgive me Y’ffre, the Storyteller, and Kynareth, the mother, for what I am about to do…”
Another step, and the giant looked in.
“...to send you a child of Nirn, for its transgressions against nature’s balance...”
Another step, and the giant’s hand reached in through the mouth of the cavern.
“...for they would profane your bountiful treasures…”
Another step, and the hand went to grab the priestess.
“...and forgetting what will come, and what is gone.”
As the giant tried to take her into his grasp, Wy plunged the knife deep into the giant’s finger beneath his fingernail. He reared back in pain, pulling his hand out of the cavern and holding it in the air before him as he latched onto the mountainside with his other hand. ’Now --’ she raised her hand in the air and made the clear mental image of the animal she was looking for… the eagle, standing its ground before the wolf; collected her magicka and sought to bind this animal spirit to her, not to the land- she was Nirn, but one small part of it - and an eagle in a brilliant white-blue luminescent glow materialized before her. From Aetherius it flew, and it kept flying towards the giant outside the cavern with its talons bared and sinking them into the monster’s eyes, bloodying them to pulp then dissipating in thin air.
The giant roared once more in agony and lost his grip upon the mountain and fell backward. Each second was followed by one thunderous crash after another as it tumbled upon the mountain. Eventually the giant’s roars stopped when his head smacked against a boulder real hard, but the continued to fall until he finally hit the ground and lay lifeless beside the river. Wy rushed over to the cavern exit and peered over the edge - sure enough, he lies motionless at the base of the mountain. Her knees felt weak. She did it! She actually conjured... she... Jadis wanted her to find herself and... she wasn't any doe, no; but most importantly, she's survived. The priestess fell on her bum and pressed her back against the cavern wall. The only thing she had energy to do was to stare toward the ceiling and laugh to herself, tears of relief running down her face.
She was glad no one was here. She must have looked like a maniac.
The sun was inching closer towards sunset, and the air was hot.
‘Why is that thing here? Of all places!’
Wylendriel’s breath, weak and raspy, panting. The grass and leaves rustled with every step. An unnoticed flower trampled underfoot. No Green Pact bosmer would ever dare…
‘No wonder the past couple days have been so quiet! To think… up here? In the mountains?’
A loud, earth-trembling quake reverberated through the woods. Then another - footsteps of something utterly massive.
“Why is that giant chasing me?” She cried. An old, low hanging branch of a tree she had been too distracted to notice whipped her in the face as she ran for dear life, scraping her and drawing droplets of blood. The pain, as much as it stung, didn’t seem to matter so much when escaping the threat of being crushed into paste or being torn limb from limb. That moment of gazing upon an old elk, so great in its majesty with a rack of antlers as wide as a carriage, were but fleeting seconds before the instant it took for an even greater giant to crush the poor creature in the palm of its hand. Then his sights were set on her, and he dropped it… she wasn’t even sure if the giant was hungry or not. If that was the case, why did it even bother pursuing her?
The trees behind her exploded into splinters as the giant bull rushed her direction. It seemed that what stamina she had drained from him had returned, and he was well on his way to being right on her heels… rather, it might be more appropriate to say he'd be right on top of her!
’Damn it! I have to do something! She thought in the midst of her panic. The further down the mountain she ran, the steeper some of drops were and the thicker the foliage was, but the ledges were but minor steps for the giant and the thickets did nothing to slow him down. If memory served correctly, there should be a caverns up here, east of Whiterun and the river. It was a delve favorited by bandits, but…
Wylendriel turned around briefly and saw the giant charging closer, shouting a guttural roar and spewing spittle with a fallen tree serving as the club in his hand. She doubted that the club was the thing he actually wanted to kill her with. Ugh, fine! There wasn't any time to be worrying about bandits. Wylendriel’s mad sprint brought her to the river soon enough, and she seemed inches away from the giant’s grasp, but she took a sharp left towards the north and avoided the massive paw. The giant’s foot tripped upon the edge of the riverbank and slippery slopes and brought the creature tumbling down onto his side with a thunderous crash. He roared after the little bosmer in anger. In the time it took for him to get up, the fleet footed elf was already making progress towards a slope up the next mountain, and White River Watch was coming into sight.
It was a minute or two later and her feet were smacking against the wooden stairs that were built against the mountain slope. The muffled sound of thunder was following her. She had to get inside the cave before the giant--
“What's a pretty little knife-eared bitch doing here, eh?” Sneered a voice up ahead. From the cavern’s shadows came a bandit, who was currently notching an arrow on his bowstring. She barely noticed the smaller nord man behind the first, who was resting a short blade on his leather shoulder armor.
“Pretty? Nah, Brim, you're thinking of them high elves,” he said, putting particular emphasis on what kind of elf, indicating no particular love for any sort of elf. “She's one of them gross cannibal sorts. Ain't no mouth I wanna be stickin’ my tongue in.”
As revolting as the discourse was, she was in a panic and didn't have time to be disgusted with them. Still, it was clear to her that these two had no intention of just leaving her be - she had to think of something.
“I am a priestess from the Temple of Kyne!” Wylendriel spat. “Let me through, I don't have--”
“Gee, Jold, now that I think of it, I did hear that temple took in a cannibal.” Brim mused.
“Ain't no temple o’ mine!” Jold added. “Now Zenithar - mister money bags - that’s a god I can get behind!”
Wy’s senses, far sharper as they were, could tell that the giant was just around the corner, and was visibly anxious to get moving. “You're wasting time!” She urged.
“I agree,” replied Jold. “Kill ‘er.”
It was as soon as Brim pulled back the string of his bow that the giant peered around the mountain. As quickly as Brim saw it, turned and shot the arrow at the giant when it started running up the mountain slope. Wy flinched, and was momentarily confused, but looked back when the giant roared out in pain. Brim started notching another arrow and, like a doe, Jold was frozen solid upon sight. Wy pushed past the both of them and scrambled towards the caverns, breaking Jold’s fearful trance. As the giant inched closer, Jold followed after Wy into the caverns and Brim shot another arrow only for it to get caught by the giant’s massive club. The bow-wielding nord was too slow to get away from the monster’s swing and was batted off the mountain, where he'd presumably land in The Pale. Unrealistic, yes, but she couldn't help but wonder how far his body would fly from a swing like that. He was probably dead upon impact. She'd pray for the loss of life, but…
”You elven bitch!” Jold screamed, jumping atop of her, fighting with her in trying to wrap his hands around her throat. “You led that thing here!”
Wy stopped trying to slap his hands and instead grabbed his wrists. After a brief second, her hands started glowing green and it wasn't long after then she felt herself slowly reenergizing and the bandit’s grip growing weaker. When he finally released her, she gasped for air and threw the man off of her with strength unseemly of a priestess thanks to that magic. Unfortunately, she didn't notice the giant reaching its arm through the cavern, and Jold was within reach. The giant pulled him closer with his fingers, probably grinding him into the floor a little bit and crushing his bones. After he was pulled into the giant’s palm, the monster squeezed hard with a grunt. Wy just heard sickly wet noises and breaking bones mixed with the he screams that were suddenly silenced. She felt like throwing up. The giant just dropped dead Jold and tried its damnedest to inch after Wy, and she kicked her feet trying to get as far away as she could. This greedy thing… it wasn't like the wolf, it wasn't concerned with eating at all! It was hunting for sport!
Wy climbed to her feet and started running deeper into the caverns. If the layout was what she thought it was, if her brief survey from the outside was any indicator, there should be an exit that could help her escape for good. Running through the caverns, barely noticing the lack of bandits present (were there only two?), her hunch was right as the end of the cavern ended at another wooden platform. She looked all around her… it was like a steep drop on every side. She tried to look around the edge of the mountain to see if the giant was still peering into entrance or if he finally gave up… much to her dismay, it was neither of the two, but was looking straight at her and he definitely seemed to be trying to figure out how to get to her. Wy sighed and let her shoulders drop… finally, she can relax.
The tree that giant has been using as a club came flying right at her.
She dove out of the way back towards the cavern as half of the platform broke into splinters. “Oblivion damn you!” She shrieked, covering her head from the falling debris. Her hands got scraped up pretty badly, though it was manageable. She was more alarmed by the sound of the nearby rock tumbling down the mountainside. She sneaked a peek around the mouth of the cavern. Nothing. Was he gone? She peeked a little bit further...
Just as Wy inched closer, the giant’s face swung around from the other side of the rock, staring at her from a mere few feet away.
’That bastard climbed the side of the mountain. Like a damn imga!’
The priestess jumped to her feet and bolted back towards the cavern, and the giant was pulling himself up to be level with the cavern’s exist. She was far enough inside that she would be out of the giant’s reach, but now she was on her hands and knees trying to catch her breath.
’I can’t believe this. He has me trapped inside. Kynareth, how am I going to get out?’
She was answered with a half-hour of silence. Why was she so quiet? Was this a test? Every time she thought the giant was gone, he’d peer in through the hole to see if she were still there. That damn, crafty… ugh! She has been waiting so long for him to leave!. She can’t just wait until he brings the damn mountain down on her head. If she headed out the other way, the giant would simply see her leaving and climb back over. It was just like the time with the wolf… how did she get out of that mess? A gust of wind from outside blew through the tunnel, and as cold as it was, sent shivers up her spine. Her memories flashed before her eyes - a gust of wind and the chicks fell. Cried for help - eaten. The mother arrives… the mother arrived and she fought. Fell wounded… she stood her ground. Wings out. Stood her ground… wings out. Wylendriel looked up at the giant, half of whom’s face was looking into the inside of the caverns. Stand her ground. That’s the only way she was gonna get out of here.
“I think I finally understand...” Wy muttered. "Thank you, Jadis."
She pulled herself up to her feet and dusted herself off, stung her hands a little bit. They were still roughed up, but they were so minor that went the priestess brought her hands together and bathed them in a restorative light, they were healed over in a moment’s notice. She took a deep breath, drew her skinning knife, and paced forward with her hands at her sides. Chin up. Lip steadied. The giant’s interest was evidently piqued as she started moving closer to his reach.
“Forgive me Y’ffre, the Storyteller, and Kynareth, the mother, for what I am about to do…”
Another step, and the giant looked in.
“...to send you a child of Nirn, for its transgressions against nature’s balance...”
Another step, and the giant’s hand reached in through the mouth of the cavern.
“...for they would profane your bountiful treasures…”
Another step, and the hand went to grab the priestess.
“...and forgetting what will come, and what is gone.”
As the giant tried to take her into his grasp, Wy plunged the knife deep into the giant’s finger beneath his fingernail. He reared back in pain, pulling his hand out of the cavern and holding it in the air before him as he latched onto the mountainside with his other hand. ’Now --’ she raised her hand in the air and made the clear mental image of the animal she was looking for… the eagle, standing its ground before the wolf; collected her magicka and sought to bind this animal spirit to her, not to the land- she was Nirn, but one small part of it - and an eagle in a brilliant white-blue luminescent glow materialized before her. From Aetherius it flew, and it kept flying towards the giant outside the cavern with its talons bared and sinking them into the monster’s eyes, bloodying them to pulp then dissipating in thin air.
The giant roared once more in agony and lost his grip upon the mountain and fell backward. Each second was followed by one thunderous crash after another as it tumbled upon the mountain. Eventually the giant’s roars stopped when his head smacked against a boulder real hard, but the continued to fall until he finally hit the ground and lay lifeless beside the river. Wy rushed over to the cavern exit and peered over the edge - sure enough, he lies motionless at the base of the mountain. Her knees felt weak. She did it! She actually conjured... she... Jadis wanted her to find herself and... she wasn't any doe, no; but most importantly, she's survived. The priestess fell on her bum and pressed her back against the cavern wall. The only thing she had energy to do was to stare toward the ceiling and laugh to herself, tears of relief running down her face.
She was glad no one was here. She must have looked like a maniac.
By @Peik
‘’Are you absolutely sure that you want to speak to the mer, sir? Moriche are no more than gritty, miserable ignoramuses. Especially this one, we've already interrogated him.’’
‘’You know very well that it is in the Dominion’s interests to learn all we can from our foes. We have an assassin on our hands, do we not? No doubt it was a premeditated attack, given how our foe came out of nowhere and started a barber shop. Of course, those damned Imperials did not expect us to see the connection with this Sadri fellow and the Penitus Oculatus. I am certain a trained assassin such as he would be well versed in resisting torture. This new method developed by Zigmundil Freudhar tells us even more than what they know about themselves!’’
Ganillon raised an eyebrow. What he had heard of the mer was nothing but rumors of his obsession with sexual organs and an alleged addiction to ground-up Moon Sugar snuff, or as its inventors the Bosmer called it, Co-Coinn.
Larendil saw the doubt in Ganillon’s eyes. He wasn’t the only one questioning the efficiency of this method. He knew all too well that was why he was no longer at Alinor, but instead in this damned outpost off Woodhearth. Thankfully his uncles had pulled some strings to give him a position prodigious enough to order these fools around.
‘’Bah, what would a simple warden like you know. Just bring him in,’’ he said to Ganillon with a dismissing gesture. The well-dressed, martial warden left and sighed in annoyance the moment he shut the door, no doubt frustrated about this fifty-year old brat being a superior to decorated veterans of the Great War.
‘’Take the damn Moriche here. Our esteemed superior wishes to see him.’’
When the prisoner was first brought in, Larendil wanted to protest, because from what he saw they had brought in a flesh Atronach, or somehow brought in a Bonewalker from Morrowind, so torn up was the arrival’s face and skin. It was only after the shackled individual walked a few steps closer to the light that he managed to make out the pointed ears and red eyes that marked a Dunmer. It seemed that his subordinates had tried to make the man talk through more conventional methods. How base and dreadfully foolish.
‘’Sit down,’’ Larendil commanded. The Dunmer practically threw himself onto the velvet-laden sofa, gasping in pain and a concentrated effort to feel the most he could of the fabric. Compared to the cobblestone floor on which he had been sleeping on for the last few days, this was almost heavenly.
‘’You are Sadri Beleth, correct? My subordinates have long mentioned their inability to get any leads out of you. Even our esteemed Inquisitors have conceded that their magic has failed to find any clues in your feeble brain.’’
Sadri looked at the man, mouth slightly ajar - the last interrogator had dislocated his jaw with a strong kick. With his cataract-laden eye, hunched back and hanging neck, he looked more like a puppet, or a recently reanimated corpse.
‘’Ah, playing hard to get, I see. Don’t worry, I am not here to hurt you. Please, tell me about your childhood.’’
Sadri’s good eye opened wide. ‘’What?’’ He slurred, trying to push back the spit gathering in his mouth with his tongue. It seemed to him that the Thalmor, frustrated with the ineffectiveness of their treatment (Mer such as Sadri often received lighter punishments, thanks to the privilege of their race), had decided to go with a much crueler and bone-chilling torture method – taking the piss with him. Truly there was no method more unpredictable.
‘’Your childhood,’’ the Altmer responded flatly.
Sadri blinked repeatedly. Not wishing to anger his latest interrogator and be forced to leave his latest seating (boy, the sofa was comfortable!), he took a deep, painful breath, and then began speaking after his interrogator inked his quill and gave him the go-ahead with a graceful gesture.
‘’Well, I was born in Bergama about fifty-sixty something years back. I really don’t remember much… I used to wander around with the local kids, play games, didn’t do much. Parents were well-off, they tried to get me educated instead of sending me off to be an apprentice.’’
‘’Interesting, interesting, never thought Dunmer parenting could be anything more than horrid. You weren’t specialized in your education, correct?’’
‘’I guess not?’’
‘’…Lackluster education, half-taught…’’ Larendil muttered to himself, weighing every word in his mouth before scrawling them to the paper in front of him. Sadri would have protested, but he assumed that he did not have the privilege. The Mer interrogating him right now felt like a kid pretending to play doctor with a toy – don’t budge, and he’ll break your limbs. Go with the flow, he’ll leave you, or so Sadri thought.
He thought wrong.
‘’Right. Now close your eyes. When you think ‘Bergama’, what comes to your mind?’’
Sadri was hesitant to close his eyes, expecting that the mer would electrocute him the moment he did so, but the childish naiveté in his voice convinced him, plus, he didn’t have any other choice, he complied.
‘’I, uh, the Old Well.’’
The Old Well was a ruin, overlooking the vast stretch of desert that lay beyond the southern edge of Bergama – some of the older children had come up with a rumor that the Old Well was once a tower, yet a volcano explosion had devoured the old city and left nothing but the tip of its tallest spire, that being the Old Well. Sadri remembered how his grandfather’s face had gone pale when he had asked whether the story was true or not. It had convinced him in his childhood that the story was correct.
‘’And what may this Old Well be?’’
‘’It was a well,’’ Sadri retorted, before hurriedly continuing into a more elaborate answer in fear of repercussions. ‘’Used to be a common spot for kids to play – at night, it was a teenage lovers’ meeting spot. Friend of mine Najad, he used to work as a carpenter’s apprentice back then – we used to make wooden ‘love idols’ for kids to buy, told them if they stashed it under their beds, the girl they loved would love them back. Spent that money on sweets, toys and wooden swords.’’
Larendil rolled his eyes at just how banal the excuse was. The Penitus Oculatus had instilled a quite believable story in this man’s mind – perhaps a sleeper agent? That was why this method was perfect. Picking apart semantics and themes, reactions… to know more about one than one oneself could know, no tool was more powerful.
‘’Hmm, hmm…’’ Larendil mused as he kept writing. ‘’And what comes to mind when you think of this Old Well?’’
Sadri took a breath, unable to sigh, in fear of the possible wrath of his interrogator.
‘’I had a crush of my own, Nevyna. We used to meet there. His father did not like my father, though, we never got together.’’
He felt sullen all of a sudden, not wishing to disclose any more details about his previous love. When he had returned to Bergama with the onset of the Great War, Nevyna’s husband had gone off to war. When news of his death reached the town in 173, Sadri and Nevyna’s relationship had made an attempt to rekindle itself, in what had begun as sincere consolation for a past friend. Unfortunately for Nevyna, her child had never taken a liking to Sadri. It had never taken off.
Here, now, Sadri was in the middle of Buttfuck Nowhere, Valenwood, waiting for his execution, and it was almost as if this new interrogator was his instrument of death, and this new instrument had chosen to take the metaphor of making his life ‘flash before his eyes’ literally. First his childhood, now his teenage years…
‘’And what of Nevyna?’’
‘’What about her?’’ Sadri asked, slightly defensive in tone.
‘’Tell me about her.’’
‘’She was a nice girl.’’
Larendil raised his eyebrows and lowered his head, looking derisively at Sadri.
‘’…Yeah, she was a nice girl. Pale skin for a Dunmer, thoughtful eyes, hooked nose. Dumber than she looked, but she had good intentions.’’
‘’…Mhm, yes, yes. It’s all good now, making itself more and more blatant.’’
‘’What?’’ Sadri asked, confused.
‘’Why, isn’t it obvious? The Well, teenage loves, thoughtful eyes… It all points to your love for your mother. Your focus on women, water and wells, these are all symptoms for desire for the vagina, why, it’s obvious. You want to be your father; you’re envious of him for having your mother. Not to worry, though, it’s all normal. I’ll have a more comprehensive analysis after a full month.’’
‘’A month?’’
‘’Yes, yes, we’ll have to postpone your execution for a month, but it’s all good. Your life may be forfeit, but you’ll leave an excellent psych evaluation behind. No better legacy... I can see it now, Larendil’s Assassin! You’ll be famous, my friend.’’
Sadri spent a moment in pain to spring up his muscles, and threw himself forward with all his strength to land a punch on Larendil’s face. When the Altmer fell off his chair with the impact, Sadri slumped over the table on which he had been writing to jump on the man, but found it impossible to raise his legs high enough to vault over it – pulling himself over the table, he fell on Larendil on his face, thankfully elbow first. He heard a loud crack.
Outside the door, Ganillon watched the debacle from the covered window on the door, smirking.
‘’Shall we intervene, sir?’’ One of the guards asked.
‘’Maybe in a few moments.’’
Sadri’s actions earned him a solitary confinement cell, with a mattress to sleep upon and an extra meal. He also got his execution expedited, from a month to two weeks’ time.
Larendil lost his position as the Master Warden of Seven-Roots Dungeon after the eponymous breakout that occurred a week later his failed psychoanalysis session. He wrote a heavily embellished paper on his experiences.
Ganillon was reinstated as Master Warden of Seven-Roots Dungeon after Larendil was expelled. He has since retired and returned to Alinor.
‘’Are you absolutely sure that you want to speak to the mer, sir? Moriche are no more than gritty, miserable ignoramuses. Especially this one, we've already interrogated him.’’
‘’You know very well that it is in the Dominion’s interests to learn all we can from our foes. We have an assassin on our hands, do we not? No doubt it was a premeditated attack, given how our foe came out of nowhere and started a barber shop. Of course, those damned Imperials did not expect us to see the connection with this Sadri fellow and the Penitus Oculatus. I am certain a trained assassin such as he would be well versed in resisting torture. This new method developed by Zigmundil Freudhar tells us even more than what they know about themselves!’’
Ganillon raised an eyebrow. What he had heard of the mer was nothing but rumors of his obsession with sexual organs and an alleged addiction to ground-up Moon Sugar snuff, or as its inventors the Bosmer called it, Co-Coinn.
Larendil saw the doubt in Ganillon’s eyes. He wasn’t the only one questioning the efficiency of this method. He knew all too well that was why he was no longer at Alinor, but instead in this damned outpost off Woodhearth. Thankfully his uncles had pulled some strings to give him a position prodigious enough to order these fools around.
‘’Bah, what would a simple warden like you know. Just bring him in,’’ he said to Ganillon with a dismissing gesture. The well-dressed, martial warden left and sighed in annoyance the moment he shut the door, no doubt frustrated about this fifty-year old brat being a superior to decorated veterans of the Great War.
‘’Take the damn Moriche here. Our esteemed superior wishes to see him.’’
When the prisoner was first brought in, Larendil wanted to protest, because from what he saw they had brought in a flesh Atronach, or somehow brought in a Bonewalker from Morrowind, so torn up was the arrival’s face and skin. It was only after the shackled individual walked a few steps closer to the light that he managed to make out the pointed ears and red eyes that marked a Dunmer. It seemed that his subordinates had tried to make the man talk through more conventional methods. How base and dreadfully foolish.
‘’Sit down,’’ Larendil commanded. The Dunmer practically threw himself onto the velvet-laden sofa, gasping in pain and a concentrated effort to feel the most he could of the fabric. Compared to the cobblestone floor on which he had been sleeping on for the last few days, this was almost heavenly.
‘’You are Sadri Beleth, correct? My subordinates have long mentioned their inability to get any leads out of you. Even our esteemed Inquisitors have conceded that their magic has failed to find any clues in your feeble brain.’’
Sadri looked at the man, mouth slightly ajar - the last interrogator had dislocated his jaw with a strong kick. With his cataract-laden eye, hunched back and hanging neck, he looked more like a puppet, or a recently reanimated corpse.
‘’Ah, playing hard to get, I see. Don’t worry, I am not here to hurt you. Please, tell me about your childhood.’’
Sadri’s good eye opened wide. ‘’What?’’ He slurred, trying to push back the spit gathering in his mouth with his tongue. It seemed to him that the Thalmor, frustrated with the ineffectiveness of their treatment (Mer such as Sadri often received lighter punishments, thanks to the privilege of their race), had decided to go with a much crueler and bone-chilling torture method – taking the piss with him. Truly there was no method more unpredictable.
‘’Your childhood,’’ the Altmer responded flatly.
Sadri blinked repeatedly. Not wishing to anger his latest interrogator and be forced to leave his latest seating (boy, the sofa was comfortable!), he took a deep, painful breath, and then began speaking after his interrogator inked his quill and gave him the go-ahead with a graceful gesture.
‘’Well, I was born in Bergama about fifty-sixty something years back. I really don’t remember much… I used to wander around with the local kids, play games, didn’t do much. Parents were well-off, they tried to get me educated instead of sending me off to be an apprentice.’’
‘’Interesting, interesting, never thought Dunmer parenting could be anything more than horrid. You weren’t specialized in your education, correct?’’
‘’I guess not?’’
‘’…Lackluster education, half-taught…’’ Larendil muttered to himself, weighing every word in his mouth before scrawling them to the paper in front of him. Sadri would have protested, but he assumed that he did not have the privilege. The Mer interrogating him right now felt like a kid pretending to play doctor with a toy – don’t budge, and he’ll break your limbs. Go with the flow, he’ll leave you, or so Sadri thought.
He thought wrong.
‘’Right. Now close your eyes. When you think ‘Bergama’, what comes to your mind?’’
Sadri was hesitant to close his eyes, expecting that the mer would electrocute him the moment he did so, but the childish naiveté in his voice convinced him, plus, he didn’t have any other choice, he complied.
‘’I, uh, the Old Well.’’
The Old Well was a ruin, overlooking the vast stretch of desert that lay beyond the southern edge of Bergama – some of the older children had come up with a rumor that the Old Well was once a tower, yet a volcano explosion had devoured the old city and left nothing but the tip of its tallest spire, that being the Old Well. Sadri remembered how his grandfather’s face had gone pale when he had asked whether the story was true or not. It had convinced him in his childhood that the story was correct.
‘’And what may this Old Well be?’’
‘’It was a well,’’ Sadri retorted, before hurriedly continuing into a more elaborate answer in fear of repercussions. ‘’Used to be a common spot for kids to play – at night, it was a teenage lovers’ meeting spot. Friend of mine Najad, he used to work as a carpenter’s apprentice back then – we used to make wooden ‘love idols’ for kids to buy, told them if they stashed it under their beds, the girl they loved would love them back. Spent that money on sweets, toys and wooden swords.’’
Larendil rolled his eyes at just how banal the excuse was. The Penitus Oculatus had instilled a quite believable story in this man’s mind – perhaps a sleeper agent? That was why this method was perfect. Picking apart semantics and themes, reactions… to know more about one than one oneself could know, no tool was more powerful.
‘’Hmm, hmm…’’ Larendil mused as he kept writing. ‘’And what comes to mind when you think of this Old Well?’’
Sadri took a breath, unable to sigh, in fear of the possible wrath of his interrogator.
‘’I had a crush of my own, Nevyna. We used to meet there. His father did not like my father, though, we never got together.’’
He felt sullen all of a sudden, not wishing to disclose any more details about his previous love. When he had returned to Bergama with the onset of the Great War, Nevyna’s husband had gone off to war. When news of his death reached the town in 173, Sadri and Nevyna’s relationship had made an attempt to rekindle itself, in what had begun as sincere consolation for a past friend. Unfortunately for Nevyna, her child had never taken a liking to Sadri. It had never taken off.
Here, now, Sadri was in the middle of Buttfuck Nowhere, Valenwood, waiting for his execution, and it was almost as if this new interrogator was his instrument of death, and this new instrument had chosen to take the metaphor of making his life ‘flash before his eyes’ literally. First his childhood, now his teenage years…
‘’And what of Nevyna?’’
‘’What about her?’’ Sadri asked, slightly defensive in tone.
‘’Tell me about her.’’
‘’She was a nice girl.’’
Larendil raised his eyebrows and lowered his head, looking derisively at Sadri.
‘’…Yeah, she was a nice girl. Pale skin for a Dunmer, thoughtful eyes, hooked nose. Dumber than she looked, but she had good intentions.’’
‘’…Mhm, yes, yes. It’s all good now, making itself more and more blatant.’’
‘’What?’’ Sadri asked, confused.
‘’Why, isn’t it obvious? The Well, teenage loves, thoughtful eyes… It all points to your love for your mother. Your focus on women, water and wells, these are all symptoms for desire for the vagina, why, it’s obvious. You want to be your father; you’re envious of him for having your mother. Not to worry, though, it’s all normal. I’ll have a more comprehensive analysis after a full month.’’
‘’A month?’’
‘’Yes, yes, we’ll have to postpone your execution for a month, but it’s all good. Your life may be forfeit, but you’ll leave an excellent psych evaluation behind. No better legacy... I can see it now, Larendil’s Assassin! You’ll be famous, my friend.’’
Sadri spent a moment in pain to spring up his muscles, and threw himself forward with all his strength to land a punch on Larendil’s face. When the Altmer fell off his chair with the impact, Sadri slumped over the table on which he had been writing to jump on the man, but found it impossible to raise his legs high enough to vault over it – pulling himself over the table, he fell on Larendil on his face, thankfully elbow first. He heard a loud crack.
Outside the door, Ganillon watched the debacle from the covered window on the door, smirking.
‘’Shall we intervene, sir?’’ One of the guards asked.
‘’Maybe in a few moments.’’
Sadri’s actions earned him a solitary confinement cell, with a mattress to sleep upon and an extra meal. He also got his execution expedited, from a month to two weeks’ time.
Larendil lost his position as the Master Warden of Seven-Roots Dungeon after the eponymous breakout that occurred a week later his failed psychoanalysis session. He wrote a heavily embellished paper on his experiences.
Ganillon was reinstated as Master Warden of Seven-Roots Dungeon after Larendil was expelled. He has since retired and returned to Alinor.
Historical Figures - Canon (#6):
By @Frizan
As a child, my father would tell me stories about the Empire's past, local heroes, its Emperors and their achievements. I remember my favorite story being the exploits of the Hero of Kvatch and Martin Septim, illegitimate heir to the Septim dynasty sired by Uriel Septim VII himself.
Just what was going through his head when they broke the news to him? When they told him his whole life prior was an utter lie and that he, and he alone, was the last surviving heir of Emperor Uriel Septim VII(may he ever sit by the side of Tiber Septim)? Surely he was confused, maybe with a hint of pride...or perhaps resentment? My father admitted that he could not tell me, as the man didn't leave behind many writings, and he confided in few, if any, that he interacted with.
The reign of Emperor Martin Septim(may he ever sit by the side of Tiber Septim) was sudden and unfortunately short, yet he accomplished so much in just a few weeks time. He led the counter-assault on the Bruma Oblivion Gate alongside the Hero of Kvatch and saved the city from destruction, just before sacrificing himself to forever seal the Oblivion Gates and cast Mehrunes Dagon back into his realm of obsidian and fire. But before then? Nobody really seems to know, as the short-lived Emperor was ultimately an unknown entity before the Oblivion Crisis. Rumors abound that Emperor Martin was a cultist of the Daedric prince Sanguine in his youth, but evidence is lacking, and such gossip was most likely concocted by those opposed to His Imperial Majesty.
I was always found stories of Emperor Martin and the Hero of Kvatch interesting and almost uplifting, and now I believe I know why. Their stories exemplify that ordinary people can eventually become larger than life, that a man need not always remain at the station designated to him for the rest of his days. Emperor Martin lived his early years as a simple priest, while the Hero of Kvatch was nobody at all. But then they became so much more, they became legends, the subject of heroic tales told around fires all over the world.
In the times we live in now, we could use more heroes. Above all, we could use more people with the wisdom and courage of men like Emperor Martin Septim and the nameless hero that saved Tamriel.
As a child, my father would tell me stories about the Empire's past, local heroes, its Emperors and their achievements. I remember my favorite story being the exploits of the Hero of Kvatch and Martin Septim, illegitimate heir to the Septim dynasty sired by Uriel Septim VII himself.
Just what was going through his head when they broke the news to him? When they told him his whole life prior was an utter lie and that he, and he alone, was the last surviving heir of Emperor Uriel Septim VII(may he ever sit by the side of Tiber Septim)? Surely he was confused, maybe with a hint of pride...or perhaps resentment? My father admitted that he could not tell me, as the man didn't leave behind many writings, and he confided in few, if any, that he interacted with.
The reign of Emperor Martin Septim(may he ever sit by the side of Tiber Septim) was sudden and unfortunately short, yet he accomplished so much in just a few weeks time. He led the counter-assault on the Bruma Oblivion Gate alongside the Hero of Kvatch and saved the city from destruction, just before sacrificing himself to forever seal the Oblivion Gates and cast Mehrunes Dagon back into his realm of obsidian and fire. But before then? Nobody really seems to know, as the short-lived Emperor was ultimately an unknown entity before the Oblivion Crisis. Rumors abound that Emperor Martin was a cultist of the Daedric prince Sanguine in his youth, but evidence is lacking, and such gossip was most likely concocted by those opposed to His Imperial Majesty.
I was always found stories of Emperor Martin and the Hero of Kvatch interesting and almost uplifting, and now I believe I know why. Their stories exemplify that ordinary people can eventually become larger than life, that a man need not always remain at the station designated to him for the rest of his days. Emperor Martin lived his early years as a simple priest, while the Hero of Kvatch was nobody at all. But then they became so much more, they became legends, the subject of heroic tales told around fires all over the world.
In the times we live in now, we could use more heroes. Above all, we could use more people with the wisdom and courage of men like Emperor Martin Septim and the nameless hero that saved Tamriel.
By @Hank
22nd of Frostfall, 4E194
Silgrad, Morrowind
Llerwyn Othado’s manor
“Serjo Othado?”
“Yes, Niernen?”
“What do you know of Telvanni magic?”
Llerwyn looked up from his scrolls and put down his quill. He stared at Niernen in the flickering candlelight for a few seconds over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, his face unreadable, before he replied. “I thought you came here to learn war magic.”
He was old and wrinkled and his ancient hands, while still dutifully carrying out his wishes, contorted into a claw-like shape, weary with arthrosis. The girl standing in the doorway of his study was young -- so young, he thought, her cheeks smooth and her hair luscious, and her copper eyes studied him intently.
“Of course,” Niernen said, unsure whether this was a reprimand or not, “but… well, I’m just curious, that’s all.” She waited for a response but Llerwyn remained silent. “Is it true that they used to live in giant mushrooms they grew with magic?”
Llerwyn huffed. “Used to? They still do. House Telvanni wasn’t entirely destroyed by the Argonians, you know. There’s a fellow up in Solstheim who lives in such a tower, near Raven Rock. I visited him once when I was summoned there by Councilor Morvayn to see if there was anything I could do about the ebony mine. It dried up, you see. Very bad for business. I wanted to ask the wizard if he, perhaps, knew of any magic that might help, but he barely had time to see me. Tried to pass me off to an assistant of his. Useless boy, of course.”
Niernen crossed her arms and sighed as quietly as possible.
“Either way… yes, they grow their towers with magic. I just think they’re showing off. It’s far from practical to have an entirely vertical house. Can’t get up or down without levitation magic, which was of course banned. Why? Do you want to grow a house made out of fungus?” Llerwyn asked and frowned.
“No, no,” Niernen said and gestured dismissively with her hand. “What other magic did they possess? They must have been very powerful in combat if they studied magic their whole lives.”
“Ha!” Llerwyn barked and laughed. “You would think so, but no. The Telvanni tried to close the Oblivion gates during the Crisis, two centuries ago, and failed. You know who succeeded? The Argonians. Chased the Dremora right back where they came from. And then the those lizards ran right over the Telvanni when they invaded Morrowind. It took House Redoran to stop them, as you well know. No, the Telvanni were always far too busy studying the more… hmm, how to put it?” Llerwyn tapped his chin with a bony finger while he mused over his words. “They weren’t content to study the areas of magic defined within the traditional schools of sorcery.”
Pleased that she had managed to coerce her teacher to talk, Niernen sat down on an empty chair next to Llerwyn’s desk. “Like what?” she asked.
“Have you ever heard of Divayth Fyr?”
“No.”
Llerwyn sighed and shook his head, as if disappointed. “Lord Fyr was one of House Telvanni’s most powerful sorcerers. While he wielded great influence he never aspired to political power and refused to join their Council. He wrote several books and there were books written about him too. Like the other wizard-lords he lived in a mushroom tower of his own creation. Below Tel Fyr lay the Corprusiarium, a prison of sorts, where he kept victims of Corprus, the “divine disease” spread by Dagoth Ur. You have heard of Dagoth Ur, I should hope?”
“Of course,” Niernen replied and rolled her eyes.
“Hmph. Either way, Divayth Fyr would experiment on the victims of Corprus in the hopes of creating a cure. He succeeded in at least one case; the Nerevarine himself, who attained immortality in the process.”
Niernen’s eyes widened at this. “Immortality? How?”
“The name “divine disease” wasn’t an empty boast. Fyr theorized that it was actually the physical effect of contact with the divine upon a mortal body, which had both beneficial and extremely detrimental effects. The exact machinations of Corprus remain poorly understood to this day, but Fyr’s concoction successfully nullified the negative effects in Nerevar-Come-Again. Ironically, you could say that he was blessed by Dagoth Ur in the end.”
“Are there other immortals now because of Corprus, too?”
Llerwyn raised his hands and shrugged. “Perhaps, but I don’t think so. It was part of the prophecy that preceded the Nerevarine’s appearance that he would be immune to all diseases, and much like vampirism or lycanthropy, Corprus provided such an immunity.” He cleared his throat and continued, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Prophecies have power, Niernen, especially those uttered by a Daedric Prince. I’m inclined to believe that prophecy was true and the Nerevarine was a special case. As far as I know, everyone who Fyr gave his experimental cure to died instantly.”
Niernen whistled. “How do you know all this?” she asked and tilted her head.
“Because I was alive at the time, of course,” Llerwyn replied and laughed. “That was near the end of the Third Era, so a little over 200 years ago. Dunmer wizards can live for a long time. A little Restoration magic goes a long way. But none lived as long as Divayth Fyr, who was born Chimer and walked this earth for more than 4000 years.”
Dumbfounded, Niernen fell silent.
“And of course your next question is ‘how?’, again,” Llerwyn said, still smiling. “And that’s precisely the core of House Telvanni’s problem: I don’t know. Nobody knows. They did not share knowledge with each other. It was even customary for ambitious Telvanni to assassinate one another to make way for themselves. House Redoran is no stranger to an honorable duel to the death every now and then, like how your ancestor Bolvyn fought and died to the Nerevarine, but not anything like the Telvanni. They were truly ruthless and very, very isolationist. When I receive a letter from a young daughter of an esteemed member of my House to request a position as my apprentice, I acquiesce. A Telvanni lord would have fortified his defenses and hired an assassin. Ours is a much better way to go about things, I believe.”
Niernen thought about this for a few seconds while she looked at her lap. “Is he dead now?” she asked, eyes flitting back up to Llerwyn’s face. “You talk about him in past tense.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the old Dunmer replied. “If anyone could have survived the Red Year, it would be him. I simply haven’t heard anything about him since then. One begins to make assumptions after two hundred years have passed. For all I know he retreated underground, or into Oblivion. Perhaps he lives on the other side of Morrowind in what remains of House Telvanni’s holdings. Or the Argonians got him. Who’s to say?”
Llerwyn looked down at his papers and blinked a few times, his lips mouthing along to his thoughts. “Oh yes!” he muttered quietly and moved to pick up his quill.
“Honestly,” Niernen said and sat up straight in her chair, interrupting Llerwyn’s attempt at resuming his work, “it sounds like Divayth Fyr performed very important research and his magic was useful. He cured the Nerevarine and he lived to be thousands of years old. Imagine what he could tell us about the days of the Chimer?”
“Does that matter?” Llerwyn snarled, suddenly annoyed. “A lot of his efforts were useless and deplorable, too. He made… daughters, female clones of himself, though I’d be more inclined to call them abominations, and he used them as consorts too. Can you imagine?” He looked disgusted. “Either way, his life was his own, that doesn’t matter either -- the point is that he and the other Telvanni couldn’t protect Morrowind. This isn’t the Third Era anymore, Niernen. The Tribunal are gone, the Nerevarine is gone and even the Empire is close to disintegrating again. Whether or not the Telvanni research was important is irrelevant to us because it is not our station to carry it out. We are the defenders of Resdayn. Do you know what you can rely on to carry out that sacred duty? Do you?”
Niernen attempted to respond, but Llerwyn wagged a crooked finger at her and she closed her mouth again.
“Fire and thunder!” the wizard spat, and for a brief moment his eyes lit up with the fury of a much younger elf. The moment went as soon as it came and Llerwyn sank bank in his chair -- he looked so old and frail to Niernen then it was almost as if he was about to disappear into his ornate robes. She stared at him expectantly, eyes wide, picturing how fierce her mentor might have been in his day.
“Bah,” Llerwyn grumbled. “You need not worry. That Telvanni wizard on Solstheim I told you about, Neloth, seems to be carrying on Divayth Fyr’s work. In spirit, anyway. I think he was studying the ash of Red Mountain when I visited him. That’s exactly the kind of nonsense Divayth Fyr would have occupied himself with for a few centuries.”
Then he returned his gaze to his scrolls again, this time with an air of finality about him, shuffling his papers while whispering urgently to himself. Niernen took the hint, excused herself and made her way out of the room. She stopped at the door and turned to look over her shoulder at the elder Othado, but he did not spare her another glance. She exhaled sharply through her nose and looked away. The younger Othado should be around somewhere too. Niernen wondered if he was as fierce as Llerwyn might have been. Smiling to herself, she left the old wizard to his devices.
22nd of Frostfall, 4E194
Silgrad, Morrowind
Llerwyn Othado’s manor
“Serjo Othado?”
“Yes, Niernen?”
“What do you know of Telvanni magic?”
Llerwyn looked up from his scrolls and put down his quill. He stared at Niernen in the flickering candlelight for a few seconds over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, his face unreadable, before he replied. “I thought you came here to learn war magic.”
He was old and wrinkled and his ancient hands, while still dutifully carrying out his wishes, contorted into a claw-like shape, weary with arthrosis. The girl standing in the doorway of his study was young -- so young, he thought, her cheeks smooth and her hair luscious, and her copper eyes studied him intently.
“Of course,” Niernen said, unsure whether this was a reprimand or not, “but… well, I’m just curious, that’s all.” She waited for a response but Llerwyn remained silent. “Is it true that they used to live in giant mushrooms they grew with magic?”
Llerwyn huffed. “Used to? They still do. House Telvanni wasn’t entirely destroyed by the Argonians, you know. There’s a fellow up in Solstheim who lives in such a tower, near Raven Rock. I visited him once when I was summoned there by Councilor Morvayn to see if there was anything I could do about the ebony mine. It dried up, you see. Very bad for business. I wanted to ask the wizard if he, perhaps, knew of any magic that might help, but he barely had time to see me. Tried to pass me off to an assistant of his. Useless boy, of course.”
Niernen crossed her arms and sighed as quietly as possible.
“Either way… yes, they grow their towers with magic. I just think they’re showing off. It’s far from practical to have an entirely vertical house. Can’t get up or down without levitation magic, which was of course banned. Why? Do you want to grow a house made out of fungus?” Llerwyn asked and frowned.
“No, no,” Niernen said and gestured dismissively with her hand. “What other magic did they possess? They must have been very powerful in combat if they studied magic their whole lives.”
“Ha!” Llerwyn barked and laughed. “You would think so, but no. The Telvanni tried to close the Oblivion gates during the Crisis, two centuries ago, and failed. You know who succeeded? The Argonians. Chased the Dremora right back where they came from. And then the those lizards ran right over the Telvanni when they invaded Morrowind. It took House Redoran to stop them, as you well know. No, the Telvanni were always far too busy studying the more… hmm, how to put it?” Llerwyn tapped his chin with a bony finger while he mused over his words. “They weren’t content to study the areas of magic defined within the traditional schools of sorcery.”
Pleased that she had managed to coerce her teacher to talk, Niernen sat down on an empty chair next to Llerwyn’s desk. “Like what?” she asked.
“Have you ever heard of Divayth Fyr?”
“No.”
Llerwyn sighed and shook his head, as if disappointed. “Lord Fyr was one of House Telvanni’s most powerful sorcerers. While he wielded great influence he never aspired to political power and refused to join their Council. He wrote several books and there were books written about him too. Like the other wizard-lords he lived in a mushroom tower of his own creation. Below Tel Fyr lay the Corprusiarium, a prison of sorts, where he kept victims of Corprus, the “divine disease” spread by Dagoth Ur. You have heard of Dagoth Ur, I should hope?”
“Of course,” Niernen replied and rolled her eyes.
“Hmph. Either way, Divayth Fyr would experiment on the victims of Corprus in the hopes of creating a cure. He succeeded in at least one case; the Nerevarine himself, who attained immortality in the process.”
Niernen’s eyes widened at this. “Immortality? How?”
“The name “divine disease” wasn’t an empty boast. Fyr theorized that it was actually the physical effect of contact with the divine upon a mortal body, which had both beneficial and extremely detrimental effects. The exact machinations of Corprus remain poorly understood to this day, but Fyr’s concoction successfully nullified the negative effects in Nerevar-Come-Again. Ironically, you could say that he was blessed by Dagoth Ur in the end.”
“Are there other immortals now because of Corprus, too?”
Llerwyn raised his hands and shrugged. “Perhaps, but I don’t think so. It was part of the prophecy that preceded the Nerevarine’s appearance that he would be immune to all diseases, and much like vampirism or lycanthropy, Corprus provided such an immunity.” He cleared his throat and continued, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Prophecies have power, Niernen, especially those uttered by a Daedric Prince. I’m inclined to believe that prophecy was true and the Nerevarine was a special case. As far as I know, everyone who Fyr gave his experimental cure to died instantly.”
Niernen whistled. “How do you know all this?” she asked and tilted her head.
“Because I was alive at the time, of course,” Llerwyn replied and laughed. “That was near the end of the Third Era, so a little over 200 years ago. Dunmer wizards can live for a long time. A little Restoration magic goes a long way. But none lived as long as Divayth Fyr, who was born Chimer and walked this earth for more than 4000 years.”
Dumbfounded, Niernen fell silent.
“And of course your next question is ‘how?’, again,” Llerwyn said, still smiling. “And that’s precisely the core of House Telvanni’s problem: I don’t know. Nobody knows. They did not share knowledge with each other. It was even customary for ambitious Telvanni to assassinate one another to make way for themselves. House Redoran is no stranger to an honorable duel to the death every now and then, like how your ancestor Bolvyn fought and died to the Nerevarine, but not anything like the Telvanni. They were truly ruthless and very, very isolationist. When I receive a letter from a young daughter of an esteemed member of my House to request a position as my apprentice, I acquiesce. A Telvanni lord would have fortified his defenses and hired an assassin. Ours is a much better way to go about things, I believe.”
Niernen thought about this for a few seconds while she looked at her lap. “Is he dead now?” she asked, eyes flitting back up to Llerwyn’s face. “You talk about him in past tense.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the old Dunmer replied. “If anyone could have survived the Red Year, it would be him. I simply haven’t heard anything about him since then. One begins to make assumptions after two hundred years have passed. For all I know he retreated underground, or into Oblivion. Perhaps he lives on the other side of Morrowind in what remains of House Telvanni’s holdings. Or the Argonians got him. Who’s to say?”
Llerwyn looked down at his papers and blinked a few times, his lips mouthing along to his thoughts. “Oh yes!” he muttered quietly and moved to pick up his quill.
“Honestly,” Niernen said and sat up straight in her chair, interrupting Llerwyn’s attempt at resuming his work, “it sounds like Divayth Fyr performed very important research and his magic was useful. He cured the Nerevarine and he lived to be thousands of years old. Imagine what he could tell us about the days of the Chimer?”
“Does that matter?” Llerwyn snarled, suddenly annoyed. “A lot of his efforts were useless and deplorable, too. He made… daughters, female clones of himself, though I’d be more inclined to call them abominations, and he used them as consorts too. Can you imagine?” He looked disgusted. “Either way, his life was his own, that doesn’t matter either -- the point is that he and the other Telvanni couldn’t protect Morrowind. This isn’t the Third Era anymore, Niernen. The Tribunal are gone, the Nerevarine is gone and even the Empire is close to disintegrating again. Whether or not the Telvanni research was important is irrelevant to us because it is not our station to carry it out. We are the defenders of Resdayn. Do you know what you can rely on to carry out that sacred duty? Do you?”
Niernen attempted to respond, but Llerwyn wagged a crooked finger at her and she closed her mouth again.
“Fire and thunder!” the wizard spat, and for a brief moment his eyes lit up with the fury of a much younger elf. The moment went as soon as it came and Llerwyn sank bank in his chair -- he looked so old and frail to Niernen then it was almost as if he was about to disappear into his ornate robes. She stared at him expectantly, eyes wide, picturing how fierce her mentor might have been in his day.
“Bah,” Llerwyn grumbled. “You need not worry. That Telvanni wizard on Solstheim I told you about, Neloth, seems to be carrying on Divayth Fyr’s work. In spirit, anyway. I think he was studying the ash of Red Mountain when I visited him. That’s exactly the kind of nonsense Divayth Fyr would have occupied himself with for a few centuries.”
Then he returned his gaze to his scrolls again, this time with an air of finality about him, shuffling his papers while whispering urgently to himself. Niernen took the hint, excused herself and made her way out of the room. She stopped at the door and turned to look over her shoulder at the elder Othado, but he did not spare her another glance. She exhaled sharply through her nose and looked away. The younger Othado should be around somewhere too. Niernen wondered if he was as fierce as Llerwyn might have been. Smiling to herself, she left the old wizard to his devices.
By @Dervish
Do’Karth’s explains his thoughts on Jagar Tharn at a fire on the outskirts of Rihad to a group of Redguard, the night after a Sandsteed race
Many people have asked Do’Karth in his travels the same question as you; what do the Khajiit see in the Thalmor? Why would we as a culture band with those who see us as an inferior people, who have nakedly bare ambitions to ensnare Tamriel under their rule? Perhaps it is prudent to understand our history, and why we Khajiit were quick to embrace an old ally who had aided us in times of great need and in turn abandon the Empire, which had conquered us, taken our lands, and ignored us when we faced great peril.
Tiber Septim was a conqueror; his rule, and the rule of his descendants, shared no love of Do’Karth’s people. The Renrijra Krin are a group of outlaws who laugh in the face of authority and they alone rose up to the injustices the Khajiit had faced; did you know after the Five-Year War with Valenwood, and the expansion of Elsweyr’s lands into the Northeast of Valenwood, and from eras past both sides of the Niben River and all of Blackwood had been Khajiiti lands? Imagine having your ancestral lands taken from you by an Empire that had conquered your people with a god of Brass and when your people try to take agency for your future, the same Empire forces you to give up these lands you had reclaimed because a single city in Cyrodiil wanted them? That is the legacy of the Empire, and now imagine that for 10 years, a Daedra worshipping madman had disguised himself as the Emperor and let the Empire fall into chaos? That was the reality, and he did not have Elsweyr’s interests at heart.
The false Emperor sat by and watched as the Bosmer slaughtered thousands in Torval, and he did not mobilize the Legions to respond to the atrocity. The Khajiiti people rose up and paid back the slaughter with war against Valenwood. For nearly five years, our people clashed, weakening themselves as we sought vengeance. And so, in the end, both sides of the Xylo river belonged to Elsweyr… until the war ended and the false Emperor decreed that the lands that we had bleed over were to be returned to the arbitrary borders the Empire had established when they first enslaved us. We recognize that his malice had corrupted all of the provinces, and it seemed that the fragile union that held the Empire together was fraying as old hatreds led to freshly spilled blood.
It is easy to see why under these conditions, and with such a cruel deception, we Khajiit were all too eager to accept the Aldmeri Dominion as our allies and friends. We have had a history of aligning with the elves, and despite our war with the Bosmer, the Dominion was a way to mend those wounds, and if you go back far enough to the First Aldmeri Dominion, you’ll find the wretched Tharn name trying to destroy Do’Karth’s people; Javad Tharn corrupted the Mane with Dro-M’Athra spirits and tried to plunge Elsweyr into chaos by destroying the very soul of Khajiit. With such an enemy, and it being revealed that the false Emperor shared his name many years later, why would Khajiit ever trust the Imperials when the Altmer aided us when Elsweyr suffered from the Knathaten Flu, or ended the Void Nights, and the Aldmeri Dominion helped end Javar Tharn’s twisted machinations. We are in their debt.
Many forget that the Empire slaughtered many in Senchal and many desert nomads to assemble that damned Brass God that would enslave all of Tamriel under Septim rule. We Khajiit never will. All it gave was peace based on a lie. At least the Thalmor did not force us to change our way of lives or give up our lands and freedoms in exchange for our help. That is why the Khajiit prefer the rule of your most hated adversary, and why Do’Karth admires Hammerfell for ridding themselves of the shackles of foreign domination.
Do’Karth’s explains his thoughts on Jagar Tharn at a fire on the outskirts of Rihad to a group of Redguard, the night after a Sandsteed race
Many people have asked Do’Karth in his travels the same question as you; what do the Khajiit see in the Thalmor? Why would we as a culture band with those who see us as an inferior people, who have nakedly bare ambitions to ensnare Tamriel under their rule? Perhaps it is prudent to understand our history, and why we Khajiit were quick to embrace an old ally who had aided us in times of great need and in turn abandon the Empire, which had conquered us, taken our lands, and ignored us when we faced great peril.
Tiber Septim was a conqueror; his rule, and the rule of his descendants, shared no love of Do’Karth’s people. The Renrijra Krin are a group of outlaws who laugh in the face of authority and they alone rose up to the injustices the Khajiit had faced; did you know after the Five-Year War with Valenwood, and the expansion of Elsweyr’s lands into the Northeast of Valenwood, and from eras past both sides of the Niben River and all of Blackwood had been Khajiiti lands? Imagine having your ancestral lands taken from you by an Empire that had conquered your people with a god of Brass and when your people try to take agency for your future, the same Empire forces you to give up these lands you had reclaimed because a single city in Cyrodiil wanted them? That is the legacy of the Empire, and now imagine that for 10 years, a Daedra worshipping madman had disguised himself as the Emperor and let the Empire fall into chaos? That was the reality, and he did not have Elsweyr’s interests at heart.
The false Emperor sat by and watched as the Bosmer slaughtered thousands in Torval, and he did not mobilize the Legions to respond to the atrocity. The Khajiiti people rose up and paid back the slaughter with war against Valenwood. For nearly five years, our people clashed, weakening themselves as we sought vengeance. And so, in the end, both sides of the Xylo river belonged to Elsweyr… until the war ended and the false Emperor decreed that the lands that we had bleed over were to be returned to the arbitrary borders the Empire had established when they first enslaved us. We recognize that his malice had corrupted all of the provinces, and it seemed that the fragile union that held the Empire together was fraying as old hatreds led to freshly spilled blood.
It is easy to see why under these conditions, and with such a cruel deception, we Khajiit were all too eager to accept the Aldmeri Dominion as our allies and friends. We have had a history of aligning with the elves, and despite our war with the Bosmer, the Dominion was a way to mend those wounds, and if you go back far enough to the First Aldmeri Dominion, you’ll find the wretched Tharn name trying to destroy Do’Karth’s people; Javad Tharn corrupted the Mane with Dro-M’Athra spirits and tried to plunge Elsweyr into chaos by destroying the very soul of Khajiit. With such an enemy, and it being revealed that the false Emperor shared his name many years later, why would Khajiit ever trust the Imperials when the Altmer aided us when Elsweyr suffered from the Knathaten Flu, or ended the Void Nights, and the Aldmeri Dominion helped end Javar Tharn’s twisted machinations. We are in their debt.
Many forget that the Empire slaughtered many in Senchal and many desert nomads to assemble that damned Brass God that would enslave all of Tamriel under Septim rule. We Khajiit never will. All it gave was peace based on a lie. At least the Thalmor did not force us to change our way of lives or give up our lands and freedoms in exchange for our help. That is why the Khajiit prefer the rule of your most hated adversary, and why Do’Karth admires Hammerfell for ridding themselves of the shackles of foreign domination.
By @Mortarion
The period of the Second Era known as the Interregnum, which marked the end of the Second Empire with its beginning and heralded the coming of the Third Empire with its end, was one marked by near-constant conflicts across the entirety of Tamriel. Little is known of the finer details of the period save crucial events like Tiber Septim’s conquest of the warring nations and the name of a few of the major alliances that surfaced during the Interregnum itself, such as the Daggerfall Covenant, the First Aldmeri Dominion, and the Ebonheart Pact.
Perhaps it’s due to the fact that I’m a Saxhleel myself, or perhaps it could be because I’ve lived most of my life in Skyrim, but the Ebonheart Pact has always seemed to me the most fascinating of these three groups. Imagine it, an alliance between Nords, Dunmer, and Argonians! Such an alliance seems impossible, and yet it happened during the chaotic times of the Interregnum when the three races united to repel an invasion from Akaviri.
Of the many figures prominent in the Pact, the one that has always drawn my attention the most has been Jorunn the Skald-King. One would think that in an alliance such as the Pact, where the nations that composed it had a long story of animosity towards each other for various motives, the existence of a single leader would be implausible, as none of the three nations would have enough faith in one another to support a leader that didn’t came from their own people.
This is why Jorunn’s figure fascinates me, for here we have a Nord who, seemingly, had the trust of the leaders of both Morrowind and Black Marsh. I often wonder what it is that allowed the Skald-King to win the trust of both the Dunmer and the Argonians and to secure his position as High King of the Great Moot that governed the Ebonheart Pact. Was he a shrewd manipulator, presenting himself as a champion of Nords, Dunmers, and Argonians while only caring about the first of the three? Or did he genuinely believe that each race that formed the Pact were equally important? Did he dream of a future in which the Nords were the supreme leaders of the Pact, where the Dunmers and Saxhleel toiled for the benefit of the people of Skyrim? Or did he dreamt of a future in which the three races stood side by side as equals?
I don’t know the answer to these questions but I can’t help to think about them, especially in light of what happened at Dawnstar but a few days ago. What would Jorunn the Skald-King think about his people butchering the Argonian refugees for a crime they hadn’t committed? I...I like to think that he’d be appalled at the fate of my people, furious that his own kind would stoop to such a low level as to massacre refugees. What would he think of the fact that Morrowind has allied with the Akaviri invaders that they once helped banish from Tamriel? What would he say if he heard that we Saxhleel are retreating to Black Marsh to defend ourselves due to the Hist’s call, forsaking those who long ago were once our allies?
Questions like this buzz incessantly within my mind, trying to find an answer which could explain to me what happened to lead us up to this point. Our people were allies once, even if it was an alliance of convenience we could still work together and as one, what happened to us that these bonds shared between our three nations, tenuous as they might have been, have been so irrevocably broken? Could a figure like Jorunn unite Argonians, Dunmers, and Nords again? I’d like to say that this doubts, these incessant questions, of mine come as merely the result of trying to find a way in which Skyrim, Morrowind, and Black Marsh could once again be at peace. Yet I fear that these thoughts come as a by-product of a much more selfish thought….for I can’t help but wonder if I could have truly called Skyrim my homeland if things hadn’t come to this? Would the leadership of Jorunn the Skald-King, would his work, have allowed me to call myself a true son of Skyrim?
I suppose these questions don’t matter in the end, Jorunn has been dead for hundreds of years and whatever links existed between the members of the Ebonheart Pact seem to have been irrevocably broken. Whatever dreams and thoughts I had of Skyrim being my homeland where dashed on Dawnstar that terrible night, thinking about the Skald-King and what could have been won’t help me quell the doubts in my mind.
The period of the Second Era known as the Interregnum, which marked the end of the Second Empire with its beginning and heralded the coming of the Third Empire with its end, was one marked by near-constant conflicts across the entirety of Tamriel. Little is known of the finer details of the period save crucial events like Tiber Septim’s conquest of the warring nations and the name of a few of the major alliances that surfaced during the Interregnum itself, such as the Daggerfall Covenant, the First Aldmeri Dominion, and the Ebonheart Pact.
Perhaps it’s due to the fact that I’m a Saxhleel myself, or perhaps it could be because I’ve lived most of my life in Skyrim, but the Ebonheart Pact has always seemed to me the most fascinating of these three groups. Imagine it, an alliance between Nords, Dunmer, and Argonians! Such an alliance seems impossible, and yet it happened during the chaotic times of the Interregnum when the three races united to repel an invasion from Akaviri.
Of the many figures prominent in the Pact, the one that has always drawn my attention the most has been Jorunn the Skald-King. One would think that in an alliance such as the Pact, where the nations that composed it had a long story of animosity towards each other for various motives, the existence of a single leader would be implausible, as none of the three nations would have enough faith in one another to support a leader that didn’t came from their own people.
This is why Jorunn’s figure fascinates me, for here we have a Nord who, seemingly, had the trust of the leaders of both Morrowind and Black Marsh. I often wonder what it is that allowed the Skald-King to win the trust of both the Dunmer and the Argonians and to secure his position as High King of the Great Moot that governed the Ebonheart Pact. Was he a shrewd manipulator, presenting himself as a champion of Nords, Dunmers, and Argonians while only caring about the first of the three? Or did he genuinely believe that each race that formed the Pact were equally important? Did he dream of a future in which the Nords were the supreme leaders of the Pact, where the Dunmers and Saxhleel toiled for the benefit of the people of Skyrim? Or did he dreamt of a future in which the three races stood side by side as equals?
I don’t know the answer to these questions but I can’t help to think about them, especially in light of what happened at Dawnstar but a few days ago. What would Jorunn the Skald-King think about his people butchering the Argonian refugees for a crime they hadn’t committed? I...I like to think that he’d be appalled at the fate of my people, furious that his own kind would stoop to such a low level as to massacre refugees. What would he think of the fact that Morrowind has allied with the Akaviri invaders that they once helped banish from Tamriel? What would he say if he heard that we Saxhleel are retreating to Black Marsh to defend ourselves due to the Hist’s call, forsaking those who long ago were once our allies?
Questions like this buzz incessantly within my mind, trying to find an answer which could explain to me what happened to lead us up to this point. Our people were allies once, even if it was an alliance of convenience we could still work together and as one, what happened to us that these bonds shared between our three nations, tenuous as they might have been, have been so irrevocably broken? Could a figure like Jorunn unite Argonians, Dunmers, and Nords again? I’d like to say that this doubts, these incessant questions, of mine come as merely the result of trying to find a way in which Skyrim, Morrowind, and Black Marsh could once again be at peace. Yet I fear that these thoughts come as a by-product of a much more selfish thought….for I can’t help but wonder if I could have truly called Skyrim my homeland if things hadn’t come to this? Would the leadership of Jorunn the Skald-King, would his work, have allowed me to call myself a true son of Skyrim?
I suppose these questions don’t matter in the end, Jorunn has been dead for hundreds of years and whatever links existed between the members of the Ebonheart Pact seem to have been irrevocably broken. Whatever dreams and thoughts I had of Skyrim being my homeland where dashed on Dawnstar that terrible night, thinking about the Skald-King and what could have been won’t help me quell the doubts in my mind.
By @Peik
...Amongst these travels, I should say that I met Dunmer fighting against the Nerevarine's forces too; while most of them were unscrupulous mercenaries in it for the coin, there were those with personal stakes as well. One particular example that I had the luxury of interviewing had in fact started off as a mercenary, although by the time of our conversation, he had become a full-on partisan. This maimed mer, named Sadri Beleth (I do not shy away from using his name, for the war has ended long since, and to my limited knowledge, so has his life) struck me as a cutthroat to stay away from at first glance. Later on I would find him a fine fellow to engage in conversation with, although, as usual with most Dunmer, he was prone to giving strangers a cold shoulder unless amused with a gift, which was, in his case, wine.
It was in one of those days during which I accompanied this rather diverse mercenary company that I learned that Mister Beleth had in fact served in the Nerevarine's army during the Reclamation War; there were other veterans in the Company, although sadly, I did not get to know them all too well, and thus, unsure as to whether they would like to see our conversations exposed for all to see here, I shall include solely the conversation that I had with this world-weary fellow, who more than welcomed the possibility of his words being published, for posterity. For the reader's discretion, I should mention that while I refrained from rewording Mister Beleth's sentences, the fellow, being not only a Dunmer but also a past sailor and a drunkard, had a tendency to curse as frequently as an Orc thinks of murder and a Khajiit thinks of theft. Therefore, for ladies and the more proper gentlemen amongst our readers, I took the liberty of merely omitting the variety of curses he had in his repertoir, and replacing them with '*EXPLETIVE*'.
The conversation is as follows:
YOURS TRULY- Sir, I could not help but notice that you've mentioned your regrets about serving in, ahem, 'that pompous, patronizing *EXPLETIVE*'s army. Were you an Armiger, perchance?
BELETH- Nae, those *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE*s were recruited from amongst native Dunmer only during that time. For all the good it did them. *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE*s.
Mister Beleth takes a sip of his wine.
YOURS TRULY- But you did serve during the Reclamation War?
BELETH- Yes, I did. I was broke out of my *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE*, had no clue what to *EXPLETIVE* do with my *EXPLETIVE* life, and thought I could get myself a *EXPLETIVE* reward or something. And I did, admittedly. Then I *EXPLETIVE* lost it.
Mister Beleth refills his glass. I notice at this point that he empties his glass with every sip.
YOURS TRULY- And what was the reward, sir?
BELETH- A copious amount of gold. Although I did also get a *EXPLETIVE* handshake and a compliment, from the *EXPLETIVE* Nerevarine himself.
I gasp with excitement. This lowly Dunmer has met the Nerevarine? How incredible!
YOURS TRULY- You've met the Nerevarine? By Auriel, please tell me about it! Was he... charming? Majestic?
Mister Beleth glares at me. I put on a more solemn and acceptable expression. I often forget that these primitives are at war.
BELETH- *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE*, that's what he was. He was this taller than I, (he raises his arm completely) and had a *EXPLETIVE* halo of fire burning bright behind him, like he was some sort of *EXPLETIVE* saint. Clad head to toe in *EXPLETIVE* pitch black armor, save from above his royal *EXPLETIVE* neck. I still remember a bright red magic crown of... *EXPLETIVE* something floating atop his *EXPLETIVE* head. We were all standing in this line, and he came and shook our hands one by one, although I'm not sure if he was walking or *EXPLETIVE* floating.
"Thank you for your service," that's what he said to me when he shook my hand. I was afraid that his armor was some sort of *EXPLETIVE* Daedra out to suck my soul dry, it looked like regal *EXPLETIVE* terror with its smooth *EXPLETIVE* curves and puffed cloth, and yet looking into his eyes was somehow even more *EXPLETIVE* terrifying. He had a *EXPLETIVE* weight to his actions, yet it felt as if he was doing *EXPLETIVE* nothing. He was expressionless when he shook my hand. Stone *EXPLETIVE* cold. As if he were looking at some sort of *EXPLETIVE* rodent. Dagon knows, that's probably what he thought of me, if he actually did bother with thinking about my lowly *EXPLETIVE*.
YOURS TRULY- You sound impressed, sir.
BELETH- You bet your *EXPLETIVE* I was impressed. Not even his *EXPLETIVE* shadow moved without his will. *EXPLETIVE* was like a damn God.
YOURS TRULY- Do you think that he was, or is, a God? You did mention some knowledge about the concept of mantling, however disputed it may be.
BELETH- Maybe. Maybe. I've yet to see a God who can beat Want, though.
YOURS TRULY- And what is it that you want, sir?
Mister Beleth downs his glass quite resolutely.
BELETH- Murder the Gods and Topple their Thrones, sir. That is the mantra. I want his *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE* dead.
...Amongst these travels, I should say that I met Dunmer fighting against the Nerevarine's forces too; while most of them were unscrupulous mercenaries in it for the coin, there were those with personal stakes as well. One particular example that I had the luxury of interviewing had in fact started off as a mercenary, although by the time of our conversation, he had become a full-on partisan. This maimed mer, named Sadri Beleth (I do not shy away from using his name, for the war has ended long since, and to my limited knowledge, so has his life) struck me as a cutthroat to stay away from at first glance. Later on I would find him a fine fellow to engage in conversation with, although, as usual with most Dunmer, he was prone to giving strangers a cold shoulder unless amused with a gift, which was, in his case, wine.
It was in one of those days during which I accompanied this rather diverse mercenary company that I learned that Mister Beleth had in fact served in the Nerevarine's army during the Reclamation War; there were other veterans in the Company, although sadly, I did not get to know them all too well, and thus, unsure as to whether they would like to see our conversations exposed for all to see here, I shall include solely the conversation that I had with this world-weary fellow, who more than welcomed the possibility of his words being published, for posterity. For the reader's discretion, I should mention that while I refrained from rewording Mister Beleth's sentences, the fellow, being not only a Dunmer but also a past sailor and a drunkard, had a tendency to curse as frequently as an Orc thinks of murder and a Khajiit thinks of theft. Therefore, for ladies and the more proper gentlemen amongst our readers, I took the liberty of merely omitting the variety of curses he had in his repertoir, and replacing them with '*EXPLETIVE*'.
The conversation is as follows:
YOURS TRULY- Sir, I could not help but notice that you've mentioned your regrets about serving in, ahem, 'that pompous, patronizing *EXPLETIVE*'s army. Were you an Armiger, perchance?
BELETH- Nae, those *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE*s were recruited from amongst native Dunmer only during that time. For all the good it did them. *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE*s.
Mister Beleth takes a sip of his wine.
YOURS TRULY- But you did serve during the Reclamation War?
BELETH- Yes, I did. I was broke out of my *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE*, had no clue what to *EXPLETIVE* do with my *EXPLETIVE* life, and thought I could get myself a *EXPLETIVE* reward or something. And I did, admittedly. Then I *EXPLETIVE* lost it.
Mister Beleth refills his glass. I notice at this point that he empties his glass with every sip.
YOURS TRULY- And what was the reward, sir?
BELETH- A copious amount of gold. Although I did also get a *EXPLETIVE* handshake and a compliment, from the *EXPLETIVE* Nerevarine himself.
I gasp with excitement. This lowly Dunmer has met the Nerevarine? How incredible!
YOURS TRULY- You've met the Nerevarine? By Auriel, please tell me about it! Was he... charming? Majestic?
Mister Beleth glares at me. I put on a more solemn and acceptable expression. I often forget that these primitives are at war.
BELETH- *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE*, that's what he was. He was this taller than I, (he raises his arm completely) and had a *EXPLETIVE* halo of fire burning bright behind him, like he was some sort of *EXPLETIVE* saint. Clad head to toe in *EXPLETIVE* pitch black armor, save from above his royal *EXPLETIVE* neck. I still remember a bright red magic crown of... *EXPLETIVE* something floating atop his *EXPLETIVE* head. We were all standing in this line, and he came and shook our hands one by one, although I'm not sure if he was walking or *EXPLETIVE* floating.
"Thank you for your service," that's what he said to me when he shook my hand. I was afraid that his armor was some sort of *EXPLETIVE* Daedra out to suck my soul dry, it looked like regal *EXPLETIVE* terror with its smooth *EXPLETIVE* curves and puffed cloth, and yet looking into his eyes was somehow even more *EXPLETIVE* terrifying. He had a *EXPLETIVE* weight to his actions, yet it felt as if he was doing *EXPLETIVE* nothing. He was expressionless when he shook my hand. Stone *EXPLETIVE* cold. As if he were looking at some sort of *EXPLETIVE* rodent. Dagon knows, that's probably what he thought of me, if he actually did bother with thinking about my lowly *EXPLETIVE*.
YOURS TRULY- You sound impressed, sir.
BELETH- You bet your *EXPLETIVE* I was impressed. Not even his *EXPLETIVE* shadow moved without his will. *EXPLETIVE* was like a damn God.
YOURS TRULY- Do you think that he was, or is, a God? You did mention some knowledge about the concept of mantling, however disputed it may be.
BELETH- Maybe. Maybe. I've yet to see a God who can beat Want, though.
YOURS TRULY- And what is it that you want, sir?
Mister Beleth downs his glass quite resolutely.
BELETH- Murder the Gods and Topple their Thrones, sir. That is the mantra. I want his *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE* dead.
What Ifs - Non-canon, poetry (#7):
By @MacabreFox
An anguished heart,
Tormented and battered.
Oh what have I done?
Where have I gone?
Home is dead.
My feet carry me onward,
down paths unexplored,
dusty dirt roads instead.
Never to show my face again,
branded a coward.
Weakness is not like a Nord,
I fled to distant lands.
There is no love, for a deserter,
be they man or woman.
See now, how their eyes scorn
and judge a woman torn.
I could not raise my axe,
my blade did not fall
A mockery I have become.
I turn my face from the sun,
slip through the shadows,
a ghost of the woman I was.
An anguished heart,
Tormented and battered.
Oh what have I done?
Where have I gone?
Home is dead.
My feet carry me onward,
down paths unexplored,
dusty dirt roads instead.
Never to show my face again,
branded a coward.
Weakness is not like a Nord,
I fled to distant lands.
There is no love, for a deserter,
be they man or woman.
See now, how their eyes scorn
and judge a woman torn.
I could not raise my axe,
my blade did not fall
A mockery I have become.
I turn my face from the sun,
slip through the shadows,
a ghost of the woman I was.
By @MacabreFox
Pale was her skin,
a body trembling in my embrace,
A sweat stained face,
Words of delusions
spoke asunder.
There is no fame
No glory
In death
A blade poisoned
From whence it came,
An unsung story.
A crown of fire,
Forever gone.
Ashes scattered,
amongst the winds.
A life cut short.
My own life come to end.
And I sail from port,
To port, an empty bed.
Brown glass bottles,
Are flecks of her distant memory.
Swaying feet, and a needed throttle
To wake myself from this story.
But is it a story?
Is it a dream?
Or is it an everlasting nightmare.
Forever haunted,
Her ghost torments me.
Evergreen eyes gaze back from the shadows,
A taunt, a tease, of what will never be.
And if I could, but hold her again,
Breathe life anew,
I would be a changed man,
She was one of the few,
That stole my heart.
Her voice carries on the wind,
A whisper,
Words never clear,
A deeper, darker fear.
Pale was her skin,
a body trembling in my embrace,
A sweat stained face,
Words of delusions
spoke asunder.
There is no fame
No glory
In death
A blade poisoned
From whence it came,
An unsung story.
A crown of fire,
Forever gone.
Ashes scattered,
amongst the winds.
A life cut short.
My own life come to end.
And I sail from port,
To port, an empty bed.
Brown glass bottles,
Are flecks of her distant memory.
Swaying feet, and a needed throttle
To wake myself from this story.
But is it a story?
Is it a dream?
Or is it an everlasting nightmare.
Forever haunted,
Her ghost torments me.
Evergreen eyes gaze back from the shadows,
A taunt, a tease, of what will never be.
And if I could, but hold her again,
Breathe life anew,
I would be a changed man,
She was one of the few,
That stole my heart.
Her voice carries on the wind,
A whisper,
Words never clear,
A deeper, darker fear.
By @Dervish
Crimson flows through us all
From the highest man to the lowest one
When one’s life seeps into the sands
We all look the same when we are gone
Oh how the mighty have fallen
A spear in the dark came from a defiant hand
Finding purchase within the Mane
A leader selected by Alkosh’s will
Aboard a palanquin finds his refrain
Like all men a journey forced to end
A simple betrayal carried on without thought
The assassin slips away into humid night
A purpose sown from years before
Resolve shown when the time was right
He thinks nothing of the doom he’s wrought
Even so the assassin finds himself empty
Did he not deliver his people liberty?
A kingdom not ruled by Men or Mer
Nothing he thinks will dull the epiphany
The desire for redemption is tempting
Even so the pay rewards are fine
Recognition and infamy sully his name
He leaves his people with orders in hand
Another life to be taken all the same
It will all be worth it this time
Crimson flows through us all
From the highest man to the lowest one
When one’s life seeps into the sands
We all look the same when we are gone
Oh how the mighty have fallen
A spear in the dark came from a defiant hand
Finding purchase within the Mane
A leader selected by Alkosh’s will
Aboard a palanquin finds his refrain
Like all men a journey forced to end
A simple betrayal carried on without thought
The assassin slips away into humid night
A purpose sown from years before
Resolve shown when the time was right
He thinks nothing of the doom he’s wrought
Even so the assassin finds himself empty
Did he not deliver his people liberty?
A kingdom not ruled by Men or Mer
Nothing he thinks will dull the epiphany
The desire for redemption is tempting
Even so the pay rewards are fine
Recognition and infamy sully his name
He leaves his people with orders in hand
Another life to be taken all the same
It will all be worth it this time
By @Frizan
Oh me Johnnies, have ye heard of the craze?
The new craze at the end of the Golden Road?
Sailors, Nobles and Artists, too, all spend their days,
Hollerin' for the lass...with the pretty red bow.
In Anvil there lives a beautiful girl,
With her lovely locks all in a whirl,
And on her wrist sits...a pretty red bow!
They say she spent her young-life with a blade,
Waiting to be sent off to enforce the Empire's ways.
Well, she spends her days wearing hard plate,
But hear me, boys, this'll be the strangest one to date!
She wears her heavy plate,
And walks along the runway,
Hearing her sweeties hollering,
Hollering for the lass...with the pretty red bow.
Oh, the chainmail hugs her pretty curves,
And her smile so bright it burns!
When she turns to you, this Mistress of Plate,
By Dibella, you'll swear the meeting was fate!
Oh they'll leave to draw up anchor,
To shop for pastries at the baker,
But they always come back for her.
Hollering for the lass...with the pretty red bow.
Oh me Johnnies, have ye heard of the craze?
The new craze at the end of the Golden Road?
Sailors, Nobles and Artists, too, all spend their days,
Hollerin' for the lass...with the pretty red bow.
In Anvil there lives a beautiful girl,
With her lovely locks all in a whirl,
And on her wrist sits...a pretty red bow!
They say she spent her young-life with a blade,
Waiting to be sent off to enforce the Empire's ways.
Well, she spends her days wearing hard plate,
But hear me, boys, this'll be the strangest one to date!
She wears her heavy plate,
And walks along the runway,
Hearing her sweeties hollering,
Hollering for the lass...with the pretty red bow.
Oh, the chainmail hugs her pretty curves,
And her smile so bright it burns!
When she turns to you, this Mistress of Plate,
By Dibella, you'll swear the meeting was fate!
Oh they'll leave to draw up anchor,
To shop for pastries at the baker,
But they always come back for her.
Hollering for the lass...with the pretty red bow.
By @Frizan
Sit down young sailorboy, rest your heels,
And let me tell you a tale of the Knife of Cyrodiil.
Sired by a Legion father,
born out of a Legion mother,
yet he knew nothing of war's slaughter.
But when the time came to serve,
he waited not but one moment,
my boy, he jumped up with a surge.
He declared "I will become the greatest soldier!"
He swore any burden he would gladly shoulder,
Be it blade, armor or a boulder.
One day along the Gold Coast
he patrolled amongst the green trees.
It was there he met bandits, numbering twenty and three
lead by a man named Henry Martine.
"Hold there, hold there!" shouted Henry Martine,
"This land's bounty be for me!"
But our brave soldier would not budge,
he looked at Martine as if he were sludge.
"Oh no, oh no, Henry Martine, none of Cyrodiil is for thee!"
"If you wish to live yet another day, you and yours shall leave with me!"
But old Martine refused the command, but nor did he flee,
instead he challenged the man and his force, to decide who would go free.
Blades clashed, and blood flew
Fresh crimson replacing the morning dew.
Oh Henry Martine was thrown to his knees, his men now numbering three
He begged "have mercy for me, I shall go with thee!"
But he would hear none of his pleas.
"Oh no, oh no, Henry Martine, your time has come to an end!"
"I gave you a chance, yet you overestimated your ken..."
"And now no longer will you stalk among the trees!"
And so was his blade brought low, brought low
Into the brow of Henry Martine and all those in his tow.
His head was stuck on a pike along the Golden Road,
A sign to others that they too would be brought low.
All wicked then knew they would be struck no deals,
by the man known as the Knife of Cyrodiil.
Sit down young sailorboy, rest your heels,
And let me tell you a tale of the Knife of Cyrodiil.
Sired by a Legion father,
born out of a Legion mother,
yet he knew nothing of war's slaughter.
But when the time came to serve,
he waited not but one moment,
my boy, he jumped up with a surge.
He declared "I will become the greatest soldier!"
He swore any burden he would gladly shoulder,
Be it blade, armor or a boulder.
One day along the Gold Coast
he patrolled amongst the green trees.
It was there he met bandits, numbering twenty and three
lead by a man named Henry Martine.
"Hold there, hold there!" shouted Henry Martine,
"This land's bounty be for me!"
But our brave soldier would not budge,
he looked at Martine as if he were sludge.
"Oh no, oh no, Henry Martine, none of Cyrodiil is for thee!"
"If you wish to live yet another day, you and yours shall leave with me!"
But old Martine refused the command, but nor did he flee,
instead he challenged the man and his force, to decide who would go free.
Blades clashed, and blood flew
Fresh crimson replacing the morning dew.
Oh Henry Martine was thrown to his knees, his men now numbering three
He begged "have mercy for me, I shall go with thee!"
But he would hear none of his pleas.
"Oh no, oh no, Henry Martine, your time has come to an end!"
"I gave you a chance, yet you overestimated your ken..."
"And now no longer will you stalk among the trees!"
And so was his blade brought low, brought low
Into the brow of Henry Martine and all those in his tow.
His head was stuck on a pike along the Golden Road,
A sign to others that they too would be brought low.
All wicked then knew they would be struck no deals,
by the man known as the Knife of Cyrodiil.
Modern AU - Non-canon (#8):
By @MacabreFox
October 11th, 2018 - Maine
“Hey Sevine, you gonna be okay locking up tonight?” The familiar voice of Michael carried towards her as he peeked his head out from the door to the kitchen.
“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Go on and go home to Sam.” Sevine said, a grin on her face as she placed both hands on the counter. “I’m just gonna finish wiping down the bar, and then I’ll be on my way home too.”
“Alright boss. Get home safe, it’s suppose to rain cats and dogs here soon.” He waved at her before disappearing out the back door. Sevine busied herself with cleaning up the front of house, she polished the glasses and silverware before deciding to call it quits for the night. She stretched her arms high above her head, the joints in her back popping in relief. She rolled her head along her shoulders before pulling on her black denim jacket, and switched out of her ragged converse for a pair of Doc Martens. She locked the back door to the bar, and headed for her motorcycle, helmet tucked under one arm.
She settled onto the seat of her black 1985 Honda Rebel, her pride and joy. She had rebuilt the bike after her dad passed away a couple years back. It was his to begin with, but she wanted it to serve as a reminder of him. Sevine kicked the engine over, and pushed the kickstand back. Revving the engine, she pulled out of the parking lot and began the long drive home. She lived an hour past town, but she didn’t mind. The ride helped clear her mind after stressful days from dealing with rowdy customers.
Just like Michael said, it started to rain cats and dogs. Black rain clouds blanketed the night sky, hiding the moon and stars behind the torrential downpour. She flipped the visor on her helmet down, wondering why she hadn’t checked the news this morning before she headed out for work. She passed a few cars coming into town, but her headlight soon became the only light shining in the blinding rain. Sevine took her time getting home, she knew to play it safe when it rained.
It wasn’t long before she turned off the state road and headed down the county road that would take her home. The winding road rose and fell with the hills, leading through a thicket of trees until she turned off the road and headed down a gravel path, slowing the bike. She came into a clearing where a worn log cabin still stood, the headlight of her motorcycle reflecting off the windows. Sevine rolled the bike under a covered garage, and shifted the kickstand, then killed the ignition. She made the short walk to the cabin, and unlocked the door. Switching on the light, her cats, Rowan and Artemis came to greet her with soft meows.
“Hi babies.” She cooed softly, petting them as they circled around her feet. Sevine peeled off her soaking wet jacket, and threw it inside the washer. She ventured into the kitchen where she noticed that she had one new message on her home phone. She pressed play, and pulled open the fridge.
“Hey sis, it’s me. I was calling to check up on you, I tried to text you and call you on your cell. You haven’t called me back this week, I wanted to know if me and Tyler could visit you for the holidays since I’ll be on break. Gimme a call back. I love you, bye.”” Liliana had moved to Ohio for college and was busy attending the Ohio State University to become a veterinarian technician. She fetched out the leftover lasagna she made and set it in the oven to reheat. She returned to the fridge where she fished out the half-empty bottle of wine from last night, and settled down on the couch, kicking off her boots where she then propped her feet up on the coffee table. She sighed, and let her body sink into the worn sofa. The cabin belonged to her father, a vacation home of sorts. They used to come up here when her mom was alive and spend the whole summers foraging for wild blackberries. Sevine had quit her job as a forensic scientist, the grief of losing her father proving too much to bear at the time. She wanted to be close to him, to his memories, and this is where she remembered him best.
She brought the bottle to her lips, and took a swig. Rowan jumped on the sofa beside her, curling against her.
“I missed you kitty.” Sevine bent down and planted a kiss on her head before the stove chimed, her lasagna was ready. Groaning, she hopped off the couch and made her way to the stove, where she set the pan of lasagna on the stove top. She reached into the cabinet and pulled out a plate, cutting herself a steaming hot piece of the pasta and set it on the plate. Sevine rummaged in the cutlery drawer where she pulled out a fork. She leaned against the counter, plate in one hand, fork in the other, blowing carefully on each piece. Sure, someone could say that Sevine was homesick for Indiana, but she preferred to keep her emotions out of people’s business. Maine was close enough to home, while being close to her dad.
October 11th, 2018 - Maine
“Hey Sevine, you gonna be okay locking up tonight?” The familiar voice of Michael carried towards her as he peeked his head out from the door to the kitchen.
“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Go on and go home to Sam.” Sevine said, a grin on her face as she placed both hands on the counter. “I’m just gonna finish wiping down the bar, and then I’ll be on my way home too.”
“Alright boss. Get home safe, it’s suppose to rain cats and dogs here soon.” He waved at her before disappearing out the back door. Sevine busied herself with cleaning up the front of house, she polished the glasses and silverware before deciding to call it quits for the night. She stretched her arms high above her head, the joints in her back popping in relief. She rolled her head along her shoulders before pulling on her black denim jacket, and switched out of her ragged converse for a pair of Doc Martens. She locked the back door to the bar, and headed for her motorcycle, helmet tucked under one arm.
She settled onto the seat of her black 1985 Honda Rebel, her pride and joy. She had rebuilt the bike after her dad passed away a couple years back. It was his to begin with, but she wanted it to serve as a reminder of him. Sevine kicked the engine over, and pushed the kickstand back. Revving the engine, she pulled out of the parking lot and began the long drive home. She lived an hour past town, but she didn’t mind. The ride helped clear her mind after stressful days from dealing with rowdy customers.
Just like Michael said, it started to rain cats and dogs. Black rain clouds blanketed the night sky, hiding the moon and stars behind the torrential downpour. She flipped the visor on her helmet down, wondering why she hadn’t checked the news this morning before she headed out for work. She passed a few cars coming into town, but her headlight soon became the only light shining in the blinding rain. Sevine took her time getting home, she knew to play it safe when it rained.
It wasn’t long before she turned off the state road and headed down the county road that would take her home. The winding road rose and fell with the hills, leading through a thicket of trees until she turned off the road and headed down a gravel path, slowing the bike. She came into a clearing where a worn log cabin still stood, the headlight of her motorcycle reflecting off the windows. Sevine rolled the bike under a covered garage, and shifted the kickstand, then killed the ignition. She made the short walk to the cabin, and unlocked the door. Switching on the light, her cats, Rowan and Artemis came to greet her with soft meows.
“Hi babies.” She cooed softly, petting them as they circled around her feet. Sevine peeled off her soaking wet jacket, and threw it inside the washer. She ventured into the kitchen where she noticed that she had one new message on her home phone. She pressed play, and pulled open the fridge.
“Hey sis, it’s me. I was calling to check up on you, I tried to text you and call you on your cell. You haven’t called me back this week, I wanted to know if me and Tyler could visit you for the holidays since I’ll be on break. Gimme a call back. I love you, bye.”” Liliana had moved to Ohio for college and was busy attending the Ohio State University to become a veterinarian technician. She fetched out the leftover lasagna she made and set it in the oven to reheat. She returned to the fridge where she fished out the half-empty bottle of wine from last night, and settled down on the couch, kicking off her boots where she then propped her feet up on the coffee table. She sighed, and let her body sink into the worn sofa. The cabin belonged to her father, a vacation home of sorts. They used to come up here when her mom was alive and spend the whole summers foraging for wild blackberries. Sevine had quit her job as a forensic scientist, the grief of losing her father proving too much to bear at the time. She wanted to be close to him, to his memories, and this is where she remembered him best.
She brought the bottle to her lips, and took a swig. Rowan jumped on the sofa beside her, curling against her.
“I missed you kitty.” Sevine bent down and planted a kiss on her head before the stove chimed, her lasagna was ready. Groaning, she hopped off the couch and made her way to the stove, where she set the pan of lasagna on the stove top. She reached into the cabinet and pulled out a plate, cutting herself a steaming hot piece of the pasta and set it on the plate. Sevine rummaged in the cutlery drawer where she pulled out a fork. She leaned against the counter, plate in one hand, fork in the other, blowing carefully on each piece. Sure, someone could say that Sevine was homesick for Indiana, but she preferred to keep her emotions out of people’s business. Maine was close enough to home, while being close to her dad.
By @MacabreFox
January 25th, 2019 - Seattle, Washington
“...And I, can’t take this anymore.
The way that I,
See you with him.
Because girl,
I know you’re not happy.
And I, can see it in your eyes.
So don’t try, and hide these lies.
Because girl,
I know you could be happy.
And I, hate the way you cry.
Cuz baby, why do you stay?
Why don’t you runaway?
Why don’t you runaway with me?
Cuz I can’t take this anymore.
No, I can’t take this anymore.
No, no, I can’t take this anymore.”
Leif’s voice echoed gruffly from the microphone. There was a small gathering of onlookers in the rundown bar of Irish Democrat. A few people cheered, and the rest clapped before turning back to their pints of beer. He sighed, he had put so much work into advertising on social media, but it seemed that he couldn’t draw the crowds like he had hoped. He moved to stow his guitar in its case, and slung it over his shoulder.
“Hey you did a great job up there,” Sam said. Sam was the bartender, and he had seen the early days of grunge, he continued to encourage Leif even when he felt like he wasn’t good enough.
“Yeah thanks Sam.” Leif brushed off the compliment, not feeling the good about himself.
“Want a pint?” The older man chirped.
“Nah. I’m gonna head home.”
“Alright. I’ll see you next Friday?”
“Yeah I’ll be here.”
“Alright. Take it easy kid.”
Leif headed for the door, and stepped out in the dark of night. He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out his pack of smokes, putting a cigarette between his lips, and inhaled slowly. The curl of smoke rising up like an ethereal tendril under the orange glow of the lamplight. His mind wandered, thinking of how far he had come since dropping out of college. Who needed a Liberal Arts degree to make music? Not him. The repercussions of him dropping out reverberated through his family, his mother was heartbroken, and his father was livid. In fact, his father refused to speak with him now. On the other hand, his mom would call every now and then to check up on him. As a last act of rebellion, Leif headed north from Berkeley, selling what belongings he had to buy an old Volkswagen van. He headed for Seattle, the heart of grunge music. If anyone would find him and help him turn his hope of becoming a solo grunge rocker into reality it be there.
His mind wandered to Deidre, he wondered how she was doing these days. The last time he saw her was in California, the day she broke up with him. Leif stamped out his cigarette and headed to the back parking lot to his van where he climbed inside, stashing his guitar in the passenger seat. His hands came to rest on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the brick and mortar building.
“Leif… I can’t keep doing this.” Deidre’s words echoed in his head.
“Baby, no. Listen to me. I promise I’ll be a better man. I promise I’ll change.”
“You always say that! You say that you’ll change, but you never do.”
“Deidre, baby. Look, I’ll quit drinking. I’ll do it for you. I’ll get a job, I’ll make us money. I swear. Just-”
“Stop. Just stop. My heart can’t take it anymore, Leif. All you tell me is lies. That’s all I hear coming from you. You’re-”
“Baby please. One more chance. That’s all I’m asking. Gimme one more chance, and I’ll prove you wrong. I swear. No more booze, no more pot, no more acid, no more cheating.”
“I want to believe you, but I can’t. I can’t keep putting myself through this, Leif. The semester is over, and I’m going home to my folks.”
“You’re fucking full of yourself Deidre. The only reason why you’re going home is to be with Alex. I’ve gone through your phone, I’ve read your messages on FaceBook with him. You think I’m such a bad guy huh? Well you’re not so perfect either you fucking slut.”
“Get the hell out of my apartment, or I’m calling the cops.” He remembered how she had started to cry at his words, and it broke him. How could he… how could he treat her like that? What the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just treat her like she deserved?
Deidre had flown home to Illinois that weekend, and he had left for Seattle. He still followed her on Instagram, and he had been right. She had left him to be with Alex. At least she seemed happy. His gut twisted in guilt, he could have been a better boyfriend to her. He realized how hard he was gripping the steering wheel of the van, his knuckles had turned white. Hot tears stung his eyes, he grit his teeth in frustration. God, he was a piece of shit for a human being.
Leif switched the ignition over, praying that his van would start. He still needed to replace the alternator, but he didn’t have the funds for it quite yet. The Volkswagen rumbled to life, and he pulled out of the parking lot, his headlights cutting a yellowed path on the cracked pavement. He was headed for the beach.
It took around forty-five minutes for him to reach the sandy shores of the beach. He put the van in park and grabbed his guitar case, heading for the sands. It was colder here on the beach than it was city, but of course it was, it was January for Christ’s sake. But the cold would bring some clarity. His combat boots sank into the sand as he walked out towards the water, finding a spot to sit on the sandy knoll. He tucked the case between his legs, resting his chin in the groove as his eyes watched the waves crash on the beach.
He must have sat there for a good thirty minutes before lifted the guitar out of its case. He settled it atop his thighs, his long legs stretched before him, the grey-green skinny jeans were worn through at the knees. Gently, his fingers drifted across the strings, his mind too scattered to focus on any song he had in mind. The cold winter wind bit through his shirt, but he didn’t care. His melancholy had that kind of effect on him, it made him not care about how he felt internally, even if he struggled with the turmoil surrounding his heart. Ah. That was it.
“Your kiss, is like poison sweet as wine…” Leif nodded to himself, that was a good start, the spark of creativity flared within him.
“Your kiss is like poison, sweet as wine.
Moving slowly down my spine.
Your hands are as cold as death,
Baby where have you been?
Give me one last kiss,
Something I won’t miss, when you’re gone.
Here I am, with lips sewn shut,
Backtracking the needle and thread,
Of these words in my heart,
Cuz it never meant anything at all.”
January 25th, 2019 - Seattle, Washington
“...And I, can’t take this anymore.
The way that I,
See you with him.
Because girl,
I know you’re not happy.
And I, can see it in your eyes.
So don’t try, and hide these lies.
Because girl,
I know you could be happy.
And I, hate the way you cry.
Cuz baby, why do you stay?
Why don’t you runaway?
Why don’t you runaway with me?
Cuz I can’t take this anymore.
No, I can’t take this anymore.
No, no, I can’t take this anymore.”
Leif’s voice echoed gruffly from the microphone. There was a small gathering of onlookers in the rundown bar of Irish Democrat. A few people cheered, and the rest clapped before turning back to their pints of beer. He sighed, he had put so much work into advertising on social media, but it seemed that he couldn’t draw the crowds like he had hoped. He moved to stow his guitar in its case, and slung it over his shoulder.
“Hey you did a great job up there,” Sam said. Sam was the bartender, and he had seen the early days of grunge, he continued to encourage Leif even when he felt like he wasn’t good enough.
“Yeah thanks Sam.” Leif brushed off the compliment, not feeling the good about himself.
“Want a pint?” The older man chirped.
“Nah. I’m gonna head home.”
“Alright. I’ll see you next Friday?”
“Yeah I’ll be here.”
“Alright. Take it easy kid.”
Leif headed for the door, and stepped out in the dark of night. He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out his pack of smokes, putting a cigarette between his lips, and inhaled slowly. The curl of smoke rising up like an ethereal tendril under the orange glow of the lamplight. His mind wandered, thinking of how far he had come since dropping out of college. Who needed a Liberal Arts degree to make music? Not him. The repercussions of him dropping out reverberated through his family, his mother was heartbroken, and his father was livid. In fact, his father refused to speak with him now. On the other hand, his mom would call every now and then to check up on him. As a last act of rebellion, Leif headed north from Berkeley, selling what belongings he had to buy an old Volkswagen van. He headed for Seattle, the heart of grunge music. If anyone would find him and help him turn his hope of becoming a solo grunge rocker into reality it be there.
His mind wandered to Deidre, he wondered how she was doing these days. The last time he saw her was in California, the day she broke up with him. Leif stamped out his cigarette and headed to the back parking lot to his van where he climbed inside, stashing his guitar in the passenger seat. His hands came to rest on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the brick and mortar building.
“Leif… I can’t keep doing this.” Deidre’s words echoed in his head.
“Baby, no. Listen to me. I promise I’ll be a better man. I promise I’ll change.”
“You always say that! You say that you’ll change, but you never do.”
“Deidre, baby. Look, I’ll quit drinking. I’ll do it for you. I’ll get a job, I’ll make us money. I swear. Just-”
“Stop. Just stop. My heart can’t take it anymore, Leif. All you tell me is lies. That’s all I hear coming from you. You’re-”
“Baby please. One more chance. That’s all I’m asking. Gimme one more chance, and I’ll prove you wrong. I swear. No more booze, no more pot, no more acid, no more cheating.”
“I want to believe you, but I can’t. I can’t keep putting myself through this, Leif. The semester is over, and I’m going home to my folks.”
“You’re fucking full of yourself Deidre. The only reason why you’re going home is to be with Alex. I’ve gone through your phone, I’ve read your messages on FaceBook with him. You think I’m such a bad guy huh? Well you’re not so perfect either you fucking slut.”
“Get the hell out of my apartment, or I’m calling the cops.” He remembered how she had started to cry at his words, and it broke him. How could he… how could he treat her like that? What the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just treat her like she deserved?
Deidre had flown home to Illinois that weekend, and he had left for Seattle. He still followed her on Instagram, and he had been right. She had left him to be with Alex. At least she seemed happy. His gut twisted in guilt, he could have been a better boyfriend to her. He realized how hard he was gripping the steering wheel of the van, his knuckles had turned white. Hot tears stung his eyes, he grit his teeth in frustration. God, he was a piece of shit for a human being.
Leif switched the ignition over, praying that his van would start. He still needed to replace the alternator, but he didn’t have the funds for it quite yet. The Volkswagen rumbled to life, and he pulled out of the parking lot, his headlights cutting a yellowed path on the cracked pavement. He was headed for the beach.
It took around forty-five minutes for him to reach the sandy shores of the beach. He put the van in park and grabbed his guitar case, heading for the sands. It was colder here on the beach than it was city, but of course it was, it was January for Christ’s sake. But the cold would bring some clarity. His combat boots sank into the sand as he walked out towards the water, finding a spot to sit on the sandy knoll. He tucked the case between his legs, resting his chin in the groove as his eyes watched the waves crash on the beach.
He must have sat there for a good thirty minutes before lifted the guitar out of its case. He settled it atop his thighs, his long legs stretched before him, the grey-green skinny jeans were worn through at the knees. Gently, his fingers drifted across the strings, his mind too scattered to focus on any song he had in mind. The cold winter wind bit through his shirt, but he didn’t care. His melancholy had that kind of effect on him, it made him not care about how he felt internally, even if he struggled with the turmoil surrounding his heart. Ah. That was it.
“Your kiss, is like poison sweet as wine…” Leif nodded to himself, that was a good start, the spark of creativity flared within him.
“Your kiss is like poison, sweet as wine.
Moving slowly down my spine.
Your hands are as cold as death,
Baby where have you been?
Give me one last kiss,
Something I won’t miss, when you’re gone.
Here I am, with lips sewn shut,
Backtracking the needle and thread,
Of these words in my heart,
Cuz it never meant anything at all.”
By @Dervish
The bus shifted into gear after the customs officer, a Nord man with a five o’clock shadow and a respectable beer gut, completed his passport check by going row by row and checking the passengers one at a time, more of a tired routine than anything particularly engaging. Other than a few extra inquiries and one particularly terse bag check for a Dunmer woman who wasn’t aware that seeds weren’t permitted across the border, the passengers began their journey across the border and into the Northern province of Skyrim, cruising down a four-laned highway to Balgruuf Station at the heart of the province, where other transportation would take passengers to the other cities or into Whiterun proper, if that was their destination.
For J’Turga, he simply was going with the day and seeing what opportunities awaited. Leaning against the large window pane with feet on the obnoxiously patterned seat next to him and his rucksack and bicycle tucked somewhere under the bus in storage, the Khajiit was adorned in a black cotton jacket and trousers to match, a green long toque that covered his ears and hung loosely on the back of his head, and a pair of fingerless gloves that kept his hands warm while letting him idly shuffle music on his player with a cracked screen and dead backlighting, the earbuds tucked away somewhere under the polyester blend of his hat. 25 years old and a native of the Kingdom of Anequina, he decided some time ago to spend a few years travelling before succumbing to the rituals of adult life where a suit and tie awaited him like a noose at his father’s travel agency, or at an office like his mother. Neither prospect delighted J’Turga greatly, and after a particularly vibrant moon sugar prompted vision, the Khajiit knew he still had a lot of life left to experience, and instead of arguing the semantics of responsibility with his parents, he gathered what little savings he’d earned from stocking a warehouse at some retail outlet and decided to see what the world had in store.
It had been three years, and he’d already seen much of Tamriel, taking seasonal jobs to pay for his perpetual working vacation where he told himself that he would eventually return home when his quest had found a proper conclusion, or some sign from Masser and Secunda told him he’d filled his soul with enough purpose that he could resume his duties as a productive member of some community instead of being some subversive Dro-M’athra that chose not to belong. Maybe he was meant to find some foreign hottie girlfriend with smooth skin and no fur, or maybe he was going to get signed on by some big-shot Anvil director who wanted some dashing Khajiit lead for his next big film. Who was to say what Hermorah had in store for him?
He looked out at the massive peaks around him and wondered what this place had been like to travel in before modern transportation. Even the mighty Throat of the World, the tallest mountain of them all, had a series of gondolas going to the summit where a weather station was set up near the ancient monastery of High Hrothgar, which in turn had turned into something of a teahouse and mead hall tourist attraction where people took breathtaking selfies from the top of the world. Maybe J’Turga would do it, when he could afford the 40 Septim lift ticket. Perhaps he would attempt to learn how to ski and work at a resort. The possibilities, much like the land, were vast.
Likewise, the fabled hot springs of Eastmarch had become quite the tourist attraction that saw thousands of people flocking to entirely too crammed pools, and the roadways were often backed up from people pulling over to snap pictures of the famed mammoths and giants of Skyrim, who despite coexisting with the men and mer of Skyrim for thousands of years, never seemed to move beyond their traditional ways, and the Skyrim government had to spend considerable resources in conservation to make sure that their range reserves were preserved. At least one or two idiot tourists were maimed per year getting too close for photographs, as if the towering humanoid beings were decorations for their amusement. The only thing that was amusing was the headlines of how witnesses described how much air the hapless victims managed to achieve.
An excited gasp came from somewhere behind J’Turga, and the Khajiit turned to look out the window as excited murmurs came from across the bus, including a particularly busty orc woman who had all but crawled on top of him to look out the window. Gliding across the mountains off to the West was a massive shadow with an impossible wingspan. Despite himself and the particularly well-endowed company that was all but pressing herself against him, the Khajiit smiled as he watched the dragon soar across the peaks, like something out of a power metal album cover or some old fantasy tale. Of course, dragons were like the giants, intelligent species, but they elected to keep to themselves and not trouble civilizations armed with anti-aircraft weaponry and machine-guns and attacks had been so rare for the past two centuries that people had begun to think that the stories of dragon attacks were myths that vilified the poor animals, kind of like wolves. There were enough videos of them torching some poor farmer’s herd of sheep to buy into that for the common person, but there were enough bleeding hearts out there that anything that wasn’t immediately chewing on their face was a pure and innocent thing that needed to be held like a glass slipper.
Once the excitement died down when the dragon disappeared from view, peoples’ phones and cameras clicking like a symphony of crickets, they returned to their seats and J’Turga was allowed his space once more. Once the orc realized that she’d been rather overexcited about the occasion, her green face turned red, to which she was rewarded with a friendly, knowing wink from the Khajiit. He turned to a well-earred copy of the Tamriel Gazette: Skyrim Edition, one of the rare newspapers that had been in print since at least the 4th Era and was still putting out physical papers, and began to skim over the headlines and classified. The Ka Po’ Tun Emperor in Akaviir was threatening hellfire on Morrowind for trade provocations, some Altmer school teacher had been arrested for demonstrating necromancy in a class of 9th graders in Gilane, a sex cult was at large somewhere in Valenwood. The horoscope told him that The Lady smiled on him today, and he’d be reunited with an old friend, but that he was still incompatible with Atronachs and Serpents; those star signs never crossed. It was all pretty standard fare that washed over J’Turga as he put the paper down and looked at his stack of pamphlets for tourist attractions. There was the prerequisite skiing in Skyrim’s fabulous peaks of powdery snow, an adventurous free-diving tour in shipwrecks near Windhelm where attendees would be taught how to brew their own water breathing and cold-resistance potions, the Winterhold Festival of lights, a white-water rafting adventure, and of course, the spectacular Northern Lights that appeared away from the city lights. Maybe the rafting would be fun, and perhaps they were looking for river guides. It was something he’d rather enjoyed in Cyrodiil, and how hard could it be? He slipped that one into his breast pocket and idly skipped two or three more tracks until a guilty-pleasure pop song by a pair of Bosmer twins came on, and he hoped no one else could hear it.
By the time the bus arrived outside of Whiterun’s downtown, it was growing far too late in the day. Deciding to grab a bite to eat, the Khajiit wandered down the street from the bus terminal and found himself checking his phone for local restaurants, including an Elsweyr Fondue franchise, Shattershield Sweetrolls, and most curiously, the Stronghold Steakhouse, which was a unique Skyrim establishment that was based on indigenous orcish dishes that sometimes involved horses.
You only live once, right?
His mind set, J’Turga set off to the Stronghold, and he passed by a curious building on the strip; M’aiq’s Fortune Tellers. A robed Khajiit statue stood outside, proudly pulling on his Fu Manchu, and the sign said that M’aiq would read all of the stars and standing stones to find out if you were destined for love, fortune, or great success. It had to be worth 12 Septims, right?
The bus shifted into gear after the customs officer, a Nord man with a five o’clock shadow and a respectable beer gut, completed his passport check by going row by row and checking the passengers one at a time, more of a tired routine than anything particularly engaging. Other than a few extra inquiries and one particularly terse bag check for a Dunmer woman who wasn’t aware that seeds weren’t permitted across the border, the passengers began their journey across the border and into the Northern province of Skyrim, cruising down a four-laned highway to Balgruuf Station at the heart of the province, where other transportation would take passengers to the other cities or into Whiterun proper, if that was their destination.
For J’Turga, he simply was going with the day and seeing what opportunities awaited. Leaning against the large window pane with feet on the obnoxiously patterned seat next to him and his rucksack and bicycle tucked somewhere under the bus in storage, the Khajiit was adorned in a black cotton jacket and trousers to match, a green long toque that covered his ears and hung loosely on the back of his head, and a pair of fingerless gloves that kept his hands warm while letting him idly shuffle music on his player with a cracked screen and dead backlighting, the earbuds tucked away somewhere under the polyester blend of his hat. 25 years old and a native of the Kingdom of Anequina, he decided some time ago to spend a few years travelling before succumbing to the rituals of adult life where a suit and tie awaited him like a noose at his father’s travel agency, or at an office like his mother. Neither prospect delighted J’Turga greatly, and after a particularly vibrant moon sugar prompted vision, the Khajiit knew he still had a lot of life left to experience, and instead of arguing the semantics of responsibility with his parents, he gathered what little savings he’d earned from stocking a warehouse at some retail outlet and decided to see what the world had in store.
It had been three years, and he’d already seen much of Tamriel, taking seasonal jobs to pay for his perpetual working vacation where he told himself that he would eventually return home when his quest had found a proper conclusion, or some sign from Masser and Secunda told him he’d filled his soul with enough purpose that he could resume his duties as a productive member of some community instead of being some subversive Dro-M’athra that chose not to belong. Maybe he was meant to find some foreign hottie girlfriend with smooth skin and no fur, or maybe he was going to get signed on by some big-shot Anvil director who wanted some dashing Khajiit lead for his next big film. Who was to say what Hermorah had in store for him?
He looked out at the massive peaks around him and wondered what this place had been like to travel in before modern transportation. Even the mighty Throat of the World, the tallest mountain of them all, had a series of gondolas going to the summit where a weather station was set up near the ancient monastery of High Hrothgar, which in turn had turned into something of a teahouse and mead hall tourist attraction where people took breathtaking selfies from the top of the world. Maybe J’Turga would do it, when he could afford the 40 Septim lift ticket. Perhaps he would attempt to learn how to ski and work at a resort. The possibilities, much like the land, were vast.
Likewise, the fabled hot springs of Eastmarch had become quite the tourist attraction that saw thousands of people flocking to entirely too crammed pools, and the roadways were often backed up from people pulling over to snap pictures of the famed mammoths and giants of Skyrim, who despite coexisting with the men and mer of Skyrim for thousands of years, never seemed to move beyond their traditional ways, and the Skyrim government had to spend considerable resources in conservation to make sure that their range reserves were preserved. At least one or two idiot tourists were maimed per year getting too close for photographs, as if the towering humanoid beings were decorations for their amusement. The only thing that was amusing was the headlines of how witnesses described how much air the hapless victims managed to achieve.
An excited gasp came from somewhere behind J’Turga, and the Khajiit turned to look out the window as excited murmurs came from across the bus, including a particularly busty orc woman who had all but crawled on top of him to look out the window. Gliding across the mountains off to the West was a massive shadow with an impossible wingspan. Despite himself and the particularly well-endowed company that was all but pressing herself against him, the Khajiit smiled as he watched the dragon soar across the peaks, like something out of a power metal album cover or some old fantasy tale. Of course, dragons were like the giants, intelligent species, but they elected to keep to themselves and not trouble civilizations armed with anti-aircraft weaponry and machine-guns and attacks had been so rare for the past two centuries that people had begun to think that the stories of dragon attacks were myths that vilified the poor animals, kind of like wolves. There were enough videos of them torching some poor farmer’s herd of sheep to buy into that for the common person, but there were enough bleeding hearts out there that anything that wasn’t immediately chewing on their face was a pure and innocent thing that needed to be held like a glass slipper.
Once the excitement died down when the dragon disappeared from view, peoples’ phones and cameras clicking like a symphony of crickets, they returned to their seats and J’Turga was allowed his space once more. Once the orc realized that she’d been rather overexcited about the occasion, her green face turned red, to which she was rewarded with a friendly, knowing wink from the Khajiit. He turned to a well-earred copy of the Tamriel Gazette: Skyrim Edition, one of the rare newspapers that had been in print since at least the 4th Era and was still putting out physical papers, and began to skim over the headlines and classified. The Ka Po’ Tun Emperor in Akaviir was threatening hellfire on Morrowind for trade provocations, some Altmer school teacher had been arrested for demonstrating necromancy in a class of 9th graders in Gilane, a sex cult was at large somewhere in Valenwood. The horoscope told him that The Lady smiled on him today, and he’d be reunited with an old friend, but that he was still incompatible with Atronachs and Serpents; those star signs never crossed. It was all pretty standard fare that washed over J’Turga as he put the paper down and looked at his stack of pamphlets for tourist attractions. There was the prerequisite skiing in Skyrim’s fabulous peaks of powdery snow, an adventurous free-diving tour in shipwrecks near Windhelm where attendees would be taught how to brew their own water breathing and cold-resistance potions, the Winterhold Festival of lights, a white-water rafting adventure, and of course, the spectacular Northern Lights that appeared away from the city lights. Maybe the rafting would be fun, and perhaps they were looking for river guides. It was something he’d rather enjoyed in Cyrodiil, and how hard could it be? He slipped that one into his breast pocket and idly skipped two or three more tracks until a guilty-pleasure pop song by a pair of Bosmer twins came on, and he hoped no one else could hear it.
By the time the bus arrived outside of Whiterun’s downtown, it was growing far too late in the day. Deciding to grab a bite to eat, the Khajiit wandered down the street from the bus terminal and found himself checking his phone for local restaurants, including an Elsweyr Fondue franchise, Shattershield Sweetrolls, and most curiously, the Stronghold Steakhouse, which was a unique Skyrim establishment that was based on indigenous orcish dishes that sometimes involved horses.
You only live once, right?
His mind set, J’Turga set off to the Stronghold, and he passed by a curious building on the strip; M’aiq’s Fortune Tellers. A robed Khajiit statue stood outside, proudly pulling on his Fu Manchu, and the sign said that M’aiq would read all of the stars and standing stones to find out if you were destined for love, fortune, or great success. It had to be worth 12 Septims, right?
By @Frizan
"GERONIMO!" It was a bird! No, a plane! Wrong again, it was the Stupendous Sagax, flying high towards victory on his skateboard with purple flame patterns and bright green wheels. He was starting simple for this trick, doing three horizontal spins before landing back on the ramp, flying past his friends as he twirled on one wheel, landing back on all four before hitting the next halfpipe. Mounting the edge for a grind, Sagax slid a few feet before kicking off, now simply going back and forth between the ramps as he built up speed. When he thought he had enough momentum, Sagax crouched low on his board to limit his air resistance. Just before reaching the next halfpipe, he threw his cap up high in the air, almost fifteen feet or so Sagax judged. Perfect.
Up he went, straight into the air with laser precision. He dismounted in mid-air, grabbing his board with one hand and spinning slowly. As soon as he met it, Sagax snatched his cap before falling down, slapping it back on and remounting just in time to touch down on the ramp. He then proceeded to ride in a circle standing straight up, bowing in a smug display of self-satisfaction to his applauding audience. Yeah sure, they only numbered about twenty and most were his friends, but still, praise was praise.
"Dude, sick! Little bro's been dying to see that one, man." Came Frank. He was a good dude, brought up by good people. His brother, Rick, wasn't all that talkative, but he was a nice kid. Liked to watch Frank and the others ride; he was only five and his mother wouldn't let him get on a board. Fortunately, Frank and Sagax were both in their twenties, officially considered adults, so she trusted them with Rick.
"Bah it was nothing..."
"Oh come ON, bro, nothing? That was some Tony Hawk shit you pulled! Seriously, how do you make it look so easy?"
Sagax just shrugged. "Dunno, man. Think I just got a gift s'all. Besides dude, I've been doing this since I was fourteen. You just started!" He was about ready up for another ride, but was interrupted by his own rumbling stomach. "Shit, I'm starving...we should get some grub."
"Pfft, like where? We don't exactly got much cash right now." Valorie chimed in. There we dark bags under her eyes, which themselves were tinged with red. She was either on something or stayed up all last night playing one of her online games. Neither would have been out of the ordinary. "Can't just pull up the console out here."
"Hm...hey, those vending machines by the entrance still work don't they?"
"Yeah, why?"
With a sly grin, Sagax signaled for the three to follow him. Of course, he didn't leave before waving to his crowd and giving out a few high-fives. Soon, a young upstart took Sagax's place in the middle of the makeshift arena; he wished the girl good luck as she passed.
"So, anyone got any quarters?" Asked Valorie. Then she noticed Sagax was kneeling in front of the coin slot, hands fiddling with something. "Hey! The fuck are you doing?"
"Oh, me? Nothing."
"Right, sure. Whatever you say, Garrett." Sagax couldn't help but smile at that. He always loved those games, though if he really was good as Garrett he wouldn't need to work as a UPS driver.
Frank clucked his tongue and shook his head at Sagax. "Dude, if your sister knew you were still pulling these tricks..."
"She ain't gonna know..." he responded, only half-listening. Man, getting a vending machine open was hard work, needed a lot of focus. Why'd they have to make them so damn secure?
"I just don't see how you aren't scared of Piper, man. 'Cause she can go zero to a hundred real fast. I know I wouldn't ever want to mess with her, she'd rip me in half!"
"Man...she's hot, though." Frank added with a sigh of defeat. He tried getting with her before, and Piper let him know exactly how far out of her league he was.
"And if my sister knew you were still talking about her like that-"
"DUDE! Don't even joke! I ain't even gonna be able to sleep tonight now...might not wake up tomorrow."
Finally, after minutes of fumbling around, Sagax heard the telltale clunk of the latch flipping up. Looking around him, Sagax saw no witnesses, and he knew for a fact there were no cameras in that relatively dumpy section of the public park, so it was safe to pop the machine open.
"Mmh...I love bad boys." Purred Valorie.
"You love anyone that gets you food." Frank scoffed.
"Now that ain't true, Frank. They have to be cute first!"
Once they all grabbed what they wanted(within reason; the key was to not take too much), Sagax closed the machine back up, making sure to lock it. Didn't want anyone to have a reason to be suspicious.
Looking up, the group saw the sun had reached the top of the sky, and that sadly meant it was noon. All the "Normies" and their brats would be coming any minute to take over the park like they always do. More kids meant more park police, and that meant less fun to be had.
"Hey, I'm gonna head off now. My only day off this week, so I want to spend as much as I can of it in an air-conditioned apartment." Sagax said as he mounted his skateboard once more. "I'll catch you guys around later. Peace." He kicked off with a wave and rode on back home, leaving the others to their own devices. He hadn't been able to play Team Fortress 2 much, and Sagax figured there were a lot of backs that needed stabbing, and sentries that needed sapping. Yeah, that sounded like a good idea.
"GERONIMO!" It was a bird! No, a plane! Wrong again, it was the Stupendous Sagax, flying high towards victory on his skateboard with purple flame patterns and bright green wheels. He was starting simple for this trick, doing three horizontal spins before landing back on the ramp, flying past his friends as he twirled on one wheel, landing back on all four before hitting the next halfpipe. Mounting the edge for a grind, Sagax slid a few feet before kicking off, now simply going back and forth between the ramps as he built up speed. When he thought he had enough momentum, Sagax crouched low on his board to limit his air resistance. Just before reaching the next halfpipe, he threw his cap up high in the air, almost fifteen feet or so Sagax judged. Perfect.
Up he went, straight into the air with laser precision. He dismounted in mid-air, grabbing his board with one hand and spinning slowly. As soon as he met it, Sagax snatched his cap before falling down, slapping it back on and remounting just in time to touch down on the ramp. He then proceeded to ride in a circle standing straight up, bowing in a smug display of self-satisfaction to his applauding audience. Yeah sure, they only numbered about twenty and most were his friends, but still, praise was praise.
"Dude, sick! Little bro's been dying to see that one, man." Came Frank. He was a good dude, brought up by good people. His brother, Rick, wasn't all that talkative, but he was a nice kid. Liked to watch Frank and the others ride; he was only five and his mother wouldn't let him get on a board. Fortunately, Frank and Sagax were both in their twenties, officially considered adults, so she trusted them with Rick.
"Bah it was nothing..."
"Oh come ON, bro, nothing? That was some Tony Hawk shit you pulled! Seriously, how do you make it look so easy?"
Sagax just shrugged. "Dunno, man. Think I just got a gift s'all. Besides dude, I've been doing this since I was fourteen. You just started!" He was about ready up for another ride, but was interrupted by his own rumbling stomach. "Shit, I'm starving...we should get some grub."
"Pfft, like where? We don't exactly got much cash right now." Valorie chimed in. There we dark bags under her eyes, which themselves were tinged with red. She was either on something or stayed up all last night playing one of her online games. Neither would have been out of the ordinary. "Can't just pull up the console out here."
"Hm...hey, those vending machines by the entrance still work don't they?"
"Yeah, why?"
With a sly grin, Sagax signaled for the three to follow him. Of course, he didn't leave before waving to his crowd and giving out a few high-fives. Soon, a young upstart took Sagax's place in the middle of the makeshift arena; he wished the girl good luck as she passed.
"So, anyone got any quarters?" Asked Valorie. Then she noticed Sagax was kneeling in front of the coin slot, hands fiddling with something. "Hey! The fuck are you doing?"
"Oh, me? Nothing."
"Right, sure. Whatever you say, Garrett." Sagax couldn't help but smile at that. He always loved those games, though if he really was good as Garrett he wouldn't need to work as a UPS driver.
Frank clucked his tongue and shook his head at Sagax. "Dude, if your sister knew you were still pulling these tricks..."
"She ain't gonna know..." he responded, only half-listening. Man, getting a vending machine open was hard work, needed a lot of focus. Why'd they have to make them so damn secure?
"I just don't see how you aren't scared of Piper, man. 'Cause she can go zero to a hundred real fast. I know I wouldn't ever want to mess with her, she'd rip me in half!"
"Man...she's hot, though." Frank added with a sigh of defeat. He tried getting with her before, and Piper let him know exactly how far out of her league he was.
"And if my sister knew you were still talking about her like that-"
"DUDE! Don't even joke! I ain't even gonna be able to sleep tonight now...might not wake up tomorrow."
Finally, after minutes of fumbling around, Sagax heard the telltale clunk of the latch flipping up. Looking around him, Sagax saw no witnesses, and he knew for a fact there were no cameras in that relatively dumpy section of the public park, so it was safe to pop the machine open.
"Mmh...I love bad boys." Purred Valorie.
"You love anyone that gets you food." Frank scoffed.
"Now that ain't true, Frank. They have to be cute first!"
Once they all grabbed what they wanted(within reason; the key was to not take too much), Sagax closed the machine back up, making sure to lock it. Didn't want anyone to have a reason to be suspicious.
Looking up, the group saw the sun had reached the top of the sky, and that sadly meant it was noon. All the "Normies" and their brats would be coming any minute to take over the park like they always do. More kids meant more park police, and that meant less fun to be had.
"Hey, I'm gonna head off now. My only day off this week, so I want to spend as much as I can of it in an air-conditioned apartment." Sagax said as he mounted his skateboard once more. "I'll catch you guys around later. Peace." He kicked off with a wave and rode on back home, leaving the others to their own devices. He hadn't been able to play Team Fortress 2 much, and Sagax figured there were a lot of backs that needed stabbing, and sentries that needed sapping. Yeah, that sounded like a good idea.
GM
ButtsnBalls Goderator
Member
Seen
4 days ago
More visualization:
"She is Maj Noor, part of the Corsair alliance and a traitor." Lightsleep rubbed his gloved hands together; Ariane could feel the static of magicka off them. At his beckon, four guards came to his side. "Take her away!"
spicykvnt Sponsored by Yorkshire Gold
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Seen
6 days ago
Little known fact, was that our very own Relyssa was to give a performance at the banquet;
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GM
ButtsnBalls Goderator
Member
Seen
4 days ago
Two things for you guys to do:
1. Restore order to the dining hall; eliminate Sylette, her vamps and frenzied guests. Risk: you may fall for the frenzy spell.
2. Go after Nyrehtaud and protect the monarchs; you'll need to defeat him and two gargoyles. Risk: you may have to fight through/convince confused guards along the way.
Also, Tsleeixth's sacrifice gives the rest of us the upper hand against Nyrehtaud. Please press F to pay respect to our lizard bro (and his homeboy Tmeip'r).
1. Restore order to the dining hall; eliminate Sylette, her vamps and frenzied guests. Risk: you may fall for the frenzy spell.
2. Go after Nyrehtaud and protect the monarchs; you'll need to defeat him and two gargoyles. Risk: you may have to fight through/convince confused guards along the way.
Also, Tsleeixth's sacrifice gives the rest of us the upper hand against Nyrehtaud. Please press F to pay respect to our lizard bro (and his homeboy Tmeip'r).
Two things for you guys to do:
1. Restore order to the dining hall; eliminate Sylette, her vamps and frenzied guests. Risk: you may fall for the frenzy spell.
2. Go after Nyrehtaud and protect the monarchs; you'll need to defeat him and two gargoyles. Risk: you may have to fight through/convince confused guards along the way.
Also, Tsleeixth's sacrifice gives the rest of us the upper hand against Nyrehtaud. Please press F to pay respect to our lizard bro (and his homeboy Tmeip'r).
Sadri will go for Sylette, whereas Marcel and SPECIAL GUEST APPEARANCE BY BIOGRAPHY NPC will go for Nyrehtaud.
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Frizan Free From This Backwater Hellsite
Contest Mod
Seen
2 yrs ago
Saga will stay and try to secure the dining hall. Piper is gonna go after Big Vamp and his stoners.
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GM
ButtsnBalls Goderator
Member
Seen
4 days ago
Ariane will go for the less popular option, while Keegan's off on his own special mission™.
POOHEAD189 The Abmin
Admin
Seen
2 hrs ago
Two things for you guys to do:
1. Restore order to the dining hall; eliminate Sylette, her vamps and frenzied guests. Risk: you may fall for the frenzy spell.
2. Go after Nyrehtaud and protect the monarchs; you'll need to defeat him and two gargoyles. Risk: you may have to fight through/convince confused guards along the way.
Also, Tsleeixth's sacrifice gives the rest of us the upper hand against Nyrehtaud. Please press F to pay respect to our lizard bro (and his homeboy Tmeip'r).
F
POOHEAD189 The Abmin
Admin
Seen
2 hrs ago
GM
ButtsnBalls Goderator
Member
Seen
4 days ago
Visualization of guests dining at the banquet:
1x Laugh
Frizan Free From This Backwater Hellsite
Contest Mod
Seen
2 yrs ago
Visualization of guests dining at the banquet:
Man the duchess really cheaped out on the party snacks this year. I think I'll go to Balgruuf's next time.
GM
ButtsnBalls Goderator
Member
Seen
4 days ago
The recent visualizations have been a bit too memey, so here's a legit one.
From a chapter one post:
From a chapter one post:
Mood was generally low, the wounded were many, and the greatness of magic seemed all too incapable to deal with the physicality of the situation brought by isolation. Apprentice and master worked alike to salvage the situation, but nonetheless, it was grim. Winterhold was gone, the bridge was gone, and the College, now all alone, had definitely seen better days.
[O]ne figure stood out thanks to his more conventional attire, leaning against a broken pillar. This man, this melancholic man, nearing his middle age, and thinking of his past love far away, was Marcel Gawain.
Frizan Free From This Backwater Hellsite
Contest Mod
Seen
2 yrs ago
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