BTC Posted February 11, 2019 Share Posted February 11, 2019 The State of Magic in High Rock, 4th edition By the Imperial Geographic Society Magic is deeply ingrained in High Rock; it quite literally runs through the veins of each and every Breton. Like many aspects of Breton society, such widespread similarity does not stop their factiousness. Recent trends, however, mirror the larger ones of Breton society and hue towards a heretofore-unheard of cooperation. The oldest form of Breton magic stems not from Bretons but centaurs. The legendary creatures residing in hidden glades within High Rock’s forests passed on their knowledge of the Old Ways to a mysterious group known as the Druids of Galen. Like the Psijics, the Druids followed the Old Ways, and one of their members, Voernet the Sage, was permitted to visit Arteum. These Druids and their connections to the Earth Bones are reminiscent of the hedge mages that to this day hold sway over the small villages and hamlets far removed from High Rock’s urbane cities. Their magical knowledge is usually passed down from master to apprentice and in some ways is more reminiscent of Reach magic than anything taught at an institution of learning. High Rock’s hedge mages seem to be the lasting influence of the Druids, as they have had little contact with the rest of High Rock. Equally old and equally mysterious, the Glenmoril Wyrd presents a perverted sort of magical ‘institution.’ Much of the information known about the Wyrd is contradictory and unhelpful in uncovering their true nature. It is said they began in the hills and forest of the Glenumbran Peninsula, but now chiefly reside in High Rock’s cities. They are both vampires and known curers of that curse, as well as both curers of lycanthropy and worshippers of Hircine. They make use of polymorphic magic, as the Druids are also rumored to do, and yet the Wyrd seemingly has connections to hagraven abominations as far away as Solstheim. The Wyrd remains shrouded in rumor and mystique no doubt cultivated in order to obfuscate, and they are to avoided and distrusted. The Druids of Galen and the Glenmoril Wyrd are the oldest ‘institutions’ of magic in High Rock, though they represent High Rock’s primitive past. The institutions of the learned present have their origins in the School of Julianos. Though it has existed since the early Second Era, its focus shifted to that of magic education not long after the Mages Guild was founded in 2E 230, likely in order to stave off the foreign control of the Mages Guild. Many Clerics and Arch Clerics, however, have disputed the notion that the School’s shift had anything whatsoever to do with the Guild, instead citing stricter adherence to Julianos’s divine mandates. Whatever the cause of its shift into the academic, such a shift allowed it far more influence and power in High Rock. For many centuries the School was so prominent that it had branches in every city in High Rock. Today, the School’s main branch is in Daggerfall, with a secondary branch in Shornhelm and a very recent third in Wayrest. Their standard dress of rainbow colored robes reflects the prismatic pyramid symbol of Julianos. When a beam of light hits the prism, it is refracted into a vibrant rainbow. The School says that when ignorance meets Julianos’s divine wisdom, knowledge in all its breadth is the result. The elaborate nature of the School does not stop there, as each member, from Initiate to Arch Cleric, is required to wear a silver mask. As a member progresses through the ranks, Initiate, Acolyte, Disciple, Sage, and Cleric, the mask is carved ever more intricately until it reflects the face of Julianos himself. The mask also allows admittance to the School’s campuses, which are highly guarded by enchantments and wards. Under the current Arch Cleric, Eloise Jolvanne, and her predecessors of the last century, the School has seen a shift ever more toward the secular. Once open to nearly anyone as befit their mission to “Banish Ignorance,” in recent years they have tightened the qualifications required to gain admittance and thus increase the School’s prestige. This is likely due to pressure from the other prominent magical institutions who have vied for the leadership of High Rock’s Conclave of Mages, a leadership which the School jealously guarded but recently lost. More will be said on the Conclave further on. The Mages Guild arrived in High Rock in the Fourth Century of the Second Era. Until their dissolution after the Oblivion Crisis, they were the main rival to the School of Julianos’s magical influence. At the height of its power, the Guild had guildhalls in Daggerfall, Camlorn, Wayrest, Evermor, and Northpoint. In fact, the Guild’s presence in Wayrest forced the School of Julianos there to shift to a purely religious temple. But for most of the Third Era before the Oblivion Crisis, the Guild’s influence was waning as splinter groups formed and replaced both the Guild’s and the School’s influence on individual kingdoms. By the time of the Oblivion Crisis, only the Daggerfall and Wayrest guildhalls remained. The Wayrest Lyceum is the second oldest purely Breton institution, established in Fifth Century of the Second Era, but has the least current influence on magic in High Rock. Though they have long been known as a prolific center for advanced study, their outlook has always been outward. No other institution in High Rock has funded as many research expeditions as has the Lyceum. The renowned works they’ve published as a result are second to none, and largely fund the school. However, they have produced little in the way of tutors or court wizards who influence the direction of High Rock’s elite. Unlike most institutions, the Lyceum is led by a council of its most prominent members. The competition between the School of Julianos and the Mages Guild led both to decline in influence over the course of the Third Era. The nobility grew increasingly tired of the nagging of their tutors and court wizards who attempted to leverage the nobles into supporting their institution or attacking the other. So, too, did the mages at some of the Schools and Guilds tire of the bickering. In Camlorn in the early Third Era, this resulted in the high rankings members of both the School and the Guild to break away and form a new institution. The Coterie of the Elect is as pretentious as their name suggests. Not only did its founding members chafe at the conflict between the School and the Guild, they also chafed at the burden of teaching. They wanted to further their own advancement, not instruct initiates in rudimentary spells. When the Coterie formed, most of the students and lower staff were expelled. The high-ranking staff, who were required to have expertise in at least one magical school, were permitted to keep two apprentices each but no more. As such the Coterie is an elite and highly selective institution. A few decades after their founding, they convinced their former colleagues in Evermor to leave the School and Guild behind, and a second branch was formed. They were long led by High Arcanist Thetrard Dolbanitte, but he recently died at the age of 102. He was succeeded by one his former apprentices, a relatively young but reportedly skilled wizard named Dureau Maurard. When the staff and students of Camlorn and Evermor were expelled, many ended up in Northpoint and Jehanna. They had their own problems with the School and the Guild, but in contravention to the Coterie, their focus remained on teaching students. The result was that by the Third Century of the Third Era, the School in Jehanna and the Guild in Northpoint had dissolved and in their place arose the Academy Arcana. Their focus remained on teaching students and providing tutors to High Rock’s nobility. There was and remains a zero tolerance policy for necromancy and Daedric affiliations, as well as a strict limits on summonings. The rigidity of their structure and rules has gained them few friends among other mages, but their earliness to the dangers of Daedra bought them goodwill among the larger population. For lower nobles, merchants, and artisans desiring higher learning for their children, the Academy is the premier school. They are led by Magister Gaban Bellamont. As the School’s power waned, Farrun’s branch became increasingly isolated and ignored by the members in Daggerfall and Shornhelm. The Arch Cleric’s hold on the School slackened, and a free-spirited and eccentric style developed. In 3E 422, a decade before the Oblivion Crisis, the School in Farrun broke away and formed the Institute for Thaumaturgic Enlightenment. Though small, they ingratiated themselves in the Farrun population by quickly closing the nearby Oblivion Gate. Rumor has it that their focus on obscure and potentially dangerous magic is what allowed them to close the breach, but whatever it was, the Crisis anchored their place among High Rock’s magical institutions. Farrun remains their only location, and they are led by the Council of Sages whose current head is Master Sage Visanne Luseph. The Oblivion Crisis was not a boon for all, however. The disbanding of the Mages Guild in the aftermath of the Crisis resulted in the College of Whispers and Synod rising in its place. The College took over the Wayrest branch of the Guild, while the Synod took over the Daggerfall branch. Neither was very large and appeared in a High Rock that was increasingly divided among magic institutions. Without the cache the Guild had, neither had much influence outside the cities where they were located. In Daggerfall, the Synod was subordinate to the School, and in Wayrest the College was subordinate to the Lyceum. But the Oblivion Crisis bred another major change among High Rock’s magical institutions, and that was the formation of the Conclave of Mages. The disbandment of the Mages Guild and the magic skepticism of much of Tamriel in the wake of the Oblivion Crisis scared the mages of High Rock. While there was little expectation the nobility would, or could, move against the mages, there was some fear that the populace at large might. Rumors of village hedge mages being driven off or killed (since revealed to be insignificant in number) led to fears of a peasant rebellion against magical institutions who could be seen as affiliated with dangerous magic. In 4E 3 the Conclave of Mages was called in which the leaders and high ranking members of the School of Julianos, the Wayrest Lyceum, the Coterie of the Elect, the Academy Arcana, and the Institute for Thaumaturgic Enlightenment all met in Daggerfall. Together they agreed to support one another should either the nobility or peasantry moved against another. Though there was a push by the Academy to lay out specific magical guidelines by which all would abide, this was ultimately rejected. The Institute’s rumored associations with necromancy and summonings was likely the target. The Institute argued that, having saved Farrun almost singlehandedly, there was little fear the general populace would turn against them. The Conclave also formed a council, consisting of a representative from each institution. The School has held the most sway since the council’s formation, but recent events has led that to change. The College of Whispers and the Synod were not invited, and in fact barred from entry when members attempted to enter the Conclave. Since then the little influence and enrollment they have has fallen considerably, as the Conclave united with merchants to embargo the sale of necessary magical items to both. Protests with the Empire fell on deaf ears, though the embargo was lifted after the Unification of High Rock in 4E 43. There is a saying that as magic goes, so goes High Rock, and some saw that the unification of the institutions under the Conclave as a portent for High Rock’s own unification. Whether that is true or not, the perception among Bretons is that Conclave has allowed the five major magical institutions influence that had been nonexistent since the School ceased being the lone place magical learning. They are better able to negotiate with nobles and merchants, and under Imperial rule were able to play the Empire and the nobility off each other when it suited them. High Rock’s recent consolidation of power and secession has upset that influence, perhaps fatally so. In attempting to gain favor in Cyrodiil, the Synod left soon after secession. The College of Whispers gained some enrollment because of that, but the Conclave approached King and Queen Adrard to have the College removed. Though all of the details are not known, some sort of rift opened up between the Adrards and some members of the Conclave, apparently centering on the royal appointing an unaffiliated mage, Dryston Winvale, to his Court Wizard position. Notably, the Institute and Lyceum were left out of the Conclave’s negotiations with Adrard. A rather fortuitous turn for both, as Adrard seized the College of Whispers’s books and magical instruments and did not turn them over to the Conclave. The School of Julianos was given the College’s former hall, but thus far has only stretched them thin. The next meeting of the Conclave’s council was held in strict secrecy. The Institute’s and the Lyceum’s leaders were in attendance, but there are few rumors as to why they were left out of the negotiations with the Adrards. What is clear, though, is that the young leader of the Coterie, High Arcanist Dureau Maurard, has supplanted Arch Cleric Jolvanne as the Conclave’s de facto leader. Whether a younger mage at the helm will result in a new direction or reconciliation with the Adrards remains to be seen. It could be that his location in Camlorn allows him better access to the royal court, and that a man from the royals’ own city will decrease the tensions. The recent developments have shown that, though magical institutions have a prominent role in Breton society, they are increasingly secondary to the role of the nobility. In fact, Prince Roland Adrard was not educated by a mage from any of the magical institutions, but by foreign tutors, which may be a first for a Breton royal. The appointment of Winvale to the position of Court Wizard could herald a new direction as well, as the nobility shifts toward reliance on unaffiliated mages. As with anything among the Bretons, political machinations are likely at the root of all of this intrigue, so it is unclear what the lasting impacts will be. This book would be remiss if it did not also mention the Forums of the Phynastery. Located on the Isle of Balfiera, it is an ancient and venerable school of study. Unfortunately, it is exclusive to Altmer and very secretive in its research, though one expects that the Adamantine Tower is among its chief focuses. They associate little with the other magical institutions in High Rock. Finally, one unique feature of magic in High Rock is the presence of shadow magic at the border region of High Rock, Hammerfell, and Skyrim. In the past Breton nobility has made extensive use of shadow magic wielding nightblades in carrying out assassinations, theft, and political deceptions. It has been many decades since there was any word or rumor about such shadow magic usage, though. It is likely that today practitioners of such magic are confined to the Reach tribes and isolated hedge mages. Magic of all kinds is integral to Breton society. From royals to peasants, nearly every Breton knows one spell or another. As such, magical institutions will always have a role in Breton society. But as their history shows, the prominence of that role is not guaranteed. Power in High Rock is consolidating, and the magical institutions there would be wise to ensure that it is not at their own expense. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheCzarsHussar Posted May 10, 2019 Share Posted May 10, 2019 (edited) Northern Roscrea 159th Year, Fourth Era Around the fire judgement had been passed. The clan of Borr, ancient and hallowed gifted the white robbed men their swords. The long peaceful island erupted into a frenzy of oaths, raiding and frantic duels of clans. There was but only two oaths, the aristocracy who pledged themselves to the established Imperial rule and the nobility whom swore to the long forsaken Druids. Mere weeks prior the Imperial governor from Solitude and his administrative retinue were murdered in the southeast. What might have been a swift retribution from the legion garrison was naught, for it too collapsed in days. Without Imperial commanders, the native leadership had divided loyalties. The Imperialized and mixed blood natives remained in loyalist cohorts, they had all the benefits of Imperial rule to protect. Those loyal to their rebelling clans forsake the southern institution and returned to the towns of their birth to stir arms and lead champions. In the northernmost frozen expansion it was without doubt who the once great clan of Borr's loyalties lay. Long ago influential, powerful and rich, their abandonment of the Empire began the resurgence of the old chiefdoms. The Borr tetrarch spat on his southern title and was named High Chieftain by nobles and the commoners. The nobility tore apart any clothing of foreign design, bent the gladius and melted all jewelry. Those that stood plain and naked were named champions and would forever sit at the inner circles of feasting tables. So moved by the display of the Borr nobility, the young druid Theudofrid swore himself to the service of Teutorigos Borr, the firstborn son of the proclaimed high chieftain and once-centurion of a native cohort. Theu was a man of the Hearthland, no different from Teutorigos. His several years under the mentorship of the Archdruid did little to soften him, the hardships of his homeland toughened the druid-in-training. Teutorigos bound Theudofrid through the giving of a mighty gift, an axestaff of an ancient Borr priest to Kyne. Centuries without conflict had left the Borrs unprepared, for they had no bondsmen. The minuscule nobility hadn't led champions since their fifth great grandfathers. Teutorigos stood as one above equals. He was a leader of infantry and was swiftly elected by the nobility to bind and lead the new champions. The realm of the Borrs could never be urbanized, clans of men were lowborn outside the fortress town of Ultansburrow and none within spoke against the nobility. Firmly established and with opposition south of their realm, Teutorigos bearing only his clan's burgundy cloak and plain clothes took the old road south. He began with several dozen men, sworn noble champions, and a battle hungry druid. Teutorigos' charisma and duty drew in many. At the end of that long southern stretching road, there ended a mighty warband of furious Atmoriants, noble champions, the first Roscrean wizard-warrior in centuries, hundreds of commoner iron miners and hillmen. Here began the Roscrean's revolt in earnest, Teutorigos backed the clans revolt with force. Edited May 10, 2019 by TheCzarsHussar 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheCzarsHussar Posted May 12, 2019 Share Posted May 12, 2019 (edited) Our Resurgence, The early Roscrean revolt and exploits of the Noble Teutorigos Borr.Anonymous Skald At the time of this writing a peace accordant is in discussion. Our future is uncertain but the powers are unwavering. Solitude has drew blood and dashed absolute victory, our future is uncertain. Prelude Imperial Roscrea began at the end of Uriel's conquests and ended at the tributary surrender of the Borrs. Early reign was recorded by both Skaldic and Imperial sources was the financial strain of garrisoning Roscrea. The post-war infrastructure was in ruin and little wealth could be made from the island, for generations it was a punishment duty for southern legionaries. Not until the annexation of Solitude did the legionary occupation end, squalor and a dark age was the hallmark of this period. The Imperials could not afford to repair the damages they brought, Roscrea was too insignificant for many years. The standards of living for nobility and freemen alike were abhorrent. Uriel's campaign ended in disaster in the very far east. Focus was taken away from the extra-Tamrielic islands, Roscrea suffered more then any of his other isle conquests. Praise from native mouth be given then to the string of pragmatic governors from the early Solitude reign. They inadvertently made our resurgence possible. Fairly high focus was placed in making the island profitable since their annexation. Roads were repaired, long abandoned mines refurbished, favorable laws passed to the nobility and the establishment of the tetrarchy. Four tetrarchs were chosen among the old clans, to ease the financial burden of administration by granting more power to we natives. Though diplomatic authority and overall rule remained in the Imperial administration of Urbs-Beyond-The-Sea, the legionary settler colony. Eastern Roscrea had no need of tetrarchs, as an eastern native I speak of firsthand subservience. The eastern folk, urbanized and agrarian accepted Imperial rule much more readily as their society benefited far greater then our northern and western kinsmen. Improved agricultural methods, establishment of plantation villas and the seat of Imperial rule in Roscrea secured our ancestor's acceptance in the transition from legion occupation to Solitude's annexation. And increased citizenry rights to the nobility and upper classes, the greatest efforts of Imperialization occurred in the east. These were the hallmarks of Solitude rule, Nordic in origin but no less Imperial in practice. Their efforts to create a profitable Roscrea strengthened a weakly vestige of old into a growing local power. Native authority increased through the tetrarchy, by gaining citizen rights Roscreans could now fully serve in legions and completely removed the financial strain of Colovian and Nordic garrisoning. It took several generations to make their annexation of Roscrea financially beneficial. Solitude had long replaced the administration of direct Imperial rule, but to the native peoples it seemed no different. It was an extraordinary thing then when a man chosen to govern Roscrea held our own interests at heart over that of Solitude. The noble Hrargal of Haafingar came and ruled no less then seventy years, passing to all's tremendous sorrow at a hundred and eight. His reign marked the greatest extent of Imperialization, yet crisis after crisis were resolved skillfully. His edicts are still obeyed even in revolt. His benevolence earned him many times the offer of kingship to all Roscreans, ordained by all the great clans, his loyalty to Solitude was legendary and thus refused many times over. Hrargal united squabbling clans, passed pragmatic edicts and financed the construction of Cyrodilic esque infrastructure ranging from entertainment to housing and all manners in between. It was his confessed lifelong dream to see Roscrea fully embrace Colovian culture, he himself of that race. To Hrargal the best way Roscrea could serve Solitude and the Empire was to become culturally interlinked with the two. Whatever his motives may have been, his treatment of Roscrea was gentle and when firmness was demanded, it was never a crushing grip. It encouraged our folk to embrace his values. Nirn was robbed of the greatest administrator of the age at his passing. Hrargal's passing was four months prior to the writing of this. His funeral was the largest in Roscrean history, not one of the noble clans hadn't made their presence there. They mourned not for the servant of Solitude, but the great man they knew him as. It was the only time Imperial arms were not taken against the Druids when one of the forsaken white robbed men kissed his forehead. Even they payed respect. The tetrarchs commissioned Solitude to send another of his line to govern Roscrea, they would accept no other candidate under threat of embargoing Roscrean goods. The Druid's blessing had all but legitimized his line, and although none would ever admit it under threat of lawful retribution, the Druids were still revered and respected by the natives. The nobility of Solitude held little regard of Roscrea outside the profits our island brought them, they dismissively accepted and sent a distant relative. We knew little of their familiar relationship and never will know. Solitude had grown used to Roscrean obedience and the island became and afterthought, instead of considering another longtime trained administrator they sent a distantly related merchant-noble. The Roscrean nobility accepted him dutifully and showed him in gifts, they celebrated and proclaimed seventy more years of praise. His name is forsaken into Oblivion and will never be spoken, thought of, or written. He hadn't shared Hrargal's vision in any shape or form. Eighteen of Hrargal's edicts were defunct within his first week of governance, this seemingly minor occurrence brought the native nobility to a boiling point. These edicts favored Roscrea and reduced the efficiency of tribute and taxation. He was a very effective tax master and brilliant with fiances but for the importance of governing an overseas people, impotent. He had thought his predecessor had utterly converted the Roscreans to Tamrielic rule, a thing to be orderly taxed and governed as if a lively mainland province. Uriel's other island conquests had come to this level of development, 'Roscrea must have too.' It is well documented by the Nebbezzar court that the Silver Shield client king was furiously arguing with the governor on a matter of the Imperial Cult. The governor was staunchly associated with the cult and lacked the tolerance of his predecessor. While in the client king's chambers amidst their rising anger, the governor struck at an ancestral idol of an ancient Royal Casurgian king and shattered it. The court would not prevent their client king from throwing the governor to the ground and murdering him with a dagger. His Imperial retinue attempted to flee and were cut down to the last by the court. A fit of anger shattered the peace, what might have been was naught. Although these actions were sung in praise by all true Roscreans. I have personally spoken with his lordship, he described it 'belike horse hoofs pounding against his head in terrible pain when his ancestor was disrespected.' He described his ancestor's fury in the halls of sovngarde felt personally. By murdering the Solitude appointed governor, a portion of Roscrea had instantly declared rebellion against Solitude and the Empire at large. To the Roscreans however it was Solitude who hard betrayed them. This incident grew by the day. In their great wisdom, sensing weakness in southern rule the Druids appeared before the great clans of old. They urged the appointed tetrarchs to forsake the rule of foreigners. A perfect candidate for kingship of all Roscrea had come and gone, his line as shown was unworthy to rule. They accurately acclaimed that little focus was given on Uriel's conquests in this age, we are afterthoughts at best. Never would a better time come to bite off the overstretched arm of the southerners. Three of the tetrarchs gifted the Druids their swords and cursed the Empire, the Tetrarch of Boiliobris had remained loyal to the Empire and had lost his life for it, a noble of his clan instead gifted his swords. Centuries under the administration of Imperial generals, then governors hadn't swayed the traditional way of fighting for the Roscrean peoples. The concept of large armies and pitched battles was a strange and alien idea to our ancestors. Since time unrecorded the nobles gathered bound champions and retinues of bondsmen and did battle against hostile nobles and their own champions and bondsmen. It was fighting between the most elite warrior class. To gather the commoners and place spear in hand was the last resort of any kind, only commissioned Reivers, (typically sailing men whom plunder with the blessings of their clan, almost always plunder outside the Roscrean sphere.) another type of warrior class held that distinction. It was thus when revolt came to pass that pitched battle and fields of armed commoners was nowhere to be found. The Imperial loyalist cohorts were in disarray, with the majority of the native legion abandoning their duty. The age of champions had yet long passed, in servitude to Cyrodilic, then Solitude Imperial administration our kinsmen were barred from taking arms outside of auxiliary and later legionary service. Commissioned raiding was outright banned by Imperial law, anywhere to raid was under their control. Of the tetrarchs, none responded in such brilliance as the clan of Borr. Forwent his southern title and claimed as High Chieftain to their old chiefdom. In the most inhospitable region of Roscrea, began in earnest the revolt. This firsthand skaldic recording is not of poetry, but an epic. It details the extraordinary events of the early revolt, A Resurgence to the champions of old. The adventures and noble duels of Teutorigos Borr, his retinue of champions, the druid Theudofrid the Stormsayer, and the return of the Atmoriants atop their mountains. A return into the mythic.Chapter's end. Edited May 12, 2019 by TheCzarsHussar 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
The Good Doctor Posted May 19, 2019 Author Share Posted May 19, 2019 Excerpts from chapter 5 of "An Incomplete Hypothesis" by Master Endar Drenim, Arch-Wizard of the esteemed House Telvanni, printed and published by Slumlord Harry's Presses Notice to students and future readers: While the following accounts correlate in some ways with information obtained by official Imperial sources, they also vary wildly in others. It is therefore believed that the author did indeed make contact with Aldmeri Dominion cells in some capacity, but may have embellished or stated outright falsehoods in his depiction of the events. The Telvanni Wizard 'Endar Drenim' could not be found for the sake of questioning, and his publisher, known only as 'Slumlord Harry' was killed shortly after the first batch was printed during the Bravil Skooma Wars of 4E 188. Less than a hundred copies made it into circulation. [Passage begins] ... There is much to be said of Bosmeri tolerance for what unlearned fools consider the esoteric, but to the surprise of no one, the same cannot be said of the Altmer who audaciously believe themselves masters of all mer. For all the Dominion's harping about the greatness of their magicks and their closely-guarded secrets supposedly preserved from the time of the Aldmeri and before, one would be hard pressed to find even a single Altmer raised in Dominion lands who has so much as considered the possibility of invoking conjurational charter with lesser daedra, so frightful are they of discovery. Cowards and fools, the lot of them. It should come as no surprise, then, that upon discovering a Telvanni wizard in the midst of experiments of a similar nature -entirely in the pursuit of knowledge and with proper precautions taken- their response would be dramatic and overstated. So what if I summoned a few scamps and a weederworble or two? My 'crimes' were hardly warranting of attention, let alone arrest. ... [Passage ends] *** The daedric prince's black eyes stared into Endar's own with what he could only interpret as a nigh-infinitely powerful predator's curiosity. No doubt it would kill him and any other mortals in the vicinity where they stood if not for the hundreds of containment runes that had been carved into every tree within a thirty foot radius of the summoning circle. Their conversation had been long and insightful, and although the lord of Oblivion made no effort to hide its desire to see him reduced to ashes and devoured by clannfears, Endar felt that it had been a pleasant experience for both parties. Unfortunately, the Altmeri had arrived. He had expected them to take longer, but apparently their Attendants of Alaxon were more competent than the average Justiciar. The prince laughed at his misfortune before offering its best-natured farewells and stating that it was eager for their next chat. Endar did the same and turned to face the authorities. There were hundreds of them, their green and golden armor reflecting moonlight even through the trees. He did not fear them. In fact, he was eager to question them. When the leader approached, Endar submitted himself willingly. *** [Passage begins] ... Perhaps the prospect of sitting in an earthy cage with walls of root and stone, the screaming voices of nearby prisoners fresh out of the torture chamber resounding off every brick and bar might sound unappealing to the untraveled. To a wandering scholar like myself, the small space is no less comforting than the large space. The smells of urine, excrement, and festering wounds no less familiar than those of wet grass and burning wood. The screams of mer are not particularly different from those of a thousand species of less intelligent beasts across this realm and many others. My week in a Thalmor dungeon was as much a learning experience as had been my slumber-summoning escapade of chapter 2. It goes without saying that my writings would be of decidedly lower spirits had the torturers put me to the test as well. It is a test they would have failed, of course, but no doubt the experience would have been unpleasant all the same. Naturally, upon discovering who exactly it was that they held, the Dominion cowards refused to so much as approach my cell for any other reason than to bring my bi-daily rations of bread, meat, and water. As if a Telvanni wizard needs to eat! Ha! Of course, I could have left any time I wished, but there was a Bosmeri rebel in the cell adjacent to mine who -to my uncommon shock- was not only a passable conversationist, but a mer of no small understanding of the limen -the very subject that had brought me to Valenwood! In hindsight, this makes perfect sense, for if there are elves to be found in Dominion lands who are even remotely capable of unconventional thought, they would of course be confined to the prisons. I proposed my hypothesis to the mer, which provoked a five day long discussion that culminated in one of the uncomprehending jailers promptly cutting out my new friend's tongue in a drunken rage. No matter. For all his skill in oration, he had always been an even better listener. To the great fortune of the jailers, someone must have ordered them not to even try harming me. A rare display of intelligence from the Dominion. ... [Passage ends] *** "Warden says I can do whatever I want with you, gray-skin," hissed the torturer. "So long as you don't die." Endar groaned feebly. Never in his too-short life had he felt this way before. The pain was bad, but nothing unprecedented. He had felt sensations like it long ago, before he learned to nullify such distractions. However, the powerlessness was something new and frightening. Many a silence curse had failed to so much as soften him, but these Aldmeri magicks were unlike any he had ever witnessed! It would have driven him to anger if not for the bouts of agonizing pain that persisted in distracting him away from it. "Maybe I should take your tongue again," the brute continued. "Taking it the last time was the most fun I've had in weeks. How's it feeling, anyhow? Did it re-attach okay?" Endar tried to respond, but all he managed was a weak Mmph, prompting a laugh from his captor. "Of course, I don't know what you expected, talking to yourself for five days straight like that. Of course we cut it out! But I guess a month in forced hyperagonal stasis will do that to anyone, huh?" He raised his head to look the torturer in the eyes. They were golden and full of malicious joy. He was a mer who loved his job. You're not better than me, Endar wanted to say. None of you. You're all worms. The torturer responded to his unspoken words by removing his left eye and turning it towards him. Red. "Don't worry. We'll grow it back." *** [Passage begins] ... I should not neglect to mention that for all their discourtesy, the Dominion did not once fail to bring me my food and drink. And despite my lack of immediate need, I did on occasion sample the morsels for the sake of research. What I found was that even in these lowly dungeons where many are condemned to die, the food is surprisingly tolerable. Somewhere near the prison must be a talented baker. They even salted the meat. ... [Passage ends] *** "We call it the Wood Elf diet," said the jailer as he kicked a plate under the humming, rune-covered bars. Endar did not need to ask why they called it that, but after months in isolation, with no magic and no comforts of any kind, he was beyond caring. He ate every bite. *** [Passage begins] ... and so I decided that one week was enough and took my leave. As I stated before, it was a learning experience. Now I understand the Aldmeri Dominion and their incessant, never-ending desire to prove themselves in a way that I could not have hoped to prior to my stay in their prison. I understand their foolish (and frankly narcissistic) notions of domination and power. They think themselves better than the rest of us, but it is not so. Through my observations, I have come to the conclusion that deep down, they are all too aware of their inadequacies, and it pushes them to fight all the harder to overcome them. Do not mistake any of this for a weakness that can be exploited. It makes them dangerous. It makes them a foe that will do anything to show the world what they can do. ... [Passage ends] *** The sunlight nearly blinded Endar as he was marched out of the prison that had housed him for nearly six months. Three Attendants of Alaxon were waiting for him. They smiled when the warden unlocked his shackles. "Such a shame," said the one whose decorative garb suggested he might have been the leader. Endar had never heard a voice more smug. "I hear you were a good little heretic. No doubt the jailers hate to give you up." "Indeed," said the warden. "Endar and I have become like best friends. Isn't that so, Telvanni?" The high elves snickered. What felt like a lifetime ago, Endar would have melted their insides then and there, but he could hardly stand, and even with his shackles removed it would be some time before his magicka was even close to restored. "Still," continued the lead Attendant. His voice grew more serious. "If it were up to me, you'd have died in there, dark elf. Or better yet, we'd cut you down here and now." "Why can't you?" asked the warden. "Orders. Some wood elf came and paid a ransom for him. There is a first time for everything, I suppose." "I didn't know the Attendants of Alaxon took ransoms." "It was a big ransom. The Bosmer came with a cartload of gems. Said that he misses their 'talks'." The Attendant shrugged. "Besides, we got everything we wanted from him. He's not an enemy. He's hardly even a threat. Look at him." Laughing, the Dominion soldiers loaded Endar into a locked carriage and sent him north. He never found out where it was bound, for on the second day he destroyed the carriage with one spell and teleported away with another. He never finished his research in Valenwood either, but that hardly mattered now. Valuable though those secrets may be, they would not make him stronger or fix his inadequacies. He was better than the blasted Dominion. He was better than any man or mer alive. And one day, he would prove it. 3 Quote It's always nice when your writing gets reinforced by the canon after you come up with it. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
The Good Doctor Posted May 25, 2019 Author Share Posted May 25, 2019 4th Era 187 Karth River Village Asgen touched his shoulder and winced. The blood on his fingers was warm and sticky. "Forsworn scum!" screamed the old Nordic fisherman who had cut him, even as the man himself lay on the ground with half a dozen wounds of his own. "There'll be no Sovngarde for you. You will burn with the devils you worship!" "Asgen, come," commanded Ubba from somewhere nearby. There was a time when Ubba would have mocked him even in the heat of battle, but being named 'War Harbinger' had tempered the young huntsman, forced him to at least act like a leader. That, and the fact that at eighteen winters, Asgen was starting to become noticeably bigger than him. "Wait," said Asgen. "I would speak to the man I've killed." "Piss on that," grunted the fisherman. He feebly reached for his sword, which Asgen kicked out of reach. "I'd sooner swallow my tongue than use it to trade words with the likes of you, savage." "Asgen, come." Ignoring his Harbinger, Asgen knelt down so he could speak to his foe up close. "And why is that, Nord? I've sent you to your god. You ought to thank me." The older Nord spit blood on his cheek. Asgen wiped it off with his fingers and then grinned as he used it to paint a mark of Alrabeg on the dying man's forehead. "You deserve this. All of you. Tell Sheor I said so... He might even agree." The Nord made a sound that wasn't unlike a growling wolf, and then Asgen took up his sword and plunged it through the man's chest. Soon after, a firm hand clasped his shoulder, and with a frustrated voice, Ubba asked, "Are you done?" Asgen shoved the hand away and faced the War Harbinger with the most insolent look his could muster. "Not even close." The village was not very large. Built where the western bank of the Karth River bent inward, it survived entirely on fishing and mining. The inhabitants were an old breed of Nord. The sort who still understood the gods enough to know that blood was their favorite currency. As such, most of the men had been proud to answer Jarl Igmund's call to take up arms against the free people of the Reach. Eleven years had passed since then, since these very men ravaged Karthwasten and spilled the blood of Reachmen and their own kin alike. Most of those soldiers had long since returned home to their families. Now was the time for revenge. The Forsworn started with the bridge. The shamans wove shadows around it in the dead of night. Come morning, the bridge was gone and the Nords had nowhere to flee when the pillagers surged into their homes with fire and axes. The men and women who fought back were killed. Those who didn't were sacrificed to the old gods. The elderly were butchered for their crimes of the past, and the young were taken as slaves or to use as bait for other Nords. The shrines were desecrated and the houses were looted and burned. When the raid was finished, the gravesingers moved in and laid their curses upon the ash-covered grounds before raising the dead as pack mules. By midday, the war party had moved on. They traveled five days southwest to the main fork in the river, and then crossed the chilly shallows on foot, losing just one slave and two corpses in the process. From there, it took them three more days to reach their hideout in the northern Druadachs, where the remainder of what had once been the Bittermouth clan awaited. Their home was too deep in the mountains to be visible from the major roads, but any fool lucky enough to venture off the beaten path without getting an arrow in their chest would eventually happen upon a sprawling dale encampment. Dozens of bonfires stippled the valley, each surrounded by thrice as many thick hide tents. At the center was a longhouse, and to the south a few hundred goats and dozens of horses and cattle grazed on the summer grass. The mountains to the east and west were steep and dotted with caves, each one decorated with totems and paint. It was not the worst place that the nomadic Bittermouths had made their home, but after five years most of them were itching to move somewhere more bountiful. Unfortunately, the King in Rags needed soldiers near the border, and when the king gives an order, even the strongest clans listen. Excited spouses and children came running upon the war party's return, to embrace their loved ones and admire the treasures they had brought back. The line of Nordic zombies shuffled to the longhouse and deposited the bulk of the spoils at the feet of Chieftain Walfild, who would spend the next day deciding how it would all be distributed. The slaves were sent to the Matriarch's cave so that she could lay first claims. They did not bring back livestock this time. Few of the river towns had any, and what little the war party found was butchered and eaten while on the march. The eager bustle that accompanied their return would not end for some time. Many of pillagers who had wives or husbands found them and went somewhere more private, but the remainder unloaded a few plundered mead casks and began the celebrations. Before long, the entire valley was alive with song, dance, sex, and magic. ... Almost the entire valley, at least. Asgen Tyne was rarely one to miss out on celebrations, least of all when they involved copious amounts of drinking and boasting, but that evening he was not in the mood. In fact, he'd hardly spoken two words since his war party left behind that final ruined village. Before the first song had even broken out, he'd started southwest, in the direction of a little hollow that he and his sister had claimed years ago. They had a tent, of course, but that was seldom the best place to go when one did not want to be disturbed. The cave was small, just one room not much bigger than the tents, but a strip of horse hide blocked the entrance so that the departing sunlight only just filtered in at its edges. His sister wasn't there, but he'd already guessed that. If she wasn't preoccupied with her big summoning project, she would have been waiting for his return with the other pillagers' family members. Not entirely sure what to do, Asgen threw his battered sword onto the ground and fell down beside it. When Faida found him several hours later, his back was against the painted wall. His head was in his hands and there was blood on both the floor and his knuckles. She knew at once what had happened. "You found them." "Yeah," Asgen looked up at his sister, putting on his best effort at a proud smile. "They're dead. All of them. We burned their village to the ground." "Oh, Brother," Faida cast a dim lighting spell, then moved beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. She was beyond happy that Asgen was back, but he could not fool her with his fake smiles. "Talk to me." He nodded and dropped the act. "I knew their faces. Even the ones I'd forgot, they came back to me when I saw them. Like we were children again back in Karthwasten. They weren't ready this time. Didn't have armor. Most of them didn't even have weapons. It was easy... And I've wanted them dead for so long..." "We've wanted them dead," Faida reminded him. It was a rare thing that one of the twins could not understand the other's pain, but in that moment, she was as confused as he was upset. This was not her brother's first raid, not even close, and every time Asgen left, he did so hoping that the Forsworn raids would bring him face-to-face with the Nords who attacked their village. "I should have gone with you." "Horothma wanted you here. Your project-" "Fuck Horothma. Going with you wouldn't have changed anything." Asgen went quiet. Even in private, cursing the Matriarch was not wise. He waited a few seconds, hoping that some dark magic wouldn't kill them where they sat. When that didn't happen, he answered, "I wish you'd gone too." "But it's over now. You killed them, just like we wanted. Why are you so upset?" "I don't know. I thought killing them would feel different than it did... that it would feel good. Like it would fix things. But it was just another raid, no different than what they did to us." He could tell that Faida still didn't understand. "Don't worry about it. I think one of 'em hit me on the head. Got me shaky. I just need rest." "Brother, you can lie to anyone else, but not to me." She removed her arm from his shoulder and scooted so that they faced one another. "Help me understand what's wrong." He sighed, smiling for real this time, though it was a sad smile. "You say we wanted those Nords dead, but I know you never cared the way I did. You just act like it so I'm not alone." It was true, and Faida should've guessed that he knew. She was better at keeping secrets than her brother, but nowhere near as good a liar, much less to him. "Even so, I really do wish I'd gone with you." "I know. But you've got more important things to do. You're learning from the Matriarch herself. Me? I don't know what I'm doing here." "What do you mean? This is our clan." "You know it's not. The Bittermouths never cared about us before that night, and they're not even real anymore. We're all just 'Forsworn' now." He gave a helpless shrug. "That was well and good when I wanted- thought I wanted revenge, but now all those bastards are dead and nobody's better off for it but some king in some prison in some city we've never seen. You and me sure aren't." "Do you miss home?" "I barely remember it." She nodded, understanding. "Maybe soon, things will change. This Rag King's war can't last. These caves won't be our home forever." *** Days passed, and the former Bittermouths returned to their normal routines. Asgen spent most of his time in the hills, hunting or watching the roads with his fellow warriors, while Faida continued her tutelage under Horothma. Some of the others still didn't like that the Matriarch has chosen her as an apprentice instead of any of the numerous other shamans whose ancestors had walked the Reach for eras, but none of them had summoned the aspect of a god at the age of twelve, so Faida never took their jealous eyes very seriously. Hagraven is what the people of bricks and walls called the ancient crone. A fitting name, though one Faida and her brother learned not to use in her presence many years ago. It was said that she had once been a beauty of a woman, but the old magics of their people had changed her into something that the outlanders would consider an abomination, all bent and feathered, with black eyes and a contorted face that always seemed wicked in its expression. Worse than any of that was the Matriarch's stench, which was always that of a dead and rotting animal. "She could look like a person again if she wanted," a pillager named Gart once told Faida. "It's in her power. The Matriarch cares little for the standards of mortals." Faida knew it to be true. For as repugnant as Horothma might have been, none of them had ever seen a creature so powerful. Sometimes she seemed half a god herself. Before the Forsworn came to be, the Bittermouths had often waged war on other clans, and no matter their rivals' numbers or the skill of their warriors and shamans, the Matriarch ensured that they laid waste to them all. It was her secrets that gave them shadow weavers and gravesingers, and her divinations that kept them on a safe course. It had been over five years since the crone chose Faida as her sgoilag, her apprentice, following a great summoning the Tyne twins had performed to the benefit of the entire clan. Only thirteen at the time, Faida had been terrified. Horothma was well known for her cruelty, even towards members of the clan. But beneath the Matriarch's cruel black eyes, there had been a trace of something else. Asgen believed that it was respect, but Faida felt it was more like the look of a huntsman who was proud to have acquired a healthy new hound. It was soon after that the Bittermouths arrived at their new home, and a room was set up much deeper in the caves than any of the rest. It was many times the size of the little hollow she and her brother lived in, and so perfectly round that Faida could not believe that it was a natural formation. Unlike the other inhabited parts of the cave, there were no torches or holes in the wall to let in light from outside. Instead, clusters of luminescent green mushrooms glowed dimly, casting a web of jagged shadows between the equally clusterous stalagmites that rose from the floor. The ceiling was high and too dark to see, but the occasional the screeches and fluttering of bats served as a reminder that it was more than just a void. Sometimes, usually when her mind was focused on some spell or ritual, Faida heard other things up there as well. Things that sounded larger and much more sinister. Faida called it the Black Room, and it was here that her true education began. Long ago, her mother coached her in spells and lesser alchemy. She explained the nature of the Earth Bones, and how they could be manipulated by daughters of the right blood like them. At seven winters, Faida had not truly understood what most of what it meant. In the years after Karthwasten, Faida had often learned by eavesdropping on the Bittermouth shamans and brazenly explored the mysteries of the Grey all on her own. She learned some runecraft this way, and taught herself how to summon monsters and speak to the gods in the proper tongue. But all these lessons were trivial, the stuff of hedge conjurors and thin-blooded witches. Horothma showed Faida things that the shamans of the Reach could not have dreamed up in their darkest nightmares, how to understand the dead as though one herself and to weave shadows like silk. She showed her how to impose her will on the land not with magicka, but with the older ways known only by the older gods... and those they favored. When Faida first hugged her brother and walked into the darkness, it was during a time when most of the Bittermouths would have rather seen the Nordic youths as slaves than equals. Now she was their superior. Not in rank, experience, or any kind of seniority -Faida was the leader of nothing- but in the fear she commanded. the Reach, this counted for more than any of those things. And in that currency, she was rich indeed. Faida rarely joined the Forsworn on their raids, and for the most part she only practiced her craft inside the Black Room. Only the Matriarch knew what she was capable of, and to the Forsworn of the northern Druadachs, Faida was much like the creatures that dwelt high in the Black Room: unknowable, and therefore more terrifying than any beast or man that could be seen. Even Asgen did not understand. Not really. He did not fear her like the rest, but even as her twin, he could not comprehend the things she'd seen and learned. He was not made to, Horothma once said, but that had not stopped Faida from trying to explain her craft to him more times than she could hope to remember. Once, she had even involved him in a very taboo ritual that, if successful, would grant her brother an audience with a spirit of the earth bones that the Matriarch claimed was nearly as old as their gods. Halfway through, Asgen promptly screamed before collapsing to the ground. He suffered violent nightmares the next two nights, but remembered nothing of the ritual itself or of what he'd seen that made him scream. That was the last time Faida pushed to include her brother in her training. Asgen did not mind, and in fact was very encouraging despite being left out. "You can get good at setting people on fire, and I'll get good at hitting them with sticks," he liked to joke, though he knew that her arts went far deeper than that. "We'll be the terrors of the Reach!" "Of the world," she would say right back. A week after her brother's return, Faida stood in the Black Room, deep in thought. She wondered if their little phrase would ever come to pass. Not even Horothma was a terror of all the world. But that could simply be because the Matriarch did not wish it so. The crone was pacing in front of her now, muttering in a guttural whisper as she often did after an extended divination. Very suddenly, Horothma's eyes snapped to Faida, which on its own had once been enough to frighten her just like it did everyone else in the clan. A single black talon was pointed her way. "Clever Brother wants to leave. And you, Greater Sister?" "I don't know what I want," she answered, honestly. Not that the Matriarch would have been tricked by any lies. "I don't care about the Nords, the Forsworn, or the King in Rags." "Nor I. Cretins, all. But these are his reasons. Leaving, his desire. Your brother had nothing here. You have everything." "He has me," Faida said back, a little more forcefully than she intended. But it was too late to backtrack now. "He wouldn't leave without me." "Affection makes him weak. Makes you weak too. He will leave and you will follow. All potential, squandered." If Faida did not know any better, she'd have thought that Horothma sounded regretful. She did know better, however. The Matriarch might have been a thousand years old and would likely live for thousands more. Faida could be her only student in an entire generation, and she'd still just be one out of hundreds. "We aren't weak." "He is. You, there is hope for. Potential unbridled. Go now. Soon, we speak to the gods." Faida walked past the center of the chamber, where a number of ritual components had been set upon a stone table. At present, they including the bones of a dream scamp and hair from a human witch, both sprinkled with vampire's ash. She still lacked the trapped soul of a veteran knight and the blood of a priest riddled with plague, but two of their best Briarheart ravagers had been sent west in search of these things nearly two months ago and could return any day. It was to be as great a summoning as Faida had ever performed. Since Spring ended, much of her time had been spent in preparation for it. When not asleep, eating, or with Asgen, she could usually be found in this spot, or more precisely, her body could be found in this spot. Faida's consciousness was more often some place else entirely, probing the edges of the worlds that were not her own, seeking out spirits both great and common, dominating and questioning them, learning what would be needed to call upon the old god she now sought. It had taken months, but Faida had her answer, and for the first time, the work was entirely her own. This was not without risks, of course. In fact, Horothma had made it clear that if something went wrong, it was very possible that even she would not be able to save Faida from whatever horrors their cruel god decided to inflict. But she had performed many summonings and spoken with many spirits. While nowhere near the master that the Matriarch was, Faida was far from a novice, and she felt confident that this would work. *** That evening, she returned outside a mess of emotions. There was of course the expected anticipation for the summoning, with all the excitement and nervousness that entailed, but also a certain amount of concern for her brother. She wasn't sure which feeling was greater at the moment. Faida found Asgen by one of the bonfires, regaling a group of children with tales of the time he had slain Gulibeg, an aspect of Lord Hircine. It had not taken long for his dark mood to fade once he'd gotten used to being back in camp. Though Faida knew his feelings persisted, her brother's normal good spirit was at full strength, which he demonstrated to the small gathering now. "... our lord was not content to merely take on the form of a greater stag than any to grace the Reach, no... the beast he appeared as was tall as a juniper tree and broad like a bear. His antlers could be mistaken for mammoth tusks- but with spikes! And yet, his step was graceful, lighter than a bird in flight. This was not a beast to be felled by skill alone. Only through patience and cleverness can one track such a creature. But I did. Three days alone, I spent, battling the cold and beasts of the wild with not but my furs, my bow, and a dagger made of bone. It was a brutal hunt, and the beast eluded me at every turn..." Faida folded her arms and tried to hide her grin as Asgen went on to describe his hunt in the most exaggerated and embellished fashion imaginable. Some of it was downright untrue, but the children either couldn't tell or didn't care. Storytelling was a gift of Asgen's, as was talking and commanding attention in general. Even some of the adults were now gathering to listen, and seemed enthralled despite the fact that most of them had seen the great stag's corpse with their own eyes and could not have possibly believed her brother's fables. Even now, most of the once-Bittermouths could never love a Nord, but where they had come to respect Faida through fear, many had come to at least tolerate, even enjoy, Asgen through pure charisma. "Many a great battle has been fought by the brave warriors of the Reach," he stated. "And I can't say whether my name belongs in the annals alongside those greats. That is for you to decide. But I can say that after such a mighty struggle, when I plunged my knife into Gulibeg's heart, I felt as if one with the legendary Red Eagle himself. I tell you this, I felt something in that moment, something other than his blood running down my fingers and pain from the wounds he inflicted with those antlers. It was like the hand of some heroic spirit was on my shoulder, congratulating me." The slack-jawed children cheered and bombarded him with questions, which he was all too happy to answer until one boy piped up. "How did you get him back?" Asgen blinked. "Huh?" "He was so huge. How did you bring him back all on your own?" Asgen hesitated just enough for Faida to chip in. "The river, of course." All eyes turned to her, their confusion evident. "Why, did my brother not tell you he was beside the river? As it happens, our camp back then was down- I mean upstream. Many miles, in fact. Trees were sparse, and he salvaged just enough wood to build a raft. And then used Gulibeg's antlers as oars to paddle home." The children looked to Asgen with renewed awe. Before another torrent of questions could erupt, he grinned and told them that he needed to go now. The children scattered, no doubt to find their own bows and start playing as huntsmen or practicing to become real ones. Faida joined her brother as the two of them headed for their tent. "What were you going to say?" "I'd have told them that my dear sister magicked the stag home for me, of course." She rolled her eyes and laughed, knowing damn well that's not what he'd have said. In Asgen's stories, Asgen was always the hero. She didn't mind. In fact, she preferred it that way. She knew that he would have included her in them more if he thought it otherwise. "So," Asgen continued, "Is there anything new from the Black Room?" "Still waiting on the Briarhearts." She hesitated, but wasn't about to keep secrets from her brother. "Horothma believes that you want to leave the clan." "Does she?" Asgen shook his head. "Well, seer or not, she doesn't know everything." He couldn't lie to her. "Asgen..." "Fine, aye, I've thought about it." His tone became slightly defensive. "But it ain't something I've planned or anything like that. I wouldn't leave without you anyhow, and I know you've got your training so that's not happening. It's just something I've thought is all. Gods, she is powerful isn't she?" "Incredibly." Though Faida was not entirely sure if even Horothma had the power to know how a person feels or thinks without even seeing them. She wondered if there wasn't more to it. Some kind of dream-invasion perhaps. If that was it, Faida would need to speak with her. Her brother's dreams were his own. They went on to talk about other things as they made their way for their tent. A scouting party had returned with word that there was talk of strife in High Rock's Iliac Bay region, meaning that the hated King Gaerhart's attention would be to the south. There would never be a better time to fortify and expand the Western Reach, particularly now that the the clans were more united than they had ever been. But no such orders had come from the King in Rags, and the various chieftains seemed to be in agreement that they would not abandon the east unless he willed it. Asgen was disappointed. While he didn't care much about the west or the Bretons, the confusion he had felt about his waning hatred for the Nords had gradually turned to full-on acceptance. Now that the men who'd taken his home from him were dead in the ground like so many others, he found it hard to go on despising the rest as his fellow Forsworn did. Blood and kinship mattered to the Reachmen, and the Nords were his kin. Maybe the others could wage war on his race, but the more Asgen thought on it, the less comfortable he became with the prospect. He hoped that things would change and they would go west, but so far this imprisoned king of theirs seemed solely focused on Markarth and the Nords. "He wants revenge," Asgen said to Faida, after filling her in on all the details he'd been told. "For what the Jarls did to them at Markarth." Asgen didn't know it for certain, but he was pretty damn sure. Until very recently, he had felt the exact same way. "If he wanted to build us a kingdom, we'd go west and have one, but what he wants is blood. I don't think any of this will last. What he's after won't lead anywhere." He knew that war and politics were not as interesting to his sister as the effects they had on the clan, so he was a little surprised by the uneasy look she took on. "So we're not leaving the valley?" "Not any time soon. He wants us here to keep an eye on the north." "Shame. I was ready for a change of scenery." She shrugged. "Ah well. Even if the King in Rags leads the Forsworn wrongly, we will still have Horothma. Even the Nords will not be a problem for her." Asgen was less sure about that. But then, his sister knew the Matriarch better than anyone. "Hopefully this summoning of yours will clear things up. Maybe ask the old gods if they can put some ideas in the king's head, eh?" *** The days became weeks, and then a month. Finally, the Briarhearts returned, one missing his left eye and sporting numerous cuts, but in their possession were the final two components needed for the ritual. It filled Faida with relief to finally place them on the stone table. She was nervous, but she did her best to subdue the feeling and concentrate on the task at hand. A slave was brought to the Black Room, a freshly-captured Nord who was young and fit. His physique and defiant stare made her curious as to how the warriors managed to capture him alive. But then, she had requested someone strong. Maybe they'd anticipated difficulty decided to bring a shaman along with them. Whatever the case, his strength was of little use now. The same two Briarhearts who had found her final components dragged him to the center of the Black Room with grips like iron cuffs, then chained him to the spot with actual iron cuffs. The Nord cursed her, of course, but half of the insults made no sense and the other half she actually found rather funny. Still, Faida showed no trace of interest in the man or his words as she set about painting a runed-laden circle around him with the diseased priest's blood, then proceeded to place the various other components around the circle in their intended positions. With everything in place and the conditions all met, Faida recited the incantation in the old tongue favored by the gods. She had practiced the words many times over, and did not stumble or stutter on a single syllable. No doubt, the Nord was terrified, but she could not focus on him. Nor on the sound of her own voice or even the watchful eyes of Horothma in the corner. When she was done, the glowing mushrooms withered and dimmed, bringing the Black Room ever closer to its name. There was silence, though in her mind's eye Faida could detect movement from above. The creatures of the mountain had suddenly become fearful and restless. The quiet was broken by a low wind-like noise that seemed to rush in from everywhere at once until it surrounded the chained Nord. Faida heard a shriek that was cut off almost instantly, and then a *snap*. The room fell silent once more, save for the deep breathing of the prisoner, and a foul smell, worse even than Horothma's, began to emit from the circle. In this new darkness, the Nord was barely a silhouette, but Faida knew at once that the figure standing before her was no longer the one she'd brought in. It had worked! She remained composed. Still speaking in the old tongue, she addressed the old god. "Dark Lady, it is good of you to answer my summons." The Nord's body was looking around. Though Faida could not see its eyes, she could tell that they were being aimed at the bloody circle around it’s feet, and then when its head turned up, she could feel them staring into her soul. When it spoke, the Nord's voice remained, though it was off. Wrong. Its new master spoke deeper and responded in the same language that Faida used. "You made them difficult to ignore. But why have you bound me to this spot? I do not speak to mortals as an equal. Release me now. Your god demands it." "You know I cannot do that, my Lady. I make these offerings and beseech you. Grant me your wisdom. Grant me your insight. I open my mind to you without fear." The thing's head cocked slightly to one side. "Enticing. Very well. You know what you must do, witch." She did. Faida stepped up to the circle and drew her trollbone dagger. This was the dangerous part. The Dark Lady was rare among her kind, capable of pulling the minds of mortals into her realm almost at will. It was enough to drive many mad. Once removed from the Nord's body, she would have a brief moment of freedom that could be exploited in a great many ways. It was up to Faida and the precautions she had taken to ensure that the the old god acted in her interest. The possessed Nord watched her raise the dagger, and made no effort to resist as she plunged the blade into its heart. The thing did not flinch. In fact, even as it bled from its chest, it looked down at the blade as if examining a scab. "That should do it," the Dark Lady mused. Faida pulled out the dagger and took a step back. Then the two of them waited. Half a minute passed before the Nord's body started to sway, and then promptly collapsed to the ground. Immediately, Faida started chanting again, reciting the ancient verses from memory. "Dark Lady, Gifter of Omens, venture not from my side... Dark Lady, Weaver of Panoply, my dreams are open to you... Dark Lady, Forbearer of Fear..." As Faida chanted, the wind-like sound returned, this time surrounding her. Above, the creatures in the dark scrambled like mad. What little light still given off by the mushrooms was snuffed out entirely, and although she steeled herself, nothing could have prepared Faida for the overwhelming force that assaulted her essence, smacking into her like the club of a giant. Her eyes rolled back, her knees buckled, and she fell to the cavern floor. ~~~ Faida opened her eyes. She was no longer in the cave, nor even the camp. The wooden floor beneath her was smooth and sturdy. The air smelled of spices and smoked meat. Climbing to her feet, she found herself confronted with an impossible sight: Her home. Her real home. This is impossible, she thought as she looked around the quiet little dwelling. They burned it. "Faida?" She turned. Coming down the stairs was her mother, garbed in her brown robe with the feather decorations. She was dark haired, fair skinned, and had eyes that were the iciest of blues. Only now that she was grown did Faida realize how much she and Asgen favored their mother. "Ma?" Her mother nodded, smiling, and said in a sweet voice. "You need to leave." Then the smile twisted into a sinister grin, and before Faida's eyes, her body started to bend and creak. Her skin sagged, pulling away from the bones like melted wax. While Faida screamed, the woman cackled and black feathers sprouted from her back and arms. Faida tried to run, but it was as though her legs had been rooted in place. She could only watch and cry as her mother's transformation into a hagraven was complete. Forbearer of Fear. The words jumped into Faida's mind like a shield tossed to an unarmed warrior. We are here together, the goddess and me. The spark of lucidity gave her courage, emboldened her. Faida closed her eyes and enacted her will on the dream. When she opened them again, she was surrounded by absolute darkness. From the black, a voice spoke. It was neither male nor female, not old or young. It was deep and powerful, the voice of an old god. "You will walk with the ancient." The darkness parted before her, up and down akin to an eyelid opening. As the black peeled back, it revealed a gigantic glassy-looking orb that was filled with shadows. They shifted and swirled, and appeared almost liquid in their makeup. Then the shadows suddenly drew together at the orb's center and deepened. It IS an eye, she realized. And it was focusing on her. Faida peered back, but the shadow was an endless well. It terrified her far more than the vision of her mother ever could have. The darkness surrounding the 'eye' edged down like the thing was squinting, but then behind it emerged a bright light that almost blinded her. It formed a star around the eye, and as it expanded, the darkness was driven away. The last thing she saw before being completely blinded was the shadowy eye glaring intensely at her from the center of the star. And then the voice spoke once more. "Delve deep." ~~~ Faida jolted awake, and observed from the smell that she was in the darkened Black Room once more. She cast a light spell and slowly climbed to her feet. The Nord prisoner was dead, of course, and the old god who had inhabited his body had no doubt returned to its realm. Something moved behind her. Turning, Faida drew her dagger and started to mutter a hex. But instead of... whatever shadow-eyed monster she'd expected, it was Horothma who awaited her. She resisted the urge to shudder as the image of her hagraven mother returned to mind. After a few moments' hesitation, she allowed her voice to break the uncomfortable silence. "It worked." "Yes," the old crone said with a nod. "You are fortunate, and not without skill." Faida wondered if the Matriarch had seen what she'd seen. If the crone could invade dreams, then who was to say that she hadn't done so with hers? I'd have felt her, she reminded herself. She'd felt the old god. Surely Horothma wouldn't have been able to allude her. "I saw my mother." "A powerful witch. You shall be a worthy heir." "She was... like you." The Matriarch nodded as if completely unsurprised. "What else?" Faida told her about the darkness, the thing she believed to be an eye, and the star behind it. She told her about the voice, what it sounded like, and what it said. As she spoke, the crone's wrinkled features gradually tightened with each new piece of information, and by the end, the deep lines were so dark they almost looked like Forsworn paint. Horothma stood there for a long time, contemplating it all, and then at last, she quietly said, "Next time, another god. The Dark Lady plays with us." Faida was a little disappointed with her answer, but right then her heart was still racing too fast for her to care. "I need to go see my brother." "Go." Faida left the chamber in a hurry. What she really needed to see was the sky. Some sun or moonlight, and fresh air to ease the terror that still gripped her bones. Once she put some distance between herself and the Black Room, Faida half-walked half-ran the rest of the way through the tunnels, and took in a deep breath of relief when she emerged outside to be greeted by the morning sun. That... thing. The eye. It was unlike any spirits or gods she'd ever convened with. It was no mere nightmare. It wanted her dead. Was it the eye of the Dark Lady in her true form, or something the old god wanted Faida to see? And who was this "ancient" she would walk with? Where was she supposed to delve? Through it all, her mother's voice returned to her mind like an echo. You need to leave. Asgen was sitting on a tree stump outside their tent. His hands were busy chipping points into the brittle stone they used to make arrowheads. He looked up and grinned when he saw Faida approaching, but the look quickly faded when he saw his sister's expression. "What's wrong?" She shook her head. "Later. My head hurts and I need some time to think." He put down his tools and rose from his seat. "But it worked? It went like it was supposed to?" Asgen had been so worried during the night that he'd actually tried to enter the cave himself, but a pair of Briarheart guards blocked his way. When he finally fell asleep, he suffered nightmares about his mother and monsters made of darkness. It was all a blur now, but it did serve to further his unease about his sister's ritual. "What did you see?" "I said, later!" she snapped, but upon seeing the hurt in Asgen's eyes, she immediately regretted it. "I'm sorry... it was just a lot a lot to take in." She nodded. "Yes. It worked." He smiled to let her know he understood. "At this rate, you'll be the Matriarch before we get out of this valley. And without even turning ugly." She laughed at that. Even after witnessing horrors beyond comprehension, Faida could count on her brother to brighten her mood. She decided to spend the rest of her day in the sun, using her talents to help out around the camp. Horothma and the Black Room weren't going anywhere. It was mostly busywork like brewing potions for the sick and poisons for the warriors, but all the while, she mulled over the vague messages that the old god had imparted her with. The sun was beginning to set when Faida came to a conclusion. The second time she found Asgen, it was near the edge of camp. He was practicing his axe-throwing with a pair of fellow pillagers. She took him aside and asked in a hushed voice. "Do you still want to leave?" "Wait, what?" His face took on a look of bewilderment. "Do you still want to leave?" "You mean the valley?" "I mean the Forsworn. The Reach." He hesitated, then nodded. "I feel the same as before. Why? Did Horothma say something else?" She shook her head. "No... But I say we do it. Leave. You want to, and I need to find something. Something I won't find here."Asgen stared at her. "Are you sure you're not still a little... off from the summoning?" "Maybe I am, but I don't care." She smiled and put her hands on his shoulders, gripping them hard. "The moons will be dark in three nights. We'll be able to leave before anyone even knows." Asgen's shock was slowly melting into excitement. "Where will we go?" "Wherever we want." He grinned at that. "I can fight. And you're as good as any shaman. Better. Why couldn't we make it out there?" He hesitated. "What about your training?" "It's a big country. I can find someone else. Or maybe I'll just teach myself, like Ma." With every word, Asgen was more convinced. "I've still got some valuables from the last raid. We can sell them for coin." "And I can borrow some supplies and say it's for my work. Nobody will question it." The twins stared at each other, both thinking the same thing. Are we really doing this? But the shared determination in their eyes was all the answer either of them needed. Damn the Forsworn and their hopeless war. Damn Horothma and her cravings for power. They were not children anymore. They could survive without any of it. And so the Tyne twins set to work, preparing to venture out into a world they had never known. The Dark Lady 3 Quote It's always nice when your writing gets reinforced by the canon after you come up with it. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheCzarsHussar Posted February 11, 2020 Share Posted February 11, 2020 Voice of the Insular ImmaculateEthurmenas nyr-Rem Author's Preface and Letter to the Patron ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Most gallant gentry folk, as spectacular it may be to consider this, but the very parchment was not by the hands of Man, nor by the hands of Mer, nor Beast, nor illusion visage. No, this lay prestige is brought to existence by the hand of noble Royal Roscrean. Kin to Giants and far flung of man, hoary and ageless, perked of ear, broad and wide of brow and body. Indeed we are ghastly of appearance but time and faith has meld our noble lives belike that of civilized folk from Cyrodiil. Know this all gallant men, our bright-shores bring inland all glory that Cyrod Great and Far have brought. To say we are ignorant, barbarous is a gross mark. Deep rooted is our love of the Imperial culture, deep rooted is the tongue of commonalty, deep rooted are the divines of none less than nine. By the glory of Talos-by-the-Eight, think well of my people, and my writ. If any is found lacking, then by no other fault is it but mine, and I ask forgiveness for any muses to be found dullard. It is the hope that most gallant and gentry patrons will put to heart, in good faith, the story of Roscrea. Be good in faith. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Roscrea of Musses As any true-worded Historiographer may speak, Roscrea was a realm divided into realms within realms. Harsh-Touched by Mother Hag, whom could not grasp all the island, her frozen fingers stretched from Atmora. Godsblessed and fortunate were we that green havens of warmth and plenty were left beyond her touch. Nestled and bountiful in oasis the sons of Roscrea, like rabid war hounds coveted one another. In vast and passionate Royal Basin, swaths of fortholding petty despots waged ignorant barbarous war against one another. With stone and tusk-tipped spear our ancestors knew not how pitiable their lives were, without benevolent Cyrod Great and Far. Yet while these ancestor-folk should be pitied for ignorance, there yet remains a true heathenish power. Dragon addled worshippers of high and flat Middland used great power of sin to usher glass and iron into spears and axes. There and then to here and now, they are doomed spiritually and culturally. The Soothingtooth In distant history, the great and mighty Uralseptim Soothingtooth came to blistered fortholdings of easternrealms. Though his might of arms shattered any warrior-hold that challenged he or his army of champion retainers, it was his beautiful words, without flaw and bearing the many-truths that swayed our ancestors. So the ancestors called this brave Cyrod, Soothingtooth! His uniting word brought all eastern born Roscrean to his beloved bannerheld, the beloved warrior-king beyond kings so loved our people that from ordained and true throat he SHOUTED splendor into our hearts. For this king beyond kings was ordained by higher gods. Though ignorant and heathenish the westernborn Roscrean could not comprehend his gifting shout, and so called him false in all things, and laid curses in tongues of horrible breath. Ordained Royalty The Soothingtooth in all his wisdom wished only goodness upon our ancestors. With those warrior-holds that challenged him smashed into amusing wretch-puddle, there remained only rewards to gift and incur loyalty. The loyal despotic nobility that which saw divinity in the Soothingtooth were not only allowed the pedestal of high nobility but were taken in the wing like father bird and shown something greater. Royal Roscreans were they and as am I, uplifting Cyrod Great and Far laid foundation for Atmoriant to live as proper civilized Imperial. The secret of steel, the secret of crop, the secret of great knowledge. These were gifted unto the Royal Roscrean and transformed our kin, from petty fort-builders to wealthy, intelligent, and prosperous estate landed nobility. There is no river to be found, nor lake, nor tributary in which there are not fine swaths of plantation estates. Ours is the rural world, power the Royal Roscreans hold in all things beyond cities and castles. The New Ros The time of Muss was passed, heralded by brilliant new ways of life. The lives of native Ros were not only that which changed, the champion retainers of the Soothingtooth settled deeply in all corners of the east. There many of Nord and Cyrod stock found wives and husbands among our people. These unions of biracial wedlock sprung a young new race unseen to the realm. Strong and stout yet not as great as we, brave and wise yet not as great as we. The Royal Ros saw faces of half and half, bodies of half and half. The grand nobility found the union utterly Vulgar, and so called the descendants of man and Atmoriant. Vulgar Ros. Though no harshness was brought to these sons and daughters, they were not true nobility and could never be as we the Royal Ros. Our linage, that of the Royal Ros, remains untouched by such vulgarity. Our love of Nord-and-Cyrod cannot fully extend to these offspring, and so few can take up our lifestyle in the landed Estates. Insular Immaculate The final voice of note. Though any man of Cyrodiil can find familiar standings in our realm, it is only we who are enlightened of the island. The Haafingar-Folk have overtaken rule in the west through golden annexation and I find little familiar of their Dowry Hold. They are Nordic through and through, and lack the sophistication the Cyrods and Royal Ros, who are blessed with cultural and spiritual upliftings. Abhorrent kinsmen of the high and flat Middland are yet still untouched by our ways, and scorn our splendor. They are hopeless heathens, attached to a dead religion and near monotheistic of worship. Finally the terrifying theology of white cloaked visage, they are unlike anything of warmth and comfort. Their way is that of mystery and obscure faith, there is nothing to love or enjoy in their frozen-minded way. Ours is the only true way. Blessings of the divines, of which there are no less than nine. Blessings of the divine Talos-by-the-Eight. Third faithful blessing to the court of Cyrod, may the tower stand forever. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheCzarsHussar Posted February 18, 2020 Share Posted February 18, 2020 Boreal Lowlands, Myrumbrian Tundra, Boarstruffles and the Clans of Bone.Ethurmenas nyr-Rem, Second Edition Date of Publication, 4E 103 Author's Preface and Letter to the Patron ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Most gallant gentry folk, it is the assumption of this collection of parchments that the patron has concluded their reading of the previous piece in this collection. Of which seeks to replace the aged and rather incorrect of statement Imperial Pocket Guide's Upperboral Provinces. The patron can trust with assurance of the abilities of one most long-written author. As good standing member of the local Geographical Society branch, it falls within my sphere to educate the most noble of patrons to the histories of beloved Roscrea. In this endeavor, since the publication of the previous collection, Voice of the Insular Immaculate, I, the author has partaken a tremendous journey of census taking and histographic work across the island. Indeed the years were most kind between this writing and the previous work. Eight years spent away from familiarity, it is the opinion of the author that he has grown in experience. Still should anything of my writ be found lacking or dullard I ask forgiveness, it is no fault but my own. Be in good faith. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Beyond the Oasis-Havens Roscrea, woefully witnessed the fate of Atmora, cursed and frozen, with Mother Hag's harsh-touch. This god-spirit of Fryse Hags' worship held deep desire to include Roscrea within her forlorn realm, she weaved frozen ocean, breathed frost-cursed monsoon, and harsh-touched the island with infinite winter. Though her power waned with the kingdom of death in northrealm Atmora. Grasping and spiteful the death spirit was but lacking of mettle to destroy the bright-splendor in full. So spoke I, of bountiful lands of still-green. Short summers do we still encounter, when ice comes to our realms, it melts right and proper. We return spite with spite. Civilization, both blessed by Cyrod Great and Far, and otherwise has overcame the death spirit's desires. It was written previously of the realms settled and long sprouted of roots. Yet in wide swaths of little number, there are other ways of life. Whom roam the vast tundras or dwell in eternal hunt of the lowlands. Boarstruffles and the Boreal Lowlands Isolated from everyday thought, and indeed by excessive distance from civilization is the city-state of Boarstruffles. Though to consider it anywhere resembling a city is a gross mark. Roscrea in being a volcanic isle is by it's very nature, mountainous. Though all the remaining places of terrifying underground wrath remains in the Middland Plateau in the westernrealms, much of the island is sprung with high brow mountains of frozen pine forests. It is a wonder then that any wildlife can survive in the high mountains as surely without crop how could Atmoriant ever survive? To this the answer lies in the boreal lowlands of central Roscrea, the undeveloped landscape is suitable for the most hardy of crops as the worst of winter is kept in the highlands. However, it is not the tending to farmsteads that the wild peoples of the lowlands occupy their livelihood with. These forester-folk are obsessive of Kyne and spend all their thoughts on the hunting, and taming of wildlife. Namely the massive boars native to the lowlands, but also saber cats, reindeer and bears. Nestled in the lowland valley at the cusp of a glacial river floodplain between three mountain ranges is the anomaly of Boarstruffles. Boarstruffles is the beating, rather literally I might add to the patron, heat of this hunter-gatherer lifestyle. It is a close knitted collection of a hundred and thirty structures called Brochs. Hollow dry stone structures typically surrounded by an outer wall with a few smaller structures for housing animals within. When one ponders about townships and cities, the consensus is a good collection of households, perhaps industry and a ruling keep, manor, palace or castle that governs said settlement, protected by some form of palisade. Boarstruffles is a peculiar thing of a great many walled households spread across the floodplain, each Broch can support an entire familiar clan. The settlement is not so much an urban center as a collection of cooperating, single minded clans each self governing within their Broch. The ruling body of Boarstruffles are the Elder Hunters Guild. A gathering of clan fathers of their households that preside within the, very apt equipped, mead hall. Boarstruffles is by no means a place of squalor and struggle. Indeed what is really a confederation of clan-houses practically drown in their own kind of splendor. Boarstruffles serve as an invaluable crossroads between west and eastern Roscrea, which without the city-state would be impossible to traverse by land. Reindeer herding nomads from the west and mammoth riding nomads from the tundra make constant journeys across the island, with Boarstruffles at the center of it. Thus it is the true center of trade in all of Roscrea, a facet that is seldom thought of. Yet it's head of trade between the nomads isn't the only thing of note, in fact it is dwarfed by the eternal occupation of it's peoples. It's familiar clans are master hunters, not one day passes where related kin bring in slain boars, of which infests the lowlands. Each month, hundreds of tusks are carved by the greatest bone-carvers of all the isle into tools, idols, weapons and even armor. The splendor of their hunters is on how decorated in bone they are. The great old hunters are equipped in full armors of boar tusk, carved into layers of lamellar. A terrifying sight to behold. They shun all metallurgy, their entire way of life revolves around hunter gathering and bone crafting. Salt from the Myrumbrian Tundra keeps the supply of meat from spoil and allows both healthy diet for the hunterfolk and to trade abroad. The wealthy that eat meat, eat boar meat. Hunted and killed in the lowlands, salted and traded. They've remained unconquered and are passive in the affairs of other powers. The Soothingtooth understood the importance of Boarstruffles and as they made no resistance to his spectacular conquest, his armies of champion retainers never turned sword and spear against them. Neither has there been any land grants or settlement, for lack of industry, although wild Nords have made the lowlands their home. Religiously the folk of the lowlands follow a more archaic worship of the Nine, that being a more primitive fashion not too far off from that of Skyrim. Kyne is worshiped vehemently, their culture praises honorable conflict and noble hunting. It is good they remain in isolation, in tune with Kyne and forever in hunt. Otherwise I believe they would be unparalleled warriors, only madmen hunt wildlife as large as they! Mammoth-Tribes of the Tundra If Boarstruffles is the anomaly of settled life outside the oasis-havens of east and west, then the nomadic tribes of the Myrumbrian Tundra is the commonality found. They roam across the tundra and oft across the mountain valleys into the west and back again. The westernmost of the tundra is sprung in expansive forests of hardy-root pines that have long lost all leafs, this ancient forest is stagnant and will never grow again, with each frost rotten-tree felled it dwindles evermore. Eastward in a strange mirror of the Royal Basin, of which lies to the south of the most expansive tundra, the land is mostly flat with sparse patches of vegetation of and countless frozen rivers. In ancient times the great expanse of rivers, creeks and springs held a distant civilization, that flourished in the yet still green landscape. Now only frozen ruins of dragon worshiping ancestors dot the landscape.All that remains of what once might have been is the timberline between the River Ros and the Myrumbrian Tundra, a beautiful if not small stretch of of plentiful vegetation of colorful reddish brown shrubs and grass, rich for grazing but worthless of farmstead. As one way of life dies, another springs up to replace it. So have the mammoth riding nomads, that dwell and roam as far back as written history. These native tribesmen, of which have absolutely no understanding of unity, are collections of families bound in kinship that eek out a living in the harsh permawinter landscape, far from warmth and comfort. It is not surprising that only Atmoriants can maintain this lifestyle, even the hardiest of Nords would freeze to death in the tundra as the nomads no nothing of fire and warmth. They hunt and fish below the frozen topped water while their mammoths grazed under the permafrost. They hardly consider themselves Roscrean, for they do not recognize that clan. There is nothing beyond kinship to these nomads and each clan might as well be a great kingdom in of itself, for the elder of the family is the highest authority. Often do they come into conflict with other clans, often times over the right to pan for salt or amber in a general area. The largest of these ever in migration clan conflicts are awe inspiring. The clan that took me within the family in my journey showed me ancient battlegrounds, where the bodies of Atmoriant and mammoths were left in permanent frost as landmarks. The unyielding cold preserving their corpses. These nomads live by trading the amber and salt, of which the tundra is plentiful in, to both the Roscrean Principate, my realm of birth, and across the mountains to Boarstruffles and further west to the Haafingar-Folk and Middland Plateau. Salt is worth it's weight in gold, but what these nomads most pride themselves in is the taming and breeding of mammoths. Atmoriants cannot ride horses, of which there were none in Roscrea before the Soothingtooth. Indeed our mount of luxury and war has always been the mammoth, and nowhere else but the Myrumbrian Tundra are do they dwell anymore. It is an expensive thing to even maintain mammoths outside the tundra, it is far cheaper for men to own horses. Clans will travel great distances across Roscrea to sell prized breeds to the wealthy Atmoriants for exorbitant prices. The township of Myrumbricum, north of the River Ros is a primary trading hub for the wandering clans. Amber, salt and mammoths are bartered for us folk in the east and are much more plentiful of stead. Thus let it be said that there is a way of life, in defiance to our situation, in the far off frozen landscape beyond the oasis-havens. Blessings of the divines, of which there are no less than nine.Blessings of the divine Talos-by-the-Eight.Third faithful blessing to the court of Cyrod, may the tower beam forever. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheCzarsHussar Posted April 9, 2020 Share Posted April 9, 2020 City of Ecoriobriga, RoscreaHymnal Shrine of Ald-Tusk4E 201 Across all of Roscrea, never was there anything to excel in the power and grandeur of Ald-Tusk's Hymnal Shrine. No temple, nor any alter, or mead-talk dedicated to the foreign near-enemy Nine greater then which has been dedicated to the brother of Shor. In the heart of the ancient once-ruins of the old priestly seat of power in Roscrea, it's untouched radiance belike the Dov themselves was greater than even the king's palatial-citadel, as should all things divine and wondrous above the mundane are. Natives and foreign colonists alike are awed by it's majesty. It's rich interior was forthwith crafted by the pinnacle of holy sciences, and while the voices of gods have long left mortal ears deafened, they are yet still praised within. Priestly voices chanting in holy tongues echo with infinite brilliance and perfect tonal reverberance. So the faithful within hear the mighty voice of dragons echoing past mortal throats, affirming the grandeur with rites and holy edicts, they await and praise the return of the Ald-Tusk. The Epoch Mural, illuminated by the burning balefires and swinging candel-censers of priests showed a near perfect painted mural of the sky and clouds at the cusp of sunset, centered by the splendor of an wing-outstretched Ald-Tusk. Red of eye, immaculate of tusk, and black of wing, who's coming form promises a new dawn encompassed the shrine, from entrance to alter with the form of Ald-Tusk covering the brilliance of dawn behind his dark form. The words Eternity, Kalpa, Creator, were inscribed beneath Ald-Tusk in the old tongue of gods. Thousands of years of reverence has come to fruition, visions of the communal priesthood foresaw the Return. They dreamed of annihilation and woke to the destruction wrought onto the sinful Nords in the far off land of Skyrim. And while the Nordic world panicked and cried for the beast to sleep, the faithful Middlanders took to celebration and the preparation of funerary rites. They had their Kalpic salvation, accursed hall of Shor forsaken. Adorned in full priestly garb, the Lord of Processions Alduacer Horned-of-Hymn, great great grandchild of the still-living King Cassivelogenos partook in holy sermon within the Hymnal Shrine. "The promised end come, King of Dawn who's fire-stomach creates the succeeding world, we welcome you." He spoke first in the language of the nobility. The communal priesthood chanted praise to Ald-Tusk in the language of gods, the faithful attendants of the nobility bowed their heads as the echo-voice took to the path of vocal ascension.Ald Awaken, break every seal, bestow your rite upon every being which existed as you willed it. We will burn and bleed for you, for you save us all. "The funerary rites are preformed, we the righteous followers of godly writ have accompanied your will from earliest breath, to our final of which will be in your praise." The communal priesthood whispered fire into the censers, it's incense and ghostly purple hue shone light upon the Epoch Mural, and smoke mingled with the clouds. Again the priesthood chanted praise to Ald-Tusk in the language of gods. The adhering nobility partook in chant by invoking Ald's name, and it rung with the power of ancient kin who's echoes preserved in the shrine. Ald Take Flight, spread your maw and clamp hard upon the snakes that betray your purpose. We will sing your war-glory into the afterlife. "As father governs son, as lord governs father, as priest governs lord, as god governs priest. We adhere to the ancient writ, we the last of your faithful. Carry the souls of our forebears gently in maw, let us not slip into your stomach." The communal priesthood rumbled a chant in song, perfectly tuned their voice became one, the voice likened of a higher Dov. Ald World-Eater, fly into the afterlife and release the warriors of yore from maw, sunder the hall of Serpent. We will carry the spear engraved ALD. "As the sun sets upon this Kalpa, do not beget forlorn thoughts. It is but a short and passionate death, and then we shall live a new dream altogether. Pass your blessing Ald, to the darkened void and from your voice birth a new Kalpa. The memory of death will be but a distant thing, as we see the sun set on the old Kalpa, and turn to face something brilliant and new." The very shrine shook at the communal priesthood's invocation, their chant in the old language of gods were perceived not only as a higher Dov, but a divine hearsay-glimpse of Ald-Tusk's voice itself and all knew his will would not fail. Ald Immaculate, come divine breath in full and carry the dawn anew. We witness your light of creation, blessed by your divine mandate. Destroyer and Lifegiver, God above all Gods, We welcome you, carry us to Kalpic Salvation. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheCzarsHussar Posted April 15, 2020 Share Posted April 15, 2020 (edited) Compilation of Old Ros Skaldic OralsThe Sea-Berserker It was so, that twain favored winds beget the Tribes of Oarcrafters to take the whaleskin sails and whalewood oars to sea. For Kaan's storms blew hard and furious towards the Far East and all the coast-tribes smelt good salt in the watery air. Taken far and broad by the monsoon's furious breath was a sea-tribe, whom's name eponymous with the saga, of which crunched-and-munched the jellyfish. The sea-tribe was clever and unbound by wood, and whale, and bone. Their chieftains breathed into the world great ice-fortresses to freeze the whales and willed the wind to blow, of which the monsoon needed little willing. Like which the ice-fortresses float and sail, they found themselves shuttled farther north than what was desired to raid the scale-demons. For no amount of battle-roars and harsh tongue can convince the ice not to be with fellow ice. And so the sea-tribe drifted beyond Kaan's monsoon and sailed through northern currents. Assailed like all raiders are, the sea-ghosts wailed and casted their numbing misfortune. Trying to melt the ice by warm currents, or whisper deceits of good whale hunting in dread-whirlpools. Yet to one of the tribe, maddened and wide of eye from suckling on the jellyfish at birth did one sea-ghost wisp and attempt ail. And yet ail did the sea-ghost make. For the madman breathed cold winter upon the spirit and froze it with form. As madmen oft do to creatures of the sea, a morbid beauty was seen in the frozen form-given sea-ghost. Overpowered with strength of arm and word he bedded the thing. Immediately as the ice melted in their passion the sea-ghost gave birth and drifted away in their otherworldly fashion. A stillborn cockle harder than any stone or noble-iron left behind. The madman voice-hewed the shell into a mace greater than any that Ros may hold. The cockle-mace would never crack nor dull, and stubbornly defied devil-magic-woven-armor. The sea-tribe no longer ailed by northern currents nor sea-ghosts set sight upon the frozen shores of Boreal-Far-East. Their chieftains fuming and red of face at the sight of other tribes, bound in kinship, sailing back with riches and good meat, for none of the kinship tribes sailed in ice-fortresses, as we know now that ice will not set sail south. Beached in corral reefs the tribe burst from the ice and swam the distance to shore, of which is incredible as we are poor swimmers. So did the madman feel an all too familiar sensation envelop his body under the frigid sea. Submersing himself under the water to see what challenged him, so did he see a great maned jellyfish with it's uncountable tendrils about his body. "What manner of snow-devil are you?" Asked the jellyfish who's vicious poison could not harm the madman. But the madman knew not the language of jellyfish and so grasped the thing in hand and dragged it to shore. The sea-tribe was in awe at the madman's prey so enveloped around his body, that one went and approached the maned jellyfish and was struck and slain by it's poisonous tendril. Furious and, even further mad stricken, at the loss of a tribesman the madman slew the maned jellyfish. Furious that the blood-price was poorly paid, as death is a poor substitute to pay, the madman ripped apart the jellyfish's translucent, yet hued with a lovely blue, head and fashioned it to his round shield. Yet not enough, the madman tore apart every tendril that wrapped about his body and voice-hewed it into a whip of endless tails. Still unhappy with the blood-price the madman cloaked himself in the jellyfish's mane. Finally satisfied at the blood-price and set of arms, of which the jellyfish-hide round shield repulsed all manors of devil-magic, bouncing off it's moist body. The uncountable tendrils fashioned as an endless splitting whip could strike anything dead with it's piercing poison, even finding paths through the tightest of chainmail. And the maned-cloak drove him further mad with a battle fury from it's constant prickling and little burns. So was the madman called Sea-Berserker, and in raids with the scale-devils they asked in terror as their magics bounced off his shield, arms pierced by jellyfish tendrils and battle-cries drowned out by his fury. "What manner of snow-devil are you?" But the madman was a berserker, and talked not to the foes that soon lay dead and stripped. For the sea-tribe returned not with good meat and riches, but the stripped arms of iron and steel from those that lay dead at the hands of the madman. So that is why if all you coast-tribes pray really really hard on your raids, that the ghost of the Sea-Berserker will drift dreaded maned jellyfish to your longboats to strip the head to your shields, unhinge the tendrils into endless whips of poison and don the manes of which will drive you into battle-fervor. Edited April 15, 2020 by TheCzarsHussar 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheCzarsHussar Posted April 30, 2020 Share Posted April 30, 2020 (edited) Roscaereath, The Montane Palace.Ethurmenas nyr-Rem Author's Preface and Letter to the Patron ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Most gallant gentry, it is the assumption of this collection of parchments that the patron has concluded their reading of the previous chapter in this collection. Of which seeks to replace the aged and rather incorrect of statement ImperialPocket Guide's Western Roscrea. Thus in following chapter it is with my humble esteem of writ that the patron of this work may understand the fascinating history of my native people's landmarks of population. Our struggles with collapse, the change towards a semi-nomadic lifestyle, and the affiliation with civilization that ever likens us to the civilized Tamrielic peoples. We are no lesser. Should anything of my writ be found lacking or dullard I ask forgiveness, it is no fault but my own. Be in good faith. Survivor of the Theological Collapse Long before recorded history began in the west with the rediscovery and translation of the draconic language, Roscrea was devastated by a near mythological collapse. The ancient religious centers were left in ruin, with all primordial record lost with it. What little is known of that period was the prevalence of palatial citadels, a facet of life that would make a return in the plateau, and their urban populations. The oral traditions of the Middland Plateau long after the collapse shows a semi-nomadic lifestyle, with tribes traversing the many hundreds of rivers, lakes, and glacial canyons of the plateau for grazing grounds. While a few tribal populations were sedentary farmers with sparse earthen fortresses, they were the minority; However, these populations would dominate the plateau at the dawn of recorded history. Secluded in the mountains of the southern plateau remained the palatial citadel of Rocaereath, long abandoned by it's priestly lords yet residence was taken from the local highlanders whom were once subjects. These were the prosperous inhabitants of the Roscaen Gorge, of which the palace was named in honor. The gorge reigned from the high frozen mountains where it's glaciers partially melt during the warm season and flooding the gorge flood plain, before receding in the winter. Residing throughout the entire gorge atop it's canyons, they tend to the winter-hardy Dragonstalk Sugarcane at the valley, the only source of sugarcane on the island. The cycle of flooding and receding allows rich sediment and good harvests. Form meets function and with the grand citadel avoiding neglect and ruin, continuing to rule a content sedentary population unwilling to devolve to a semi-nomadic lifestyle, they survived where nearly all other urban centers collapsed. League of Long Roscaen For an long age, Roscaereath was the only urban center west of Stonemoss, itself deserving of a chapter of note, and dominated the surrounding highlander tribes around the gorge. However, prehistoric hegemony left lawlessness beyond the clan structure and the Roscaen Gorge was beset by marauding non-Roscaenic tribes. At this period of time Roscaereath encompassed the palatial citadel itself, far flung from the modern city and struggled to protect it's subject gorge farming population, spread across the entire gorge it was impossible to defend every stalk-stead terrace. Roscaereath declined tremendously after the collapse, losing much in the way of prestige, stalk-terraces and rural population. Strong chieftains came and went, expanding the settlement of the gorge then losing it upon their decline. Only the increasing advent of settled life within the plateau could allow for the reemergence of their lordship. While the exact period is uncertain, what is theoretically dated some time in the First Era, Roscaereath would develop hegemony across the entire gorge. The now growing township was blessed with a string of strong chieftains and valiant retainers, a monumental project was commissioned by the palace-court. Earthen mound walls were ordered to be built, encompassing the entire gorge with the settled rural folk expected to assist in it's construction and manning. While crude and basic, it had to be considering the sheer magnitude of manpower needed, the commission was carried out over an Atmoriantry generation, for the patron that is roughly a century. The patron need consider that this territory was rough and mountainous, and was already an issue for hostile mobilization only further impeded by the simple earthen mound walls at the time. At that period of time only Roscaereath had the massive organizational capabilities to construct such a monument. After the firm foundations of their monumental work had finished, the complete hegemony over the gorge was complete. Centuries prior to the advent of recorded history, the Roscaen League was formed with Roscaereath as it's capital. The first large scale communal structure was formed since the Theological Collapse, in time the league of tribes would form into a kingdom and set about the conquest of the Middland Plateau, and Old Dowry. Cult of Meridimagna With a firm understanding of the early known history of Roscaereath and it's dominion over the Roscaen Gorge, it is pertinent that the beliefs and cult-worship of their state be understood. After the religious void the collapse of the dragon cult created, it is unknown how many nature cults were whisked into existence. There is little evidence the Nordic Pantheon had any wide scale worship in the Middland Plateau. What dominated the beliefs of the prehistoric tribes was in their environment. The complete reliance on the ebb and flow of the Roscaen Gorge flood plain dominated the people of Roscaereath and the gorge at large. Without the melting and refreezing of the highland glaciers their society couldn't exist, the only farming to be done in the mountain was through canyon terraces. Everywhere in the vicinity was either barren ash desert, acidic boiling lakes, and active lava plots. Prior to recorded history they observed it was during the months of Mid Year and Sun's Height that the warm season was at it's peak, that from Magnus they received life. To the Roscaen tribes Magnus and the light, and heat of which sustained them and nourished them. In admittedly theologically primitive cultures, compared to the Divines of which there are Nine, it was the relationship of sustainer and nourisher that beget worship. However for as much as their early culture worshiped Magnus, it was formless and otherwise empty, with a drought of iconography to worship, a holdover from the dragon cult was the obsession of the physical to worship. According to oral legend-history a Roscaen Frost-Hag was practicing her craft in the highlands when she formed an ice-prism while practicing frost-javelincraft. That at the height of day the light of Magnus reflected so perfectly within her ice-prism that a rainbow of colors refracted in impossible ways into the reflection-form of the Daedric Prince Meridia. Believing herself to be an aspect of the sun, the frost-hag threw herself in prostration and praised the gifts of life her warmth and light bring each year. Collusion with Daedra are oft never good, so it is fitting and ironic that the transaction which they partook in is lost to time. Nevertheless the worship of Magnus continued, warped and changed into a cult dedicated to a personified deity. And in so doing they worship neither Magnus nor Meridia, but a altogether perturbing amalgamation they call Meridimagna. In doing so they are classified in the census as Daedric worshipers. In their defense they truly do believe to worship the sun, but Meridia is their icon they desperately need, though her influence is felt on their worship. Perhaps the most glaring thing being the symbol of their kingship, although originating during the time of the league, being a long haired native woman in the nude, bearing three sugarcane stalks in her left hand facing outward as if to be taken, while her right bearing an ice-prism taking in the sun's reflection and refracting a rainbow of light downwards to a glacier. The symbolism is obvious if not striking and rich in depiction. Kingship and the Dawn of History Native historiographers universally associate the beginning of recorded Roscrean history with the ascension of Kreinalhd Sun-King. Kreinalhd itself is a corruption of the dragonic words Magnus and Destroyer, it can be derived he was the chieftain of Roscaereath and likely a man of the clever craft. Kreinalhd was a terror invoking tyrant at the height of Roscaereath's power, something he exercised to a point. The Roscaen League under Kreinalhd was organized on a large scale and under the preceding chieftains had expanded beyond the gorge into the lowland, defeating and absorbing tribes that dwelt on good land. Warfare at the time was dominated by duels between bands of nobles and their retinues and champions. This was the way of the conquest from the beginning of time, even under the ancient religion, and while it worked well for the league in times past, it had also hampered their growth. Kreinalhd's parents failed in a duels of retinue's against the growing chiefdoms at the plateau's southern coast. Kreinalhd was in warfare passionate and hateful, fighting in his father's retinue when his chieftaincy remained, and according to written records long after his conquests Kreinalhd's father was felled in a duel with a rival chieftain despite his retainers outnumbering the rival's three to one. He grew to hate duels between champions and retinues, and when Kreinalhd stroked the fervor of war his authority commanded every father and son of every family to hew stone into spear and arrowheads, and commanded his nobles and retainers to don their mail and iron of arm. It was at the head of a host which Kreinalhd wage war against his rival chiefdoms. Roscaen traditions of warfare against semi-nomadic raiders raised a culture adapt and favorable to the greatbow, a warbow of such draw strength that no human could pull it back, even for Atmoriants only the strongest could loose the arrows. When rival nobles and chieftains would sally from their homesteads to challenge Kreinalhd and his champions, they were met with the loosing of great arrows, that pierced the first rank, and pierced the second rank, and pinned the shields of the third rank to their arms. And the host of Kreinalhd would sack the foe's homesteads and enslave their sons and daughters. His host was the greatest the island had seen since the collapse and discouraged resistance by acts of destruction on his enemies, yet showing restraint and even rewards on the tribal strongeholds that surrendered to Kreinalhd and his host. These were the tribes absorbed into the league and added to the host. With only a year of chieftaincy under his ordained person, the Roscaen League had expanded throughout the entirety of the southern plateau. His host had conquered every lake-tribe, every hill-tribe, every coast-tribe, every canyon-tribe, and river-tribe between the ash-deserts and the coast of the south. It was later recorded that Kreinalhd returned to Roscaereath, with his victorious Roscaen portion of his host, alongside their share of slaves. By claim of divine right of conquest he and his priests proclaimed Kreimalhd Sun-King, first king of the Roscaerean Kingdom. Note to the patron, is that while debated, the Roscaen tribes are likely the origins of the island's name. Their kingship is very linguistically similar to the modern name. His kingship was no less bloodthirsty for conquest as he was fine mead! But was unwilling to stretch his host thin. Instead of pressing beyond the ash-deserts and frozen mountain paths to conquer the rest of the plateau, he instead spent sixty years administering his kingdom and integrating it fully. Very few monarchs of any culture, Roscrea or otherwise can be likened to such restraint, five hundred companions conquered all of Skyrim after all. He was wise to adhere towards tribal absorption. It is estimated that Kreinalhd was in his early hundred ten's when his realm was fully stable. He had conquered by means of a peasant army headed by a band of skilled nobles and retainers, conquered dis-unified and sparse tribes and chiefdoms. During the twilight midway of his life he was the head of a thousand warbands of bondsmen with household guards of retainers in the hundreds, lording a kingdom birthed into stone with proto-feudal governance. During this period he integrated the conquered tribes by means of kinship through marriage and indebted the nobles to his court by the giving of lavish gifts. Roscaereath's artisans and stone masons became fabulous and wealthy through several restorations of ancient ruins and established new settlements. The lengthy stretches of earthen walls that encompassed the gorge were built upon, wooden palisades were replaced with stoneworks of more advanced design, something that still remained well into the Forth Era. To this very day the region is still among the most urbanized in western Roscrea. Concurrent in this period was the reemergence of the Isle of Long Stones in the late First Era. Nor was Kreinalhd inactive in his aspirations of war, he had trusted sailor-folk sail across the island observing the coasts, and hardy scouts foot through the ash-deserts and observe the tribes across the plateau. It was much different than the south at the time of his conquest. There were countless walled villages and hill-forts beholden to moderate townships in the west beyond the plateau, while within the plateau the growth of urban centers was making a return and the chiefdoms were becoming wealthy from rich farming and good mining. It was a very familiar mirror to what Roscaereath and the league had been...centuries ago. The Sun-King would delay no longer and with good footing found through an ash-desert, his grand host swept through the north and laid waste to hill-forts, and sacked disobedient townships, and enslaved entire villages. Tribes and chiefdoms united in confederations and kingships of their own to halt the Sun-King, but when they finally mustered the numbers to challenge him in the field it was poorly matched up. There at the ruins of the ancient seat of power in Roscrea, the two arms took to the field. Neither sent in champions to duel, that was met with arrows when done before. Kreinalhd's grand host were veterans of conquest and had spoils of war and many wore armor of gambeson and mail, against the peasantry amassed to protect their homesteads and the nobles with their retinues. The loosing of great arrows and push of shields filled the day, it was recorded that even the nobles of each side took into battle many spears to throw at one another and were unable to clash with polearms and swords. Though assured of victory by the nearing of sunset, Kreinalhd and his retinue took sight of what they had thought was just another mountain among the field of battle, but when the clouds parted it revealed the most grand of ruined shrines he had seen, embracing the sunset. The Sun-King's heart was divinely moved by melancholy and aspirations and he granted mercy to the defeated survivors. Even in ruin, the ancient seat of power was more grand a thing than anything in his kingdom. It was the memory and reminder of a once unified Roscrea, fallen to ruin with it's inhabitants having lost their way and devolved into a lesser people of dirt, and wood, and lesser stone. The old king was said to have wept at the memory of all he destroyed and swore to do more than conquer, he aspired to his and the defeated folk to renew and restore to the greatness of old, instead of driving Roscrea further into squalor. Kreinalhd ordered his court be relocated to the ruined seat of power and took up personal residence in the ancient palatial-citadel, effectively moving the capital of his kingdom. While it should be noted that this was by no means an end to the Sun-King's conquest of western Roscrea, in all further campaigns he showed a trifling of mercy when the opportunity allowed for it. And never again under his rule of arms was an urban center sacked or razed. Note to the patron, while certainly romanticized as armies require payment through spoils of war or state wages, the Sun-King must have exacted harsh tributes to future conquered peoples or looted the homesteads of nobles. It is however well believed that he truly did spare the fates of urban peoples total destruction. Kreinalhd delegated command of his host to a trusted and favored son, Ecorios, while residing over the conquered remains of the Middland Plateau. He was said to have remarked to his Retainer-Thanes, "This marks my resting place, I shan't be leaving in this life again." in regard to the ruined seat of power. While he favored son went about in conquest against the numerous minor peoples and tribes of the Old Dowry the Sun-King exercised the remainder of his life overseeing the restoration and building of his new capital, affectionately named after his son, well earned of his favor: Ecoriobriga. Now an old Atmoriant and feeling the ebb of life approaching, the Sun-King at the age of one hundred and ninety four entreated a strange white-cloaked visage. The white-cloaked clever man asked if the Sun-King lived a fulfilling life, and if he was satisfied of his worldly actions. Kreinalhd was pleased with his life, he regretted the destruction of the urban, more so than the loss of life and expressed happiness that in the final epoch of his worldly life to see the ongoing restoration of the ancient seat of power and in all it's majesty have some life breathed back into it. The white-cloaked clever man applauded his strength of arms, gave great respect to the splendor of his retainers arms, and lauded the gains of a kingdom to grace the island after so long. And so offered to record his deeds in stone language so that it may be kept in the minds and hearts of all, even if every tongue forgets the story and every ear goes unheard, it may be preserved in accordance for the eyes to gloss and inquire. The Sun-King asked with his strong voice who such a learned man was and whom was his master of writ. The white-cloaked clever man spoke well and recorded. "I am a adherent to a lost philosophy, not of light and sun worship but much more attune to what we should. Ancient foreknowledge of an age long in ruin, it is noticed your court has shown reverence and a deep love towards this ruin. My good king, you are well received by the learned folk of the Long Stones. Don't you understand my coming here? Entreating guests of strange outlook and visage, surely you have foreseen it. As the ancient seat was, it is within the power of I, and my lord, to aid your station in it's restoration. That is the purpose of my person, you have dreamed...and bore nightmares of this ruin in all it's splendor. Hereupon we shall teach you the laws of old, and the writ of old, and the masonry of old, and the religion of old." It was by the white-cloaked clever man that should the Sun-King convert to the faith of old, then he and his descendants will be ordained and rightful rulers of the Sacred Crown, the ancient seat of power. For indeed did Kreinalhd both dream and bore nightmares of splendor. It was so that Kreinalhd Sun-King and his favored son, and his lesser favored sons, and his daughters and granddaughters all took up oaths of worship and praise, to the deities Ald-Tusk, and Jhunal. They did not forsake the worship of their brethren in Roscaereath nor forthwith banish that school of worship, but swore their linage would worship no others than the two great deities of the white-cloaked clever man. Upon his deathbed and full of ill-health, Kreinalhd was king of all the Roscreans from Roscaereath in the south, to Ecoriobriga in the north, and far off Boiliobris in the west. He never realized his dream of uniting all the island under his Kingdom of Roscaerea, for time and frozen wastelands were against him and passed into death at the impressive age of one hundred ninety nine. True to his conversion to the ancient faith, Ecorios had his father prepared by the white-cloaked clever men and entombed underneath the ruins of the ancient seat of power, instead of cremation as is custom in Roscaereath. The Restoration and Decline Kreinalhd Sun-King is both the greatest and last king of Roscaereath. He is heralded as the ancestor of all kingships to come, even the current King Cassivelogenos is related to the Sun-King. With the guidance of the white-cloaked clever men, the ancient seat of power was restored in full splendor under the reign of Ecorios, and his decedents will expand beyond the restored palatial-citadel and gradually the city will emerge as we know it in the mid Second Era. However, as Ecoriobriga rose to dominate the kingship, Roscaereath declined. It was and would remain one of the wealthiest regions of the Middland Plateau, but it's population never converted away from their ancestral worship of Meridimagna and were increasingly ostracized in the ever popular and expanding dragon worshiping island. The region is among the most industrious with well dug, deep, and numerous mines yet their region is riddled with uninhabitable land and overall poor farming outside the Roscaen Gorge. The population at times struggled with stagnation whereas Ecoriobriga's population boomed from the rich agrarian lifestyle the many extinct volcanoes offered. When Ural Septim invaded with his liberating legions, Roscaereath didn't put up much of a fight. They were too weak and too dependent on their goods to risk warfare with such a powerful entity as the Imperial Legions. While the townships of the Roscaens followed their mother city, Ecoriobriga did not and would put fierce opposition for nearly four years, much of which was spent besieging the capital of the kingdom. After the conquest when Ural dismantled the Kingdom of Roscaerea, the old city of Roscaereath was formed into Roscaen Province and the capital of Ecoriobriga was established as a client Kingdom of Ecoriobriga. Each were beholden to the Empire, and each could rule under Imperial law their domains. However with Solitude annexing Roscrea in the Third Era the enforcement of Imperial law was all but gone as the garrisons returned to the eastern island. As such even though it wasn't through force of arms, the Kingdom of Ecoriobriga asserted hegemony over Roscaen Province and itself annexed into the kingdom. It is unfortunate to see a city and people with such a rich history be just another Hold of the Kingdom of Ecoriobriga. Roscaenic Atmoriants are simultaneously a well functioning and urbanized people, yet are secluded and forlorn. The richness and bright expression of nobility found in Ecoriobriga is nowhere to be seen in this realm of the old and dragged. Too much love was expressed into stone and iron, in sugarcane and glass, into tin and bronze. That now the people are worn out and stagnant. If ever a more forlorn defeated folk exists, it is the author's opinion of amazement should it be found elsewhere beyond Roscaereath. Edited April 30, 2020 by TheCzarsHussar Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheCzarsHussar Posted May 14, 2020 Share Posted May 14, 2020 (edited) Martial Prowess of the Native RoscreansImperial Battlemage Aldaril, Circa 3e 272Dispatched to appointed Governor-General Claudius Atrius PrefaceIn the event of a organized native revolt against Imperial Law, or future recruitment of native auxilia into the Legion, the office of my person has been appointed by the Blades to assess in detail the martial capabilities of the natives. My office is to assess the fields of hypothetically fielded warriors from the recruitment pool of the native holdings, by rebellious figures or Legion recruitment; observe the creation of treatises and manuscripts hereupon the martial arts of note practiced by the native warrior-class to better understand their warfare and effectively squander the effectiveness through countermeasures; and gather intelligence on the uncooperative theological cult to the northwest of Roscrea's coast. Firstly of note was the issue of intelligence prior to the Emperor's campaign of 268. The order of this guide was established by the Blades due to the difficulties of infiltration prior to the campaign. The native population are very akin to the Giants of Skyrim, with a minute human population of primitive wild Nords living in the fringes of lowland mountains. Infiltration of native society was utterly impossible by agents of the Blades, the majority of the islanders are incredibly xenophobic and isolationist in the face of Tamriel. Nordic agents were too racially, and indeed, culturally distant from the near-giants to blend in their society unnoticed. Distant observations were equally disastrous due to the aforementioned cult. The personal adherents to that occult society always happened upon the hidden encampments of dispatched agents, the few which survived the unprovoked attacks included in their reports terrible magics used by white cloaked figures, a further comprehensive report is included further. Accordingly this is to prevent any future lack of information and knowledge of our subjects. Projected Capabilities of Native Armament and Fielding of ArmiesDespite the obstacles faced by the Blades in their intelligence gathering, an acute observation was hypothesized by their reports. Legion commanders recognized the potentially disastrous course of the invasion should the natives amass a united army of comparable size. Quite astute in our hypothesis it was a tremendous gambit should the natives be capable of fielding such an army, and while they are not entirely alike the giants of Skyrim, they are nevertheless quite similar in feats of strength and endurance, such an army of size though primitive in arms could match the Legion through sheer brute strength and force of will. Thankfully despite the inaccurate projections of the campaign, having persisted nearly three years longer than anticipated, the natives were taken completely by surprise. Through superior deployment, and employment, of tactics and stratagem the native rulers were unable to field armies of note. It is imperative that in revolt, the conflicting foe not be allowed to amass a following of comparable size. The garrisoned double strength Legion is assessed to be a credible deterrent, failing that the double strength Legion is projected to be equipped and fully capable of stamping out vestiges of hostility, or any attempts at defying Imperial Law. In relation to this, the allied tribes have been incited to service the Legion as Foederati. These allied tribes have sworn oaths of upholdment and loyalty, clever usage of divination by the Blades in Emperor Uriel's personage has captivated the primitives, the allied tribes believe our Emperor to be an incarnation of the Nordic variant of Talos, Ysmir. However, this exploitation is not universal. The dragon worshiping population of Western Roscrea does not worship any variant or vestige of the Nordic pantheon, it is a dear shame that Tiber Septim's mercenary dragon was slain long ago, his very existence would have pacified and aligned the western natives fully under the Empire. As it stands they are the most likely cause of revolt, whereas the eastern natives are firmly under cooperation. It is of the upmost importance to enact a policy of Imperialization. Only when native lifestyle is indistinguishable from Colovian customs can they be productive members of the Empire. It is equally recommended that inclusion in both the Legion and positions of landed power be reserved towards the natives who completely adopt Imperial customs. Under concurrent commissions for the establishment of urban centers in the east will the previous condition be fulfilled. These colonies will transform rural fort-holding natives to a familiar and easily governed population, and one that offers a fair recruitment pool of future auxilia from. The residence of the Governor-General is currently established in the native great fortress complex of Nebbezzar, itself undergoing reconstruction and renovations for a joint population of colonists and natives. The full grandeur of Imperial architecture and innovation will encompass the future capital of Roscrea, the primitives will be enthralled by it's majesty alone and enforce to the natives that they are citizens of the Empire now and forever. So long as they adhere to Imperial Law, it will be a mutual relationship. Assessments of colonization within the island project a large population of which to draw on, suspected that the population will intermix into an amalgamation of half-breeds, it is unknown what the mixed population will entail. The defunct Kingdom of Roscaerea in the west has a considerable population to draw upon, having been divided into two provinces and a client kingdom drawn around existing cultural boundaries. The client Kingdom of Ecoriobriga, established from the heartland of the dismantled kingdom has by treaty avoided established colonies of Tamrielic colonists and settlers. Stemming from treaties due to the inability to conquer the palatial-city of it's namesake, is within the Middland Plateau and are under the census as "Middlander Roscreans". The native client kingdom resides and rules over a population accustomed to palatial-citadels, the allotted territory they are permitted to govern is the entirety of the rich arctic meadows and fertile extinct volcanic valleys spread across the majority of the central-western plateau. They are an agrarian society that avoids the active volcanic plots and lava fields. They preside over the largest urban-concentrated population of the island and as such are the primary risk of revolt with the greatest capacity to field an army of sufficient size. In the event of state backed rebellion against the Empire by the client Kingdom of Ecoriobriga, there are detailed demands in the potential treaty that will fully dismantle native rule. In short it is expected and enforced that any revolt be allowed to gain sufficient momentum as to implicate King Cassivelogenos in it's organization. The Imperial ruled provinces of Old Dowry and Roscaen Province respectively are garrisoned and plans of colonization are expected to yield similar results of Imperialization as the eastern island. The Old Dowry is not unlike the east with it's rural fort-holding tribes and sufficient establishment of infrastructure around the coastal fortress-complex of Boiliobris should establish a proper basin of Imperial culture of which to lead the west's Imperialization. For Roscaen Province, the province is ripe with industrial potential. Part of the Middland Plateau, the province houses several urban centers and is plentiful in precious metals, glass is among the most valuable resource currently extracted by the province in it's still active volcanoes, though resources such as iron, tin, bronze, copper and the like are worked on by the natives. What the province excels in through mineral wealth, mostly unfound throughout the rest of the island, is severally lacking in farmable land. It is overall too mountainous, too volcanically active, and infertile to support large populations. The assessment of potential auxilia or revolt from either province is low, especially with legionary garrisons. Native Martial ArtsThis chapter is entirely dedicated to understanding the practice of natives with their martial arts. Understanding several key factors is paramount to surviving combat against the natives. First and foremost, you are weaker then they. It has little precedence if you are a Nordic or Orcish Legionary, unless you are the spawn between the union of one aforementioned and a giant. Myself I have witnessed a peasant native armed with nothing more then a wicker shield and wooden club break a Nord's skull with a single downward strike, the Nord was a veteran Legionary of previous conflicts, armed in full. He was of far greater skill then the peasant and of much greater prowess-of-arms as well, yet a single worthy strike ended his life. Secondly the peasantry, and lower warrior classes enter into battle in the Nordic fashion, that is by organized shield walls. There is little in the way of frenzied charges. What differs massively from the Nordic fashion are the arms present, even Nordic peasant farmers often own an axe of some makeup. Roscrean peasants are often poorly armed, amassing stone tipped spears and wooden clubs, protecting themselves behind wicker oval shields, some with hide atop them. The poorest peasant with nothing to their name can still find sturdy wood to carve, and stones to hew. Third, metal resources are far more scarce in Roscrea than elsewhere, even the wealthier rural population often cannot afford the luxury of metal weaponry and armor. Although a hallmark of recognizing a wealthier rural warrior is through better protection of their person, such as forms of linen armor and better quality shields. Forth, the greatest advantages the Legion has over the natives are logistics and technology. Entering into the melee with the natives always amasses casualties on our front lines, avoiding the clash of shieldwalls is perhaps the most important aspect of warfare against the native amassed peasantry. With the understanding of how the lowest class of Roscreans do battle, the focus most now shift to the dedicated warrior-classes of the natives. It varies depending on the region as access to wealth and resources varies across the island. Beginning from the lowest caste of warriors, that as should be noted is still a place of good standing in their societies, are the Bondsmen. Bondsmen can be described as Warrior-Servants, bound by service to their master through gifts these are the semi-professional warriors of Roscrea. Their position and arms varies from master to master. In the service of their master they are equipped from his household. When attached to wealthy noble's service they often dedicate their lives to martial practices, gifted fine arms of iron and bronze. However, when attached to the service of lesser masters they often serve their role as Warrior-Servants alongside another profession. It has been observed that the majority of Bondsmen are members of urban middle and lower classes. When attached to wealthier masters and can dedicate their profession entirely to warfare, they should accordingly be counted among the higher warrior classes in terms of ability, only outstripped by the superior arms and armors of the nobility. When assessing the arms and armor of the nobility, and those in their service it must be noted the prevalence of chainmail. Popular across the entire island, bar the even more primitive lowlanders of central Roscrea, native mail is considerably thicker and heavier than Tamrielic counterparts. Almost always worn atop some form of linen armor such as gambeson. It varies in length, form, and extravagance as there is no uniformity of arms. There are further regional variations to this, the eastern Roscrean nobility often wears lamellar woven with their mail, while the Middlanders sometimes adorn cuirasses atop theirs. The most well equipped nobles can be expected to wear armor from head to toe. Full mail coifs with heavy iron helmets, sleeved hauberks that extend below their knees, well padded with linen armor, mail chausses. The heavy mail is extremely difficult to slash or cut, even with Nordic handaxes, thrusts with a gladius or other sword fair better but are similarly ineffective. Against the well armored native, warhammers are best used in melee, or a better alternative is to target these individuals with battlemages and other ranged choices. Although as will be written further, arcane abilities are a detriment when faced with certain nobles. The upper warrior-classes consist of lesser nobility and the greatest of elevated Bondsmen. Retainers are the personal household guards of an individual, often of the nobility. These are the elites of the natives and accompany their lord wherever he may be. Traditional Roscrean warfare are duels between elite retinues of retainers and their nobles, instead of large scale pitched battles that the Legion is unparalleled in. It is extremely romanticized in the Roscrean cultures, that their ancestral way of war is sophisticated and that our warfare of pitched battles are barbaric. Retainers are often equipped like the nobility, and are only told apart from their lord by the extravagance of his arms and armor compared to the retainers. Among the upper class combatants faced, retainers are the most common and the entirety of that caste dedicates their life to martial pursuits. They can be described as Masters-at-Arms for their proficiency with many manner of weapons. The upper warrior-classes near universally prefers polearms and poleaxes to any other weapon, with a universal focus of martial arts in combination with poleaxes. The most loyal and skilled among the retainers are champions, they are the most favored of the retainers and are never left wanting of gifts and good positions in society. Where retainers can be described as household guards of an individual, Roscrean champions are their personal bodyguards. They are indistinguishable in quality and extravagance of arms from their master and by merit are the cream of the crop of the warrior-classes. By right they are allowed to sit at the inner circles of the feasting tables reserved for the high nobility and may be the personal supplicant of their master in duels with other nobles and their champions. Currently the judicial relationship between the nobility and their champions have been disenfranchised everywhere except the client Kingdom of Ecoriobriga, as it is a barbaric and uncivilized relationship. Much more importantly by removing the native laws surrounding and encompassing the nobility and their champions, a very dangerous caste of warriors have been nearly removed from existence through law. Unrest was narrowly avoided by elevating the champions to noble classes, this practice need only continue a few generations. Finally this brings us to the nobility and the treatises of Roscrean martial arts. Again much is dependent on the location, wealth and availability of resources, that the Roscrean Nobility is often dedicated to their primitive mundane and arcane educations, theological and martial pursuits. Roscrean martial arts is very heavily focused on the expression of raw strength, and while it would be easy to dismiss their martial prowess as sheer brutish lumbering and swinging, it cannot be further from the reality. They are notoriously disciplined in their form, and when equipped with their favored poleaxes does their martial expression fully reveal itself. There is an incredible design of forcefulness and grace. They are far from the swiftest warriors, though their movement of arms can be applauded for how technically advanced their are. In campaign I have personally observed their advanced stature and form, they are incredibly reactionary both in offensive and defensive measures which in their martial arts are one and the same. There is never a strike parried without reprisal, and in every reprisal there is never a strike made that cannot be defended in turn, and often becomes a vicious cycle until one is left defeated. Beyond their skill of arms, the greatest danger against the native proficient in native noble combat is the skill at which they attempt to overpower you. Form is the most highly disciplined aspect of the proficient warrior. Against one another it is a battle of 'cleverness of strength', one and another use their bodies and poleaxes to break the other's form and either deliver a killing blow, or knock the other to the ground and partake a killing blow. A warrior so completely steadfast and hunkered to the ground that he cannot be toppled or struck in wounding blow is considered perfection by native contemporaries. The Roscrean polearms are the perfect weapon for their extraordinary stature and strength, no other allows for such wide array of potential. Against man, mer, or beastfolk the Roscrean's martial arts are at their most dangerous. These are professional warrior-classes that train in such fashions and under no circumstances should they be dismissed. And furthermore, under absolutely no circumstances are they ever to be engaged in duels. The Legion operates as one cohesive unit, the moment one breaks to answer the challenge of single combat by the warrior-class is the moment they are dead men walking. The nobility of the Middland Plateau are exceptionally harrowing in combat, they are deeply beholden to the arcane study. Many of their nobles are of a priestly class and wield powerful and sometimes alien magics. As the natives lifespan is on average three times that of man, their arcane-attuned nobles should be treated as if facing an Elven opponent, with extreme caution. They've had several lifetimes to hone their art, both martially and in the Middland Plateau, magically. As I myself am an Altmer, have found no resemblance of familiarity in their race. They are inhuman yes, though unless they and the Giants of Skyrim are a long lost Elven race, are an anomaly of the world. Cult of JhunalPerhaps the most pertinent issue of the island is the reclusive theological cult that resides in the Isle of Long Stones, as the natives call it. They have opposed the Legion both directly and indirectly during the campaign. These "Druids" as the natives call them are of a sinister makeup, they are supposedly worshipers of the Nordic aspect of Julianos called Jhunal, who's worship has long subsided in Skyrim. The Druids are revered by the natives as much as they are feared, from what is gathered there is a great power held on the Isle of Long Stones. From what was observed, the cult employs mages cloaked in white robes and white cloaks. They are hidden from the mundane and yet are ever present, they are rarely seen and yet all natives know of their power and presence. So little is known about these practitioners of the occult, yet they are a threat to the Imperial administration of Roscrea. Attempts to land on the Isle of Long Stones have always been met with disaster. Vessels are torn apart by reefs that were not there moments ago, survivors pulled down underwater by the unseen and drowned. Mages cloaked with invisibility and water walking spells are never seen again once they reach the forested shores of that dark island. It is constantly permeated by a everlasting visage, untouched by winter monsoons and blizzards. The natives claim that only those welcomed by the Druids may set foot on the isle, and that those who have returned are beholden to the cult. Attempts at extracting the information from these individuals and priests have failed, no manner of coercion or force reveals anything of use. Furthermore, those involved in the attempted extraction of information disappear from the face of the island. Each action against their cult invoked a harsher reaction, after a year of occupation it is decreed that best leave the cult alone. Any Legionary that witnesses the white cloaked cultists should make no action against them, unless they are in violation of a serious crime. No interaction of any kind is encouraged. Edited May 14, 2020 by TheCzarsHussar Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
The Good Doctor Posted June 29, 2020 Author Share Posted June 29, 2020 The Masters of Tel Mora By Ulyn Radarys The crowning of Helseth, the fall of the Tribunal, the invasions from Oblivion, the withdrawal of the Empire. There can be no doubt that we live in an age of change and uncertainty unlike anything Morrowind has experienced before. Indeed, even as I pen these words, disgruntled citizens of Balmora, emboldened by poverty and much loss, gather in the streets seeking recompense from our lords of House Hlaalu. However, in the midst of ever-increasing chaos, there has been one one constant here in Vvardenfell, one persistent body whose presence seems utterly immune to all the Padomay of Nirn. More than that, the entities in question wield Padomay like an ambitious son wields the knife that he would use to slay his father. I refer, of course, to the wizard-lords of the Great House Telvanni. While our ancient institutions crumble and dissolve, the reclusive sorcerers remain in their towers pursuing their mysterious ends. While we pray to gods who seem to live only in our memories, they weave spells and laugh at the notion of worship. While we die by the thousands, they drink tea and converse with the very daedra who slay us. Such is how it has always been with the Telvanni, and such is how it seems it will always be. That is not to say that they do not experience change, however. Indeed, the hierarchy of House Telvanni is a steep ladder and every rung is barbed with spikes. No Great House is more cutthroat, nor so rewarding of the viscous ambition that permeates the wizard-lords' ranks. It is a cruel creed that they live by: that the powerful define the standards of virtue. And thus it is that the only way to become great within that house is to attain the power required to displace those above oneself, be it political power through alliances and blackmail, or the raw power of personal mastery. Because of this, it should be of no surprise that the highest positions within the Telvanni are exclusively held by some of the oldest and most powerful Dunmer in all of Vvardenfell. And while the lower echelons constantly clamber up that spiked ladder only to fall and be replaced, it is a truly rare thing for one of the Masters to fall, themselves. The death and replacement of four in one decade (one being the Archmagister, himself) might in fact be a rarer occurrence than the recent collapse of Cyrodiil's ruling dynasty, if not even the daedric crisis that brought it about. It is the overlooked rarity of these circumstances that has inspired my next three volumes. In this one, I focus on the most recent, and in many ways most extreme, transition of lordship. I refer to a region of northeastern Vvardenfell that is better known among outsiders than most of the Telvanni holdings, to the city of Vos and more importantly to the nearby island of Tel Mora, whose millennia-old Mistress passed away during the height of the Oblivion Crisis. For context, I would refer readers to any of the numerous biographies of Mistress Dratha, whose trademark eccentricities included an extreme distrust of men (to such an extent that only women were permitted to live on Tel Mora), an apparent dislike of any who she considered upstarts with potential, extreme detachment from those who considered her their ruler (even by Telvanni standards), and an apparent immortality that gained her the esteemed reputation as the second-oldest Dunmer in all of Vvardenfell. The details of Mistress Dratha's death are elusive. While it is true that Vos and Tel Mora were major targets of the Oblivion Crisis (Master Aryon's nearby holding of Tel Vos being destroyed entirely), it is a well-known fact that the forces of Dagon never succeeded in setting foot on the island itself. Some speculate that Dratha met her demise defending against the endless waves, though no witnesses have been found who can verify this claim. Others believe that her immortality was derived from Oblivion itself, and that the shattering of barriers between it and the Mundus overwhelmed her mortal form. The most popular theory, and the most controversial, is that Mistress Dratha was killed by none other than the man who replaced her, the Great House Telvanni's newest and youngest Master Wizard: Endar Drenim. For his part, Master Drenim is very much the sort of upstart that Dratha was known to hate. Rare is it that one so young (relatively speaking) finds success in advancing the ranks of House Telvanni past a point. Power and reputation are everything, and neither is easily attained in such a way that would catch the attention of other Masters within a normal Dunmer's lifetime. While Master Drenim's many accolades and distinctly-Telvanni pursuits of knowledge and power go back almost as far as his name can be traced, it was his admirable (or perhaps self-serving -not that the two are exclusive when it comes to the Telvanni) defense of Tel Mora during the crisis that earned him the recognition of the other wizard lords. Indeed, it is not the thousands of years' worth of accumulated knowledge wielded by Dratha that is credited with the closing of those gates, but instead the timely arrival of then-Spellwright Drenim and his freshly-raised militia of lesser mages. Between the death of Mistress Dratha and the magnitude of his victory, Endar Drenim was well-positioned to proclaim himself the Great House's newest Master Wizard, which is exactly what he did. Although there were mutterings of detractors within the ruling Parliament of Bugs, none opted to oppose him. Did Drenim use the Oblivion Crisis as a cover to kill and replace Telvanni's oldest councillor? Is he a mere upstart who cannot last among the ancient wizards he now stands equal to? What will become of Vos and Tel Mora now? These were the questions that prompted me to travel there and speak to the locals myself, and the ones that jostled about in my mind like bottled fetcherflies as the island's sprawling mushroom tower became visible over the lip of our silt strider's shell. After arriving, I conducted a series of interviews with an assortment of interesting characters who reside in the region. Unfortunately, I did not have the pleasure of meeting Master Drenim himself, as I lack the knowledge and undoubtedly the capability to cast the levitation spells required to reach the upper levels of his tower. I was privileged, however, to meet with his Mouth, one Galar Rothan, who was an intriguing figure to put it mildly. If the servant is at all a reflection of the master, then I believe it is entirely likely that Endar Drenim is the embodiment of everything we outsiders have come to think of the Telvanni. Below I have compiled several excerpts from the interviews in question, to shed light on some of the positions and sentiments held by the local wizards and retainers of Vos and Tel Mora. Thilse Aralas, farmer from Vos "What kind of Master is Endar? It's hard to say, really. Most of us here in town have only seen him from a distance. I mean, we owe him our lives and I will always be grateful for that, but as far as lording goes, he's no Aryon. In fact, he seems as distant as Dratha was. The only change I've noticed is he lets men live on the island, meaning there are less of them here. That's a shame. By the way, are you doing anything later?" Unsil Galen, Hireling battlemage and veteran of the Oblivion Crisis "When Drenim told us what we would be doing, I thought he was a damned loon. But by Azura, it actually worked! First at Vos, then in Oblivion itself. I still think he's a loon, but he's also a genius. No, I won't tell you how we did it. Drenim's secrets are his own. As for Dratha, the crone croaked during the fighting. Everyone knows that." Daynali Dren, Tel Mora alchemist "Being honest, it's been a blessing. My husband was not allowed to live here on the island, and I could not carry out my duties without living here myself. Mistress Dratha was a fine woman and I hope her spirit rests easy, but in truth, well... she was very old, you know? They say she didn't always forbid men. That's only been the last, oh I don't know... thousand years, give or take. What I do know is that she didn't have much use for an alchemist. Master Drenim's different. He's got me working nonstop, tending the tower and helping prepare it for the new sections he intends to grow. It's more than a single person could possibly handle on their own. Good thing I can put my husband to work now!" Sadela Arieth, Tel Mora bug-tamer "Am I happy? Of course not. Mistress Dratha was like a mother to me. I mean- a mostly absent mother who only saw me once a decade or so and barely looked at me when she did... but still a mother! To all of us! All these ungrateful s'wits harping about 'change' and 'not getting torn apart by dremora' ought to remember that it was our Mistress who kept all you man types away. Won't be long now before this place is filled with that disgusting... musk you've got on you now, and soon there will be eugh... children. Have you ever heard an infant's wails, Hlaalu? I'll take the daedra over that any day." Yakin Bael, healer from Vos "We thought we were dead, you understand? After Tel Vos fell, Dratha wouldn't let us retreat to her island. Threatened to burn our boats if a single man was seen on them as they crossed. 'Women only'. It was a funny thing, back in the day. A quirk like all the Masters are said to have. But letting us die while she sat behind her wards? Oblivion take the bitch... You know, I had over a hundred wounded in my care by the time Master Drenim arrived. For some, it was all I could do to relieve the pain while daedric curses dissolved their insides. Yes... I'm glad Drenim killed her. No, I can't prove it, but I don't think anything short of a master could've ended that old hag." Galar Rothan, recently-appointed Mouth of Endar Drenim "I would like to start by saying that you should consider yourself lucky, Hlaalu, for it is not every day that I waste time conversing with one of so little import. But as it happens, I find myself unable to sleep and the droning on of inconsequential outsiders has a particular hum about it that sometimes aids me in that endeavor. Secondly, no you cannot see Master Drenim, so don't bother to ask. If you lack the power to reach him yourself, then you are not someone who has any business in his presence anyway. Now, as for your questions... Don't look at me like that! I know you haven't asked them yet. I'm not some blind child. You want to know about Master Drenim: What sort of Master he is, how different things will be with him here, if he's as powerful as the others, what his ambitions are, did he murder Dratha, and so on and so on. I will tell you this and this only: Master Drenim has done and will do what he pleases, and nothing else. That is what it means to be Telvanni." Note: After this comment, I proceeded to follow up with my own thoughts and further questions for the Mouth. If he did not care to speak about his master, then perhaps he would enlighten me to the new goings-on of Tel Mora and his own role in its day-to-day affairs. It was at this point that I noticed Rothan's eyes starting to glaze as though fighting sleep. Soon after, he dismissed me from the fungal tower stating that I had fulfilled my purpose. With all said and done, I can confidently say that for all I learned, I left Tel Mora with more questions than answers. Despite his comparative youth, Endar Drenim appears to be no less secretive and mysterious than the most reclusive of his peers. I daresay we may never know the truth about Dratha's death or what exactly he did while defending Tel Mora. And perhaps he is just a young upstart who is playing with fire, but after speaking to so many around him and looking in the eyes of those who stood beside him in the depths of Oblivion, I'm not so sure. For my drakes, I would wager that in Endar, the Masters of House Telvanni have gained a capable and dangerous new peer who they would be wise not to dismiss due to age. After all, it is Endar Drenim who now possesses the ancient tower of Tel Mora, while the oldest Master in living memory is but ashes within an urn. 1 Quote It's always nice when your writing gets reinforced by the canon after you come up with it. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheCzarsHussar Posted July 5, 2020 Share Posted July 5, 2020 (edited) ContemplationsFar-North Skaldic War-Poem Terrible is the power of my arm The Nord crumbles by the axe it bears I stand in want of mead, hungry and tired The Nord-Ghost echoes a prayer.From the sky, a Terrifying Nightmare appearsWreathed in stormcloud, her throat-curse strikes meAiling in squalor I see the sky part Sovngarde. As I lay in squalor, deathly prayers fill my heartThe Nord-Ghost sits high, never in want of mead I call to the Nightmare, in uplifting prayer The smell of deathly serpents is strong, as prayers go unanswered.I am uncertain, what awaits us? Edited July 5, 2020 by TheCzarsHussar 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheCzarsHussar Posted October 22, 2020 Share Posted October 22, 2020 (edited) The Splendor of the Giants of Roscrea Rolff Spindle-Foot ~3e, 396 It is under the authority of King Thain and his court that I have been word-whipped northward, to further the renaissance of Solitude. As the bureaucracy of annexing the fiefdom of Roscrea is in full effect in the courts of king and emperor, my purpose should be known, to appraise and head the census of the settled tribes and clans of Roscrea; a monumental undertaking. My undertaking began in earnest when the longship-charter docked into the port of Hesinak Meadery; itself several miles upwind. My lodging in the meadery was a pleasant endeavor, the subsidiary of the East Empire Company enjoyed hegemony over importing and production of several Nordic brews. The master of the meadery, Ale-Bringer as the natives have called every master since it's founding, enjoys no moderate amount of influence and splendor in this arctic realm of giants. The giants of Roscrea are ravenous, draining entire bottles of mead in single gulps and are never lacking in want of more. It is no wonder that the Ale-Bringer holds such favor, indeed the mead-trade alone is almost worth the island's annexation. The Ale-Bringer invited my personage to be counted among his retinue; a high privilege, where I spent several weeks fulfilling my duty, both to my king and my thirst. As it was, Ale-Bringer had scheduled several oxen-driven caravans of brews to be driven upland for mysterious Ecoriobriga, the giantry Hold capital of the Middland Plateau. He personally delivers it to the city's palatial citadel, home of the most powerful figures of giantry society; clan-lords, priest-mages of the clever-craft, warrior schools, dragon worshipping nobility all. Home of the island giant's king himself, Cassivelogenos Bright-Hewer. It is a journey the Ale-Bringer takes once every three or four months, the brewing of large swaths of drink is how he tells time. Once the time came to bid the winter-shielded apiaries, meadfolk and meadery farewell, our caravan set off. Ale-Bringer and I rode inside a finely furbished wagon, pulled by hardy oxen. Ale-Bringer's retainers included a mammoth riding native warrior! Several other native retainers traveled on foot around the mead kegs in the two preceding carts. We traveled through frigid mountain valleys and volcanic deserts, braved steep gnarled cliffs and steered clear of lava flows. The scenery is nearly indescribable, if one ascended a mountain; knowing then it is not a volcano, it is not unlike frigid High Hrothgar yet there are sturdy mountain terraces and frost-laden wild Nords (and Giants) that dwell in caves and frozen glacial castles. Descend the mountains and find fertile ashen-soil with more civilized giantry villages...that or stumble into a volcanic desert valley that only a Dark Elf could love! Ale-Bringer told me of a great city of giants deep in the plateau, where a thousand congregated and a thousand more payed tribute to. I could hardly believe it, even though theses native giants are lesser in strength and visage to the savages of Skyrim, no dwelling could be built to accommodate such a throng, or so I thought. I write in full truth, of all that I saw. By hoary Ysmir believe it. Ale-Bringer and I, after spending several days on the road came upon yet another mountain range. As it was later in the evening and the moons were not long away from cresting the sky, I couldn't fully take in it's majesty. For at this time the overcast clouds obscured the peeks of the 'mountain'. A hundred plums of smoke rose from all across the 'mountain', intermingling in union with the clouds above. In my astonishment this was no mountain, but the city itself! The capital of the plateau was bestrewn in the empty veins and chambers of a long-dead flat topped volcano, the masters of this realm lived in the clouds at the height of the volcano. There was no accumulation of snow or ice around the volcano, it's dark visage was like a warrior dressed in iron all alone in the snow, for the adjacent mountains were dressed all in white. Ecoriobriga was the smallest of the range, cradled and wind-shielded. It's valleys below were one of the few places on all of Roscrea where the land itself was free of permafrost, massive swaths of farmland were nestled in the range's valley. For the second time in a theme of events, I was mesmerized when Ale-Bringer's caravan reached the entrance to Ecoriobriga. Leading into the city was something I can only describe as monumental, the indescribable was like the ancient ruins of old, restored. Very old Nordic architecture, it was very draconic in nature. An upward sloping outdoor structure led inward, it's only lacking was the remnants of monumental totemic pillars and statues that can be seen in the old ruins. As ruins were on my mind during this section's writing, the swept away remnants of old battlements once protected the entrance could still be seen, they were destroyed two hundred years ago by the Imperials and treaty forbid their reconstruction. The armored mammoth riding warrior bid farewell to his master, the Ale-Bringer of course, and disembarked to a mammoth livery away from the city. The rest of continued, Ale-Bringer and I dismounted the wagon while the other retainers lifted the mead kegs themselves. At the crest of the entrance, just before the war-battered iron doors did our party meet the clan-communal oath-skald. He took in our oath-swears of friendship and comradery, and fairness to the city's clan-commune, hewing them into stone before being allowed entrance. The opening of the doors hit us all with a heavenly blast of warm air unbefitting of Roscrea. The entrance-vein was adorned with sparse vegetation, brightly colored in reds and oranges. A permeating smell of brimstone, acidic and irritating assaulted my sense of smell. Ale-Bringer made mention it gets easier to tolerate. The veins were lit, a very close line between dimly and just enough, by sconces and wall-lanterns; as I would find out, the closer to the peek of the volcano the more these underground hollows were lit by arcane means. Ale-Bringer spoke of a labyrinth of hollows that delve deep into the earth, until a great underground caldera of boiling water, poison and undrinkable that the natives harnessed in hewn vein-tunnels to heat their dwellings within the volcano. The great majority of Ecoriobriga's population made their homesteads in the hollows and veins undergrown, only the highest nobles of the realm lived at the peek; which was our destination. We crossed through numerous gatehouses to gain entrance to the succeeding tier of the city. The higher we journey, the more splendid the underground dwellings. Our trek to the peek culminated in a wide, spiraling earthen rampart at the exposed caldera of the dead volcano. For the third time I was mesmerized, Ale-Bringer bespoke of towering stone palatial dwellings with metaled sloped roofs but I hadn't any idea they would be so splendid in magnitude. The flat topped volcanic peek was in truth not incredibly encompassing, the noble dwellings crested high above in the cramped peek. The colorfully long robed giant nobles emulated a splendor of ancient antiquity, their drabs were sewn to accommodate for the clouds that often waft about the peeks. I found it a slight struggle to breath in full. Ale-Bringer was lauded and praised in tongues I did not recognize, even he only learned the language of their commontry as it was close in origin to ancient Nordic. These high nobles spoke a tongue of the old nobility, of Skyrim and Atmora. Two hundred years of being citizens of the Empire and not one know a lick of our language, backwater indeed, but profitable one. Ale-Bringer and I, despite being Nords and miniscule compared to these large giants must have seemed to be gargantuan, the way our coming caused commotion. My association with Ale-Bringer made me an honored guest. The commotion never really died down, once we entered the walls of the city's palatial-citadel, it only changed hands. Ale-Bringer and by association myself would soon be busy in commotion, but for a brief period of time I was able to reflect with him on some things. I confessed to the man my surprise at such warmth extended by the natives, to himself I understood, he was the Ale-Bringer; but just by association I was extended the same. Having lived on the island some decades he revealed to me that these natives largely see Nords as far-flung kinsmen. There is still animosity for the Empire's conquest, especially by those still alive that fought them (Two hundred years ago!), yet they fondly think of us as equals and only wish to be treated the same. Our related ancestry, that of Atmora, is deeper than any conquest of Imperials; deeper than any division of faith. I only hope that following the annexation of these giants, we will prove ourselves deserving of their kindly thoughts. [The following excerpt is a revisioned edition, the original continuation is lost to time.]As for the palatial-citadel itself, it was a marvelous structure in of itself. Supposedly in ancient times, this was all that graced the volcano. It was the dwelling of a Dragon Priest, imagine that, a giant Dragon Priest, that fell into ruins before recorded history. Being reinhabited and rebuilt long after the Roscrean branch of the dragon cult died out. The city was later not so much built, as hewn into volcanic rock from preexisting hollow veins. Indeed there is a strange fascination of hewing stone among the citizens of the city, the current ruling clan's name is itself called Bright-Hewer after all. The walled parameter that encompasses the even more fortified palatial-citadel was untouched by war, the natives surrendered to Uriel V before his legions got this far up and was preserved very well. Besides the palatial-citadel, there was also a spectacular temple-structure to the World-Eater (may he never awaken!), though as any Nord may attest to I was less than excited about that. Ale-Bringer and I were given well furnished lodging within the palatial-citadel, the royal clans actually reserved a room just for the master of Hesinak Meadery whenever they visit. The interior of the palatial-citadel was built and decorated by and large identical to much older Nordic fashions. I recognized many similarities to the palace of Windhelm's interior, although of larger scope and span. It was lesser however, the palatial-citadel could not match the splendor of the Palace of the Kings, or the Blue Palace. The fact it was rebuilt long after the Dragon Cult shows. I didn't much interact with many high nobles without Ale-Bringer to help translate, I did however meet two other humans. One was a member of the College in Winterhold, the other a fellow colleague of less experience; they were here of their own will to study with the communal-priesthood for some personal arcane pursuit. Now what I write next is the catalyst for this very parchment, had I not seen and experienced what was to unfold, I would not have been inspired to write this endeavor. By Ysmir, believe what I write, it is true. Something that Ale-Bringer purposely did not mention was that whenever he makes the journey, mead kegs in toe, the nobles of the palatial-citadel always organize a grand feast to celebrate (and drink away nearly all that he brings). On the eve of the feast, two days after we entered the city, Ale-Bringer enlightened me to just how legendary the feasting hall was. He boldly claimed it was second only to Sovngarde! Of greater splendor than any in the south, even mighty Jorrvaskr was second to the giant's feasting hall; I gave him a friendly roughhousing-hand for that remark, but he claimed again it was true and that we would experience it firsthand. Now I am a well traveled man, I have been to every Hold in Skyrim, and every city in Cyrodiil. That was an exceedingly bold thing to claim, for someone who knew many different splendors. And it was true, all of it. At sundown, when appetites were at their peek, a great throng inhabited the palatial-citadel. All the important nobles of the city-peek made their presence known with their best clothing (and even war-wear for the veterans of old), influential clans from the underportion came smelling of brimstone, communal-priests and the two humans of Winterhold, and even the hoary warrior-king Cassivelogenos Bright-Hewer; a terrifying figure with a powerful voice and wrathful visage. All made their way and congregated in the palatial-citadel. Ale-Bringer and I were trying to outdrink one another in his room when the damndest thing came, a small blue skinned goblin dressed in humble garb came and mumbled something in the giant's native language before scampering off to alert more honored household guests. Ale-Bringer told me "Just you wait, it gets better!" before I could voice my confusion. It was time to ascend to the feasting hall, at the very top of the palatial-citadel. The stream of we household guests poured atop the palatial-citadel, they were all too eager to enter the feasting hall. I, with Ale-Bringer following me, took in the structure and walked it's parameter; much impressed. It was shaped in traditional Nordic fashion, with two entrances on each of the long facing walls. However, this feasting hall was entirely hewn from stone, a tell-tell ancient Nordic style. The crackling of hearth-fires made their presence known from plums of smoke that rose from a monolithic tusked dragon-faced chimney. Going back I would have rushed in with the vigor of a giant rather than gawk at the building. Finally did Ale-Bringer and I enter the feasting hall, already booming with song and mead-talk. His mustached face was smug as all could be at my dumbfound appearance. The feasting hall seated not a dozen, nor a few, but at least three hundred of the native giants! The interior was decorated in all kinds of votive offering to the hall, swords and foreign plunder decorated it's walls, rings, jewels and all assortments of valuable makeups were hewn into it as well. Even poems and blessings were hewn into the hall. Each who entered gave something in votive offering, man or giant; with thousands of years of offerings decorated the walls, tables, and furniture. Ale-Bringer, well he brought mead; I placed a gift of nine gold drakes into an upturned helmet as my offering. Mead kegs the size of houses were at one end of the feasting hall, while a grand kitchen; tirelessly operated by enslaved blue skinned goblins, under the watchful eyes of the master of the feast (a very powerful position in their society). Before writing further, I must educate the reader as I myself was on the clan hierarchy of native Roscrean noble society. A noble's standing in society is entirely based on their placement at the feasting table. There are three 'circles' of the feasting table or hall in this situation. The most powerful figure, normally the elder of a clan or peerless warrior sits in the most splendid seat, and feasts upon the best cuts of meat and oldest mead. Those to his sides, and those to their sides, and all those this powerful figure may directly look in the eyes, they sit in the First Circle. They partake in the best cuts of meat and share the oldest mead, conversing among one another as companions and equals. Here the king, Cassivelogenos Bright-Hewer sits in his throne (the only throne of the palace) and is flanked by four slightly lesser thrones to each side. They sit at a semi-circle table, beautifully woven with iron and stone on it's outer side, with Bright-Hewer at it's center. A slight rampart that encompasses the inner side parameter helps the blue skinned goblins bring a constant inflow of fresh meat and mead, of course with a grand plethora of other lesser foodstuffs. By tradition, the Master of the Feast has the right to the First Circle but it is horribly rude to abandon his duties to do so. The Second Circle entails the seating of lesser, yet still influential figures. In some manner or function are seated away from having the direct ear of the powerful figure and must raise their voice to speak with those of the First Circle, denoting their inequality; however they still have the right to converse with the First Circle and all those of the Second Circle enjoy a respectable splendor of foodstuffs. Here the Ale-Bringer sat at the Second Circle, an oppositely facing semi-circle of lesser decoration, exactly thirty seats adorn the outward facing table. The First and Second Circles facing one another, and the blue skinned goblins tirelessly bringing new food and drink to their table. The Third Circle is farthest away from splendor and normally any may seat themselves at this circle. Traditionally they may not refill their cups of mead, nor request more meat than what is given. The Third Circle is not so much an area of the feasting hall, or table as one that may not interact with the First and Second Circles. Here, I am seated at the Third Circle along with the college-folk, one of the many, many long rectangular wooden tables that fill the feasting hall. None are close enough to the preceding Circles to converse, and all who sit at this Circle dream to elevate themselves to the greater tables. Yet all who seat at the Third Circles are equal in all ways and often share among one another. At this most splendid feasting hall, the flow of mead is dictated only by what is left to drink. Though there is no slaves to bring it in constant supply, it must be taken yourself. Only the cut of meat is limited here, which for a Nord such as myself is nearly too much to eat in a single sitting. In the greater ages of the past, when the Broadwall was still south of Roscrea, I was told the nobles of the city ate like this every day. What an age that would have been! Having read this my friends, I implore any who are able, make a journey, or even better; Settle. For all that Roscrea is frozen and cold, you will find a splendor here that is lost to time anywhere else. Rolff Spindle-Foot, trusted servant to the court of King Thain. Edited November 3, 2020 by TheCzarsHussar 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheCzarsHussar Posted November 26, 2020 Share Posted November 26, 2020 The Head-Taking Nords of Clan BorrRolff Spindle-Foot ~3e 397 "Weak men are protected by giants, who then do the giants seek as hearthguard? The hird of Borr." This most boastful word-saying is a strong reflection of this far northerly tribe of Nords. Who are no more foreigners than the giants of the isle-hinterland. Clan Borr might be described as first era tribe far too isolated and thrice more stubborn to change with the passing of time. It is a testament to the prowess of the clan that for all the collective, ingrained death obsession, they have persisted in strength and splendor. Though they have no temples or alters of any kind, the folk of Borr live their entire lives; sometimes short lived indeed, in preparation for the afterlife. That is to say, when presenting themselves at the Hall of Shor, they might have splendid battle-talk and boastful deeds. The clan shuns any presence of clever craft for no other reason than the perceived weakness of valor, to suffer a horrible wound and rise again by no other will than the will of self has made and broken chieftains. Equally so does Clan Borr promote conflict and strife, even inter-clan struggles are heartily encouraged if done so honorably. In my tenure at their horrifying hill-fort I witnessed several duels to the death between young berserkers just to earn a place in the Borrshird. The clan knows nothing of herding or trading, or even farm-tending. In the shadow of their mighty hill-fort, the semi-enslaved, semi-freeholders tend to the lesser-living in the tundra permafrost. The highest of their society, the men of the Borrshird are clad not in armor of any kind, but brightly colored Nordic garb; wielding painted tapestry-shields of personal and familial sagas so that if slain, the foe knows what great a' man has been thrown down. They are the warriors of the chieftain who's voice is law above all other voices but the chieftain. Chieftaincy is so chosen not from a royal member of the clan, but among the members of the Borrshird following their illustrious master's death. An assembly among themselves is held to elect the greatest among the hird to elevate, it is a bloody affair that has destroyed the entire Borrshird many times. Only for the now chieftain to witness the rise of younger berserkers. Only the strongest of chieftains are elevated with the Borrshird intact. Clan Borr dwells in the northwestern near-mountainous hills of Old Dowry hold, and though King Thain is by law their master, they do not recognize his authority so long as they are unconquered. Though the chieftain true-heartedly relished the could-be acclaim of dueling a Nord-King, for their ancestors had been denied death in battle by the conquering Uriel Septim; who wholly avoided the mad Nords that had before then never heard of Septim. Their hill-fort is devoid of stoneworks and soft-luxuries. They live thatched longhouses and partially underground mound-homes; their earthen walls are that of thousands of mighty pikes skewing the severed heads of honored foes. That is to say the mad Nords of Clan Borr have head-hunted far too many men, giants, or otherwise as they are sea-raiders too, so to build a wall of trophies. It is within this census why I must insist that Clan Borr and all that they have enslaved or rule above should not be taxed, though they adore the concept of levying and must insist themselves be so in times of conflict. ~Rolff Spindle-Foot, trusted servant to the court of King Thain. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
The Good Doctor Posted December 1, 2020 Author Share Posted December 1, 2020 4th Era 187 The Northern Druadachs The last rays of the setting sun vanished behind the mountain peaks, and in the darkness of a moonless night, the twins set to work. The pasture was a vast field of black, but with a darksight potion down his gullet, Asgen's vision was clear as day when he stole into it and located two healthy mules that had been bred for the mountains. He led the beasts away from the herd and saddled them up for travel. Meanwhile, Faida cloaked herself in shadow and slipped into one of the spoil caves. This place was guarded, but to the bored and unsuspecting eyes of the two men who stood watch, she only appeared as a shimmer in the torchlit air, probably just a passing cluster of bugs as were so common in the heart of summer. She made out with two swords, an axe, and a bow, all of fine Breton or Nordic design, loot from the raids. She also nabbed a pouch of gold for good measure. The twins met up at the base of the western cliffs, outside the little cave where they'd been stashing extra food and alchemical ingredients. Quick and quiet, they readied themselves for their journey. Asgen secured their supplies on the back of the larger mule while Faida strung the bow and double-checked that nothing had been forgotten. Once this was finished, she unrolled a blanket containing the other weapons she'd grabbed. Asgen eyed their little arsenal. "Two swords?" "It's about time I learned, wouldn't you say?" He grinned and selected one, Nordic steel, with a short pommel and a decorative V-shaped crossguard. "You might prefer we use sticks for that." He also took the axe and bow and fastened them to his saddle. Finally, both twins donned wool cloaks that still spotted bloodstains from their previous owners. Next came the hard part. Faida could not obscure the both of them and their mules too, so the twins had to lead the animals through the camp without being spotted. They kept to the eastern edge, avoiding the night fires and sticking to the shadows of the taller tents. Asgen acted as their scout, moving ahead as nonchalantly as possible and returning to let his sister know which path to take or when it was clear to move forward. Faida remained with the mules and did her best to maintain a muffle charm. She was mostly successful, but at one point the larger beast let out a whinny and it seemed so loud that she feared it would wake every tent around them. Both twins froze in anticipation, but the old gods must have favored them, for not a soul stirred in response. It took some time, but they eventually made it to the south side of the valley without being caught. The route by which they intended to leave was better concealed than most. Fraught with narrow ravines, sheer cliffs, and thick brush, nobody from outside the Reach had likely braved this pass in a hundred years or more, and it was all but forgotten. As a result, the Forsworn didn't waste their time guarding it. There were sentries higher in the mountains, further out and much higher up. They would be impossible to spot, let alone reach, but their purpose was to search for enemies coming in, not question their own people going out, and if the twins' good fortunes continued, the darkness of the night and the obscurity of their trail would allow them to pass unnoticed at least until morning. It was a dangerous thing to traverse the Druadachs in the dark, foolish even, and that went double for passes like this one. But it would also give them a full night's head start over any huntsmen who might pursue. They traveled single file. Asgen walked in front, choosing his steps carefully as he guided his sure-footed mule through a large thicket of pine trees that miraculously grew out of the rocky mountainside. Faida sat atop the rear mule, ducking low to avoid the branches and trusting her brother to lead them somewhere safe and not off the edge of a cliff. It was no easy task. His darksight potion helped make up for the absent moonlight, but the blindingly dense trees almost completely made up for this. At one point, the potion faded so suddenly that Asgen missed his step and nearly went tumbling down the steep slope. It was only by tightening his grip on the mule's bridle that he managed to save himself, or rather, the stout animal saved him. It was a hard night. It may have been summer, but the mountain winds cut deep and cold year-round, and seemed to funnel between the cliffs and trees. They had their cloaks, but the meager furs they donned underneath did little to stave off the brutal chill. It was not fatally cold, but the discomfort was distracting during a time when they needed their wits about them. For the first time, they understood exactly how the clans of the Reach had managed to survive for so long against mighty empires and kingdoms beyond counting. People of roads and cities would always be vulnerable, but those who could live among the steep crags and jagged peaks of the Druadachs were effectively shielded against any army. Their half-blind stumbling came to a merciful end when the sun broke out above the mountaintops. By that point, the twins wanted nothing more than to tie up their mules and find a good spot to sleep. Instead, they increased their pace and pressed on all the harder. The distance they had traveled during the night had not been half of what they could accomplish by day, and they both wanted to put as much ground between themselves and the valley as possible. Exhausted though they were, the twins kept their stops few and brief. The pattern remained steady. Asgen would lead on foot until he could hardly walk, then Faida would take over, a little slower but steady all the same, while he rested in the saddle. Once rested, Asgen would take over again. Sometimes they both walked for the mules' sake, or even both rode at the same time, though only for brief stretches where the narrow path was deemed safe enough to allow for it. It was during one of the latter stretches that Asgen noticed his eyelids were growing very heavy. He refused to let them close, though, as he knew it would only make him sleepier. However, when he turned around in his saddle to check on his sister, he found that her eyes had fallen comfortably shut. ~~~ "Said you would leave. Knew it." Horothma's voice was cold and bitter, her dark bird-like eyes glaring at Faida with predatory hunger. Faida did not understand how, but she was standing paralyzed in the center of the Black Room, deep in the caverns that flanked their Forsworn valley camp. The hagraven moved just at the edge of her vision, stalking between the stalagmites, moving in and out of the shadows, one minute a black form, and then grotesquely visible in the light of a mushroom patch. She croaked, "For you, this is a mistake." Mustering up her courage, Faida tried to sound brave when she answered. "If it was a mistake, then I'll live with it." "You will. But not as you intend. Leaving my side, not your choice to make. There will be consequences." Faida scowled. "Are the Forsworn not the free people of the Reach?" "Pretty words from the King in Rags. Forsworn. Nords. Fools. They play mortal games. Babble meaningless words. 'Free.' " She grunted with contempt, as if the word's very sound disgusted her. "We are different. We stand among gods." "We stand in a cave." The Matriarch made a screeching sound that threatened to shatter Faida's ears. This was no dream. The pain was real. "The Elder Spirits do not suffer fools," Horothma said, fury in her voice. "And yet they favor you. Your brother corrupts you. Steals your heart from the gods. His blood shall be the price." "Not Asgen!" Faida's voice cracked, betraying the fear she had been working so hard to suppress. She started muttering prayers, drawing on all the power both within her and whatever she could drain from the mountain, pull from the Gray, or be granted by the gods. It was all in vain. The powers that trapped her were far greater than any she could command. The Matriarch cackled. "I have seen what awaits you, Great Sister. You belong here, with those you will save." "I won't leave again," Faida promised. "Please, don't hurt my brother! Please! Let him leave on his own if you must!" "It is too late. You have already left together." "But I'm back! Nothing has changed!" Horothma stepped back into the shadows, and as she did all the mushrooms dimmed and went dark, leaving Faida frozen in the void. "Don't you hurt Asgen!" she screamed. "Please! I'll stay, I will!" A sudden mad rage came over her, and Faida bellowed again. "I'll kill you! Touch him and I'll kill you, do you hear me?" There was no answer, and she was left to cry alone in the darkness. And then a voice called out, her brother's voice. "Faida!" Faida opened her eyes, and Asgen, who was kneeling over her, breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Finally." She blinked, confused, then upon realizing that it was a cloudy sky above her instead of a black ceiling, she immediately gave a silent prayer of thanks. They were holed up beside a patch of juniper trees, surrounded by tall rocks and shaded by the body of the mountain. "What- Agh!" She brought a hand up to her head, which was throbbing meanly. It felt like she had been kicked by the Great Stag itself. "It's okay, relax," Asgen said, his voice calmer now. "Rest." Faida noticed the mules sleeping in a path of wispy grass off to the side. She pointed at them, mumbled, "we've got to keep going." "Not right now." Her brother's voice was firm, and she was surprised by how serious he looked. "You fell from your saddle. I thought..." He frowned. "We made good ground today. Even if they are following us, we can afford some rest." "No," she said, suddenly remembering her dream. "I saw her, Asgen, saw Horothma! She'll kill you!" "Horothma? Because we stole some mules?" Asgen was startled, but he saw his sister's fear and knew he had quell it. Frightened game is easy to trap. "The bitch can damned well try!" Despite everything, Faida couldn't help smiling at her brother's response. Even when frightened, he would go to his grave insulting the ones who scared him. She paused for a second and collected herself. We're safe. She is far behind us. This is not the cave. She spoke again, this time in a calmer tone. "It's not the mules, it's me. She blames you for taking me away." "Taking you- Leaving was your idea!" He frowned. "Well, it was my idea first, but still, I wouldn't have done it unless you wanted to." "I know," she assured him. "And my decision was my own." She remembered her vision earlier that week, when she'd communed with the Dark Lady. She had heard her mother's voice: You need to leave... "But Horothma doesn't care. She's coming, and if she catches us..." "She'll catch us if we don't rest." Asgen looked at the sky. Faida had been asleep for a while, both before and after her fall. It would be night soon, and neither they nor the mules would make it another night without some sleep. As he saw his sister begin to protest, he held up a hand. "I'm not arguing on this, Sister. If we try another night out here, one of us will fall again, and we may not be lucky enough to land on flat ground. The mules are exhausted. I'm exhausted. You fell out of your saddle. We need a good night's sleep and this here is a great spot for it. Besides, we're the only ones crazy enough to travel a full night out here. They'll be sleeping too." "But Horothma-" "Horothma is a bent up crone with a limp. Do you think she'll come herself, or that she sent someone else?" That made sense. And Asgen's confidence was comforting, foolish as she knew it to be. And maybe if Faida had been less scared and better rested, she'd have felt the same herself. It was true that their pursuers would need to sleep just as much as them. Unless... "What if she sends Briarhearts?" "What if she does?" Asgen turned away, hoping his voice didn't hint at the utter dread he felt at the prospect. "They don't hunt in packs. We'll kill them one-by-one if we have to." It was an empty claim, she knew. Faida could manipulate a Briarheart operating by his own will, but not one who was under direct orders from the Matriarch. If such a foe was hunting them, then their only option was to run. Still, her brother was right. They could not travel without sleep forever, and would cover more ground in the morning if they got a good night's rest. Finally convinced, Faida nodded her head in agreement, and the two twins set about making themselves a camp. No fire, of course, but they had rolled up some pelts to sleep in before leaving the valley. Between those, the nearby rocks warding off the wind, and their own Nordic blood, the mountain chill was relatively tame compared to the night before. And despite being terrified, Asgen and Faida were so exhausted that sleep came easily. The twins dreamed the same dream that night, as they often did. In it they rode horses instead of mules, down the cobbled streets of a village many times larger than any they had ever known. The houses were made of stone and the people, wearing cloth garments with fine stitchings and colorful dyes, looked at them with respect and adoration. They were not outcasts or Forsworn. They were heroes, accepted and loved by those around them. The siblings awoke the next morning with renewed determination. They traveled far that second day, moving through the treacherous mountain pass with a little more ease than the day before, and as the afternoon reached its height, they came to the end of a patch of pine woods that brought them right up to the edge of a cliff, high enough in elevation to provide them a gorgeous view of the Reach. The tallest of the snow-tipped Druadachs were at their backs now, and before them stood an endless expanse of green valleys, waterfalls feeding into web-like ravines, and stoney slopes that glittered in the sunlight. One of the greater cliffs was crowned by a massive stone arch that marked an ancient dragon temple, older than any clan that lived today. All of it was to the east, the lands they would have to cross. Neither sibling spoke. There was no need. If this was all the Reach, how could the rest of the world be even bigger? The twins pressed on. They covered even more ground on the third day than they had on the second, passing both the dragon ruins and crossing through many cold mountain streams. On the fourth, they spotted signs of a troll den and made a detour to avoid it. There were still no signs of a close pursuit, so the twins gradually allowed themselves to feel more at ease. "Maybe the scouts actually missed us," Asgen suggested as they sat for lunch and gnawed on what remained of the dried goat meat they had packed. "Could be that they're searching in all the wrong places, not even dreaming we took this route." "Could be," Faida agreed. But she rather doubted it. Horothma had never taught her to scry, but it was one of the many powers that the old crone had long ago mastered. And if that wasn't enough, then she could have commanded ravens to seek them out, or extracted the information from some lesser spirit, or used any number of the other dark and mysterious powers that the Matriarch no doubt possessed. "We shouldn't slow down, though." "Of course not." Asgen rummaged through a near-empty food sack, lamenting the fact that they hadn't brought more. The rations would last them another day, but then they would have to hunt or forage, two things they had precious little time for. "We should reach the Karth in four days. Three if we're quick." He recalled that the river's waters had been rising the last time he crossed, snowmelt from the mountaintops. It would be even higher now, and attempting to ford would be suicide. "We will have to find a bridge. Once we're across, it'll take another few days to get through the eastern foothills." "What then?" "Then travel gets much easier. It's just one big valley out there. A thousand miles you can see, with no mountains to block the view." "Really, Asgen." "Really!" Asgen had forgotten that his sister had never been away from the Druadachs. "We'll ride east, fast and easy as we please, until we find a road that leads to a place called Whiterun. It's a Nord dhun, with walls and soldiers." "I know what Whiterun is." Faida looked uncertain. "I mean, I've heard of it, at least. You really think a Nord city is the best place for us to go?" "We are Nords, sister," Asgen reminded her. "Just don't tell them we're also Reachfolk and we'll fit right in. Besides, Whiterun is said to be huge. Not even Briarhearts will be able to follow us there." Faida nodded, ready to accept that her brother knew what he was talking about. Unfortunately, for all his outward confidence, Asgen could imagine a hundred ways that the journey might go horribly wrong. Even on his lengthiest excursion, he had never actually set foot in the great valley to the east, and never had he seen these roads he hoped existed. Not to mention every Nord he had spoken to in almost a decade had been his enemies. Still, there was no use in worrying about any of that before reaching the Karth River. None of these concerns would matter if they couldn't get across. The rest of that day went smoothly. The terrain was beginning to level out, and every stream they came to, while cold, was small enough to cross without issue. They made good ground and slept more easily that night than they had during any night prior. By the following morning, both twins were in high spirits. At least, they did for a few hours, then Asgen spotted something that ground his optimism into dust. He brought his mule to an abrupt stop. "Look." He didn't even have time to point before Faida noticed it too. Higher up on the hill just north of them, six crows were pecking at the carcass of a mountain elk, a white-feathered arrow buried in its hide. "Must've gotten away from its hunters," Asgen reckoned. "Lost them, then died up there. Doesn't look more than a day or two old." "It could've been anybody, right? Some other clan, maybe." "Beast like that? Any Reachman would have chased it for days, not let it get away. Unless they were keeping to a path, had business out here besides hunting elk." "Nords, maybe?" "They'd have done the same." Faida considered what this meant. If the Forsworn were looking for them, then she wouldn't put it past them to give up on chasing an elk in order to keep from straying too far from their primary hunt. "Do you think they passed us in the night?" "I do. They must not have picked up our trail, though. Otherwise they'd have found us already." Faida glanced around nervously. As if ten feet away an antlered helmet would spring from the rocks. "What should we do?" "You wait around here. Stay hidden with the mules. I'll scout ahead and see if they've moved on." Faida would have preferred they stay together, but her brother had trained with the huntsmen since before he could string a bow. This was his element, not hers. So she nodded compliantly. "Be careful." "Hey," he grinned, "it's me." She rolled her eyes. "I know." He suddenly grew serious. "If anything happens, if you hear shouting or fighting, stay hidden and wait. I'll run if I have to, and we can meet back up in Whiterun." "Are you crazy?" She shook her head. "If I hear fighting, they'd better be ready for both of us because that's what they'll get." Asgen snorted and planted a kiss on his sister's forehead. "Spirits help them, then." He took a deep breath, touched the pommel of his sword to make sure it was still there, and then started east in the general direction they had been moving, sticking to the shadows as he went. "Whiterun," Faida muttered, shaking her head. As if she knew where in the world Whiterun even was. As her brother grew distant, she pricked her finger with a knife and whispered a prayer: "Uricanbeg, Great and Dark, guide my brother's eyes and feet and hands. And steady his heart." No more than ten minutes after disappearing from his sister's sight, Asgen came to a halt, knelt down, and sniffed. Horse droppings, less than a day old and still attracting flies. Further along, he found a patch of trees. No Forsworn in it, but the signs were all around: disturbed ground, discarded meal scraps, human and animal waste to the side, even a dead fire pit. Asgen figured that there must've been at least twelve huntsmen in the band. Probably closer to fifteen. He'd have almost been flattered if the prospect weren't so frightening. They passed us. How did they pass us? When he returned to his sister and told what he'd seen, her reaction was more or less the same as his had been. "Close as we are, you'd think one of their wolves would have sniffed us out," she said. "The streams we crossed might've thrown off the scent. Whatever the reason, they missed us." "But they're still out here." "Mhm. And close. We have to be even more careful now. Moving too quick or too slow will be dangerous. If they double back or find out we're behind them, they'll be positioned to set up a mean ambush." Asgen had a bad feeling in his gut. He had been on many hunts, and it was rare that a party this size managed to miss their quarry so closely. They would have wolves or hounds for sure, possibly even a shaman or two. And scouts that could travel well ahead of and behind the main group. The streams they crossed might have helped, but even then, the odds should have been badly against him and his sister. "They rushed it," he figured. "It's the only thing that makes sense. They're not trying to find us. They're trying to get ahead of us." "To cut us off?" Asgen sure hoped not, but that's exactly what he feared. They moved a little slower the rest of the day, keeping careful eyes on the distance. Still, the twins could not be too hesitant either, for it was entirely possible that other more careful bands were still behind them, intent on driving them into the clutches of the larger group ahead. That evening, they took extra care to find a well-hidden spot to make camp. By now the once-narrow pass had become more of a large, craggy valley in its own right. This made getting lost and walking in circles very easy, but it also made it easy to hide. They tried to enjoy the last of their rations that night, knowing full well that their next few meals would be sparse. They could not risk cooking fires. Not on this side of the river, at least. After eating, they went ahead to sleep, dreaming together of the valley they had left behind and the people they'd lived among for years. People Asgen had fought alongside. People who Faida had healed and tended to. People who were hunting them like rabbits. *** Two days of eating nothing but berries, moss, and raw meat later, the twins finally reached the Karth River. During those two days, they found more signs of the Forsworn hunting party, including another campsite and two sets of tracks at different points. There were even more tracks around the river, which fueled Asgen's fear that they were being funneled towards a trap. "They know this area better than me," he said as they stood along the bank. "They know where it can be crossed. That's where they'll be." Faida had to agree. It made too much sense, with the Forsworn moving ahead of them as brazenly as they had. Once the huntsmen figured out the direction they were trying to flee in, scouring the Reach became unnecessary. All the Forsworn had to do was beat them to the river. And they had done just that. "No chance of crossing here." Faida did not need Asgen's hunting experience to know that much. The Karth was a monster, rapid and swollen with the summer snowmelt. It would take everything to get their mules into the water, and even after managing that, actually getting across without being swept away by the rapids was a task even the stoutest of warriors would be unlikely to manage. And while Asgen could boast all he liked of his own athleticism, Faida was far from the stoutest of warriors. But the Forsworn tracks led both north and south along the bank. Whichever way the twins went, they were almost certainly walking into a trap. Turning back and heading in another direction was hardly an option either, as they'd surely be moving into the clutches of the huntsman that Asgen was now quite confident would be pursuing them, with the wolves, shamans, Briarhearts, and Horothma herself for all they knew. He cursed their bad luck and the Matriarch's spiteful nature. "It should've been a handful. Maybe five or six if they really liked these mules. And chasing us all the way to the damned river? All because the old hag's favorite pupil decided she didn't want to spend every day in a cave next to her foul-smelling hide anymore?" He scooped up a handful of pebbles and angrily hurled them into the river. "Black Fly curse that crone's wicked eyes!" His sister felt the same. In fact, she was even angrier. To Asgen, Horothma was the distant and powerful Matriarch of the clan, but to Faida, she was a mentor. For years, those 'wicked eyes' had watched over her as her power grew, and those unnerving but unquestionably powerful sorceries had protected her as she'd explored the mysteries of life and death, shadow and light, this realm and others. And although the Matriarch had warned her against leaving for her own sake, she had never outright forbidden it. And now, after everything, she was saying that Asgen needed to die... and all because she wanted to control Faida's power herself! Curse her wicked eyes! But standing around cursing and throwing rocks was no better than giving up, so the twins started south. Later that afternoon, they found exactly what they had been expecting. Asgen and Faida hid among the trees and looked down on an old stone bridge of Nordic make. Six Forsworn had set up camp on the far side, and two more were milling about on the bridge itself. There were four horses between them, but no dogs or wolves. Two Nord corpses had been filled with arrows and propped up into sitting positions on the twins' side: a warning to other travelers that they should turn back. "We could keep south," Faida suggested. "Find another bridge." "That could take days." Asgen watched the Reachmen closely. He knew the two bridge guards' faces, but neither had been of the Bittermouth clan, so he'd never bothered to learn their names. Eight guards. There should have been more. "They've split their party. The next bridge is probably guarded too." He folded his arms. Eight was more than they could handle, but it was better than the fifteen he'd expected. If we wait for night, kill the sentries with the bow... No chance. He was a decent shot, but nowhere near good enough to take down both without any screams. Breaking through was not an option either. Their mules were perfect for navigating the treacherous Druadachs, but if it came to racing the Forsworn's horses would run them down with ease. What if we built a raft, he thought, but immediately Asgen knew that this would be more likely to end in them getting dashed against rocks than successfully crossing, or even floating downriver for miles just to get deposited on the same side that they were already on. No, putting themselves at the mercy of the river was a bad idea.Eight guards. "We could try luring some of them away. A fire might do the trick." "It would also tell them we're close by." Asgen already knew what his sister was getting at. "If it doesn't work, if we can't get across, then they'll send for the other hunters and we'll be trapped. You're right, we can't count on them to make it easier for us." He continued to puzzle it out in his head, but every idea he came up with had some fatal flaw that was as likely to get them killed as just walking across. He noticed Faida was being very quiet. "You look like you've got an idea." "Just a thought," Faida answered, but it wasn't completely honest. The beginnings of an idea were very much forming in her mind. "There are clans who pray to lesser spirits of the land. Those along the Karth are known to make pacts with their river gods." Asgen's eyes narrowed. "River gods." "Spirits of the water. Shy but powerful things, as the vateshrans tell it. Children of the Mother Karth." "So what, you want to summon some to carry us across?" "Maybe. Follow me." They backtracked to where they had left their mules. Faida went to the side of hers and started shuffling through the pouch of alchemical supplies. "Will you brew them a potion?" Asgen's curiosity was staring to win out against his patience. "Perform some ritual?" "I'll make them an offering," she answered. "I don't know if it will work, but if one does answer, maybe we can get her to help us." "Her?" "The Karth River only bears daughters." "Oh right, of course she does." Faida turned back to her brother with a smile on her face and two briarheart seeds in her hand. "These should get something's attention." He eyed the seeds. They were objects of both reverence and fear in the Reach. He was surprised that his sister even had access to them. "And if they don't?" "We have two healthy mules." She ran her fingers through the steed's shaggy black mane. "I'm sure we can afford to sacrifice one of them." Asgen could usually tell if his sister was joking, but in that moment she had him good and stumped. Even her smirk as she turned away and started off toward the river was shrouded in devious mystery. They approached a stretch of the riverbank more than two miles north of the guarded bridge. Faida knelt beside the water, unsheathed her knife. "Come over here." Asgen obeyed. He had long since learned to trust her on matters such as this. He took a knee beside Faida and she motioned at his hand with the knife. "You know what I need. Just a few drops." He presented his left hand so she could draw the sharp edge of her dagger against his palm. After that, she produced one of the briarheart seeds, which Asgen squeezed his hand over, allowing a tiny trickle of blood to drip onto the seed. "If they're around, hopefully they'll smell that," Faida said. She took the bloody offering and submerged it in the freezing water. "Otherwise, all we'll get are curious slaughterfish." She then closed her eyes and whispered a prayer of offering in the old tongue of the Reach: "We present this offering to you, ones who came before us, Matrons of River Great. More we have to give, should our words you choose to hear. More we have to give, should our prayers for aid be answered." Faida withdrew her hands from the water, then tossed the seed as far as she could out into the currents. "We might as well get comfortable," she said to Asgen. "It could be a while." Her brother nodded. "Get some sleep. I'll take watch. Any idea what these river spirits look like?" "The vateshran only described them as beautiful." "I've seen mortals who are beautiful." He walked over to his mule and unslung his bow and quiver. "Let's just hope they don't look like beautiful Forsworn. I don't want to know what a god would do to the man who accidentally puts an arrow in her chest." *** It was nighttime when Faida awoke, still early judging by the moons. For a few seconds, she just laid there, enjoying the warmth of her furs and the softness of the moss beneath her head, but as her senses returned she recognized the sound of rushing water, remembered where she was, and quickly sat up, then she whispered, "Asgen?" No reply. Of course, the river would drown out her voice to anyone not immediately beside her. She looked around, then noticed his black silhouette over by the water, bow in hand. She threw aside her furs and made her way down to Asgen's side. She started to speak, but he held up a finger to silence her, then with that same finger pointed out into the river. "Ripples," her brother breathed, his voice barely even a whisper. "Where you threw the seed." Faida looked, but even in the moons' reflection, she couldn't see it. To her, the river looked to be full of ripples. How did he even remember where the seed had landed? "You're sure?" "Yes." Faida noticed that her brother had nocked an arrow. "You plan to shoot it?" "It's not a god." Asgen's eyes were locked on what he had seen, what he could still see. His sister's eyes were not trained to pick up on the subtle movements of a creature in the wild, the little twitches against the wind, the sudden jolts opposite a river current, the terrified or curious freeze when they realize that a hunter is nearby. That is what this... thing was doing now. It had moved to this spot, stopped, and now it was looking right at him. He couldn't see its eyes, but Asgen knew, he just knew, that it was sizing him up. The question now was whether it was terrified or curious. He was just beginning to wonder if he should try calling out to the thing, when there was a sudden splash just to their right. Faida took a step back, and Asgen spun, arrow pulled to his chin. But as he did, he noticed the tail fin of a large slaughterfish plopping back into the river. Immediately, he returned his attention to the spot before, and just as he did, the water exploded outward as a second slaughterfish leapt from the current, a salmon sticking out of its mouth. In his surprise and anger, Asgen let his arrow fly, spearing the fish in the air only for it to disappear again into the Karth. "Damnit," Asgen swore. Then he swore a few more times using what few words he'd bothered to learn in the old tongue. "Well you were right," Faida chuckled. "That was no god." Her brother's shoulders slumped with disappointment. He would have sworn that the thing he'd been staring at was something more, something special. It had just been sitting down there, like it was waiting for him! He sighed. "A slaughterfish! At least a monster would have been a good story!" Asgen turned, and found himself face-to-face with a monster. "Cac diabhal!" Faida was surprised by how well her brother pronounced the old curse words. She turned, saw what he saw, and the shock of it made her cry out, "Cac diabhal!" then she threw in a "gnéas!" for good measure. No more than a spear's length before them stood, or rather hovered, a creature that was unlike any the twins had ever laid eyes on. Even as they looked, figuring out what they saw was difficult, for the texture of its translucent skin moved and swirled like running water, causing the moonlight to dance across it in unpredictable patterns. It had two legs, two arms, and a head, all thin and shaped somewhat like the figure of an elven female, but the neck seemed half again too long for any human or mer. Its eyes were two white lights, perfectly round and twice the size of a coin. The way they stared, absent of any colors or pupils, it was impossible to tell which sibling they were looking at. Frozen in both awe and terror, both twins felt very much like the sort of prey that Asgen had been reflecting on. Though he understood good and well the dangerous position they were in, it was Faida who recovered first. Mustering all her bravery, and inwardly drawing her thoughts back to their proper place, she willed herself to speak. "Mighty spirit," she said in the old tongue, "queen of the river... have you come in answer to our prayers?" The creature's head tilted, very slightly, and those perfectly round moon-like eyes seemed to shift in such a way that they must have focused on her. It did not reply. Hand still shaking, Faida reached into her pouch and withdrew the second briarheart seed. She could not fathom what such a being might do with it, but that was the least of her concerns right then. She held it out in the palm of her hand and spoke, "more have we to give, should our words you choose to hear." The creature's eyes did not move, but their lights did seem to brighten. She hears me, Faida thought. But does she understand? By now, Asgen had shaken off the paralyzing fear and started thinking about what he would do if this thing proved unfriendly. Somehow, jumping into the river did not seem like their best bet. While Faida spoke in her gibberish language and seemingly held the thing's attention, his right hand inched toward his belt. There wouldn't be time to draw a sword if the spirit knew magic, but he could have his knife ready as fast as any spell. "More have we to give," Faida continued, "should our prayers for aid be answered." Faida extended her arm, offering the briarheart seed to the river spirit. Then, something happened that Faida did not expect, nor could she have ever hoped to expect it, for it defied mortal logic. She felt, rather than heard, the spirit's reply, but even as a sensation the response came to her clear like clean water. It said, "Child of the Reach, why come you before me? Poison are these gifts, corruption given form." "I-" Faida stammered, collected herself once more. "I apologize. I meant them as offerings to you. My brother and I seek to cross this river." "Then cross. Many mortals do." "The bridges are blocked. Wicked men prevent our crossing." "I don't think it's working," Asgen whispered. His fingers anxiously tapped on the pommel of his dagger. "It's just staring at you." The spirit's head turned, and Asgen suddenly tightened his grip on the dagger hilt while those strange white orbs seemed to focus his way. "She understands me," Faida said back. "Just hold on. I don't think she'll hurt us." Asgen wasn't so sure. It was still staring at him, and every second of it made him feel more and more like prey. This lasted for a very long minute, with Asgen every second fighting his instinct to draw the knife, then finally, the thing's head turned back to Faida. "Those you call wicked, what are their sins?" Faida thought carefully. The spirit's disdain for briarheart seeds gave her an idea. "They seek my brother's death and my enslavement. They serve a ravencrone of the mountains." The spirit's eyes brightened further. "The bird women. They are known on the river. Twisted, disdainful. Blights on nature. My aid you shall have, Mountain Daughter, if your word might be given that all poison gifts you carry shall be purged in flame." "You have my word," Faida promised. And she meant it. An oath spoken in the old tongue was no small thing. "How will you help us?" "Go now to the bridge and fulfill your word in the sight of those who pursue you. I shall await you there." Without warning, the spirit drifted forward. Asgen started to draw his blade but a look from Faida made him stop. She passed between them, and the air in her wake was like a cold mist. Turning, they watched the spirit hover over the river until her toes just barely touched the water, then she slowly sank back into the depths unhindered by the powerful current. Asgen let out a long breath, finally relaxing his grip on the dagger. Then he noticed that the left side of his cloak was drenched where the spirit had brushed against it. "Well," he muttered, "that was... strange. Did we get anything from it?" "Oh yes." Faida was smiling. "We got a friend." *** It did not take long for the twins to make it back to the same spot near the bridge. They could still see the Forsworn on the other side, thanks to the pair of campfires that had been lit. It appeared that about four of them were sleeping. Two more were keeping watch on the opposite road, and two sentries were still hanging out on the bridge. "So we're supposed to burn the seeds where they can see us?" "Aye, she was very clear about that." "She could be tricking us." Faida shook her head. "I don't think so. I felt truth in her, like the truth of rocks being hard or water being wet. I'm not sure if she could lie." Asgen grimaced. "Or maybe she's just really good at it." At a glance from his sister, he shook his head. "Forget it. I'm not building a damn raft. I'm ready whether she's with us or not. But we should do this smart." He pointed at the sentries. Only one of them had a bow. The other was equipped with a fishing rod. His weapons rested against the stone bridge's rail. "As soon as you light the fire, the one with the bow is going to see us. I'll have an arrow in him before he even knows what to do. His fishing friend is unarmed. As long as he doesn't run, I'll be able to get him too. Hopefully by then our new friend shows up, but even if she doesn't, we'll have no choice but to make for the other side. Most the others are sleeping, but if we can steal a horse before they know what's happening, we might be able to get through. If you can, try to hex one of the awake ones on your way past." Faida nodded. The chances of that plan working were slim. The Forsworn would have to be both deaf and stupid to get so badly outplayed. She prayed that the spirit would come through. "You're sure you've got everything you need off your mule?" Asgen asked. The mounts, of course, would have to stay behind. "Aye." Faida touched her alchemy sack, which contained both ingredients and their pouch of gold. She also wore one of the swords on her side. "And you?" "Aye." Asgen had the axe on his right hip and the sword on his left. The bow was in his hand and four arrows remained in the quiver. "Let's go." The twins crept through the trees with slow but sure movements, right up until they were right at the edge, not a stone's throw away from the large bridge. Had it been daytime, they would've been impossible to miss, but under cover of night, they were able to get good and close. Asgen nocked an arrow and took aim at the sentry with the bow. "All you, Sister." Faida held out her remaining briarheart seeds in one hand and then whispered a spell of fire. A bright light engulfed the little seeds, and she let them fall to the ground and burn. Immediately, sentry with the bow leapt to his feet, only to fall down again when Asgen's arrow found a place in his chest. The man shrieked, and his friend dropped the fishing rod and started scrambling for his gear. Asgen loosed another arrow, swore as it flew inches over the man's head, then nocked another. But to his surprise, before he could even take aim, the Forsworn apparently decided to take his chances and jumped over the railing and into the Karth. Good enough. He thought. "Now!" The twins leapt from the trees and started for the bridge at a sprint. Ahead, the fallen sentry was still wailing, and beyond him the Forworn on the riverbank were making a loud commotion. Asgen could already see that one of those who'd been on watch was nocking an arrow. He slowed down, aimed, and loosed his own, striking the Forsworn in her arm. She dropped the bow, but quickly replaced it with a spear. Two of the sleeping Forworn were up and armed, and the other who had been on watch was already at the bridge brandishing a wicked-looking greatsword. Asgen sent an arrow his way, but he rushed the shot and missed by a fair amount. Still running, he dropped the bow and drew his sword and axe. Beside him, Faida was muttering some incantation. Suddenly and without warning, there came a loud splash on the right side of the bridge. The twins stopped, both noticing a round object as it soared through the air in a wide arch. The object struck the man with the greatsword square in his head. His knees buckled and he collapsed. The remaining Forsworn hesitated, everyone staring at the object that had been launched from the river. It was the severed head of the sentry who had jumped in. With three Forsworn fallen and one only just now scrambling out of his bedroll, things were suddenly looking less favorable for their hunters, and it showed in their movements. Four of them approached the bridge with more caution than before, while the fifth retrieved his comrade's bow and went over toward the riverbank to look for whatever had beheaded his friend. Asgen sized up their foes. Two were pillagers who he recognized. The one with the wounded arm wore the black war paint of a clan he did not know. The fourth carried a staff with a skull on top, a shaman, most likely. He glanced at his sister, who was eyeing the shaman. "That's not all your friend is going to do for us, is it?" Not even remotely. Once again, without leaving any time for the Forsworn to react, there was a splash, and they all looked to see that the lone archer had fallen into the Karth. His head was visible for a brief moment, then two pale hands reached up from the water, grasped him by the hair, and pulled him under. By now it was clear that the Forsworn were terrified. Only the shaman maintained her composure. She shouted something at her comrades, then pointed at the twins. At that moment, the river spirit emerged from the water in full, hovering on the opposite side of the bridge from where the two hunters had gone down. The shaman did not see her, but the other three did. One threw his spear at the spirit and missed. Another stood petrified. The third simply turned around and started running back toward the bank. "Go!" Asgen shouted. Faida flung a black spell at the shaman, who blocked it with a ward. Behind her, the other two Forsworn had turned and were fleeing behind their companion. The shaman lowered her ward and retaliated with a fireball from her staff. The twins broke apart and it passed between them. They were closing the distance now. Twenty more feet. Ten. Five. The shaman slammed her staff down, sending a wave of flame from where it struck. Faida shielded herself with a ward, but Asgen leapt over the flames, singeing his cloak in the process, and buried his axe in the shaman's skull. The Reachwitch collapsed, and as she did, the twins looked ahead just in time to see the river spirit grab one of the Forsworn and fly off of the bridge at incredible speed, only to emerge again without him. Only one Forsworn remained, the one with the wounded arm. She had made it back to the riverbank and was trying to climb onto one of the horses. Her bad arm made this difficult, and by the time she finally got up, the river spirit was upon her. She shrieked, but got cut short when the spirit's hand wrapped around her throat, lifted her off the horse, and dragged her to the depths of the Karth River. The twins stood on the bridge in awe. All that remained of their eight foes were a dying man, two corpses, and a severed head. After collecting himself, Asgen retrieved his axe and went to finish off the former. While he did that, Faida looked around for signs of the river spirit. There were none. So she went to the bridge's edge, peered into the rapids below, and whispered thanks in the old tongue. As if in response, a slaughterfish leapt out of the water, flipped, and fell back in again again with a splash. Faida wasn't certain, but she thought she'd seen a human foot clutched in its mouth. "Well..." Her brother stepped up beside her. "I doubt I'll ever look at a river the same way again." "That makes two of us." She glanced back across the bridge. "Should we go back for the mules?" "They'll be fine. We've got horses now, and plenty of supplies. But we can't linger. This wasn't all of them." "You think they can track us past the Karth?" "They can try. But as long as we move quickly, I doubt they'll be able to catch up. Now come on. We've got looting to do." 2 Quote It's always nice when your writing gets reinforced by the canon after you come up with it. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
The Good Doctor Posted January 12, 2021 Author Share Posted January 12, 2021 3E 433 Telvanni Endar Drenim alongside a small group of fellow wizards has set in motion plans to reform the Telvanni Council, an institution whose members are older than the Cyrodiilic Empire. In doing so, they aim to become the new Masters of the Great House. As preparations for their coup neared an end, the Oblivion Crisis struck, devastating all the lands of Tamriel. For most, this has been a tragedy. For the conspiring Telvanni, it is an opportunity. Endar cast detect life, then detect dead for good measure. One could not be too careful when dealing with a foe so ancient. Fortunately, the charred corpse lit up the moment his second spell took effect. He turned to look at the only other being in the room. "Dratha is dead. Her soul is yours, dremora. Now you will give me what I am owed." "Very well." The daedric warrior held out its gauntleted hand, and in it appeared a smooth dark orb that pulsed with burning red energy. A sigil stone. "When you reach the Deadlands, tell Mehrunes Dagon that Xykenaz extends his regards." The dremora vanished back to Coldharbour, leaving the orb suspended in the air where he'd been holding it. Finally, thought Endar as he renewed his protective wards then reached out and took it. The daedra will not expect us to open a gate of our own. He glanced around the mushroom tower, now his tower. Mistress Dratha had been a paranoid recluse, and in her centuries of hiding, she had amassed quite the collection of trinkets and artifacts that would no doubt prove useful in fighting off the hordes of Oblivion. His hirelings had already repelled the assault on Vos. Now, with Dratha's tools and his new transcendent sigil stone, they would take the fight to Dagon's realm and remind the Daedric Prince that House Telvanni is off-limits. Before he left, Endar cast a rueful look at the dead sorceress. By most accounts, she had been the second oldest Dunmer in all of Vvardenfell. While eras came and went, while nations and empires rose and fell, Mistress Dratha had been an enduring fixture through it all. Now she was a corpse just like the many piled outside, brought to ruin by his hand. For just a moment, Endar felt a soberness that was rather uncommon in him. For all her power, killing Dratha had been easy. Her death served as proof that any mortal could be mere moments away from that fate... even him. Immediately, he recognized the dangers of such thinking and turned away from the corpse. Dratha had dwelled so long on her own mortality that it had all but driven her mad. That was why her death had come so easily. He would not make the same mistake. He summoned another dremora, an obedient one that had long ago been bound to his will. "Clean up this mess," Endar commanded, "before the stench of burnt old woman seeps into my new tower." 1 Quote It's always nice when your writing gets reinforced by the canon after you come up with it. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
The Good Doctor Posted March 6, 2021 Author Share Posted March 6, 2021 In the early days of the reign of Empress Dales Motierre, Legion General Gracchus Ceno proposed an action to designate land in the Valus Mountains as a safe haven for Orsimer who sought to escape the tribulations of their western homeland. This proposal was met with major support from both Colovian and the Nibenese blocks of the Elder Council, for war with the Aldmeri Dominion was fast approaching and friendship from the Orcs would be a strong comfort in the uncertain times to come. The greatest concern was of the Dunmeri people in the east, whose lands bordered the Valus Mountains. Hoping to convince the Dunmer of the rightness of this decision, Empress Dales sent a lone emissary from the Elder Council to treat with them and to make the Empire's intentions clear. Stentus Ponius Blacklight Grey clouds blotted the northern sky, swallowing up the Velothi Mountains in their oppressive thickness. No sooner had the darkest of these clouds blown in off the Sea of Ghosts than a cascade of ash-laden sleet started raining down on the city of Blacklight. The Redoran Guard didn't seem to mind, armored and thickly-layered as they were, but as they marched him down the old cobbled streets of the outer city, Elder Councillor Stentus Ponius shivered and thought longingly of the warm hearth of his Nibenese Estate back home. They traveled through a series of districts dotted with the strange insectoid houses the Redoran were known for, intermixed here and there with more familiar brick-and-mortar structures from the days of Nordic occupation. Most of the latter were old and decrepit, with broken and shutterless windows and the occasional orange glow of a squatter fire within. Red Dunmeri eyes followed them throughout the entire journey. It mattered little whether those eyes were under the shade of hoods and bonemold visors or through the windows of ramshackle apartments, every pair of them watched with suspicion and disdain. Being from County Cheydinhal, Stentus was plenty familiar with the fiery gaze of the dark elf people, but the ones back home were generations removed from their homeland, and had a certain passivity to them that did not seem to exist in anything on this side of the border. The harsh and undisguised contempt was almost frightening, for the daedra worshipping locals had the numbers to tear his procession limb-from-limb if they chose to. Nonsense, he told himself. They would not dare harm an emissary from the Elder Council. Even so, Stentus felt relief when they passed through the first bulwark and emerged into the more orderly and better guarded (thank Stendarr) inner city. The streets here were somewhat cleaner, with only a thin layer of ash on the ground, as opposed to the mounds of it that had been outside. To the north, the masts of many ships were just visible through the polluted sleet, and the black waters of the Sea of Ghosts could be heard lashing at their hulls, spraying the dark mist into the air. They passed by the docks and came to a second bulwark, this one larger, designed to hold back not only ash, but armies as well. A tunnel ran beneath it, about fifty feet long and with portcullis on each end. Stentus slipped on the ice as they descended, and was only saved from a face full of muck by the quick reaction of his bodyguard Placcius. One of the Redoran escorts snickered, but it was impossible to tell which beneath their bonemold helmets. When they emerged, they were led through two more increasingly-upscale districts, where the insectoid houses were wider, with colorful glass windows dotting their shells and house banners decorating their sides. There were fewer Nord-style buildings here, but the handful present were far more extravagant, built two and three-stories tall and designed more like fortresses than homes. Stentus noticed giant fungal roots emerging from large cracks in one of them, the mark of a Telvanni lord's residence. It wasn't long then before they arrived at the Rootspire, the great and ancient stronghold of House Redoran. It was made out of some unfamiliar dark material, with a central keep that towered far above any other dwelling in Blacklight. Indeed, if not for the White Gold Tower, the Rootspire would have been the tallest building Stentus had ever laid eyes on. However, unlike the narrow White Gold which sprouted into the clouds out of a low and sprawling palace, this whole structure was built wide, fat even, with each level seemingly big enough to house a full town's worth of residents. A single outer wall wrapped around it in a jagged circle dotted with towers, and even now was manned by enough of the elite Redoran Guard to ward off an army. They climbed a long staircase that was flanked by freestanding guard towers, then through the outer wall and a lantern-lit courtyard. It was here that the bulk of Stentus's personal guards were led away to the barracks they would be quartered in. Only Placcius and one other guard were permitted to accompany him into the keep. The entry hall was a large circular room, with numerous archways leading into adjacent corridors. The wall space between every two archways was decorated by the mounted trophies of creatures that had been slain: the jawbones of a sea drake, the skeleton of a massive dreugh, the skull of a dragon, and the remains of more alien creatures that Stentus had never seen even in illustration. Beneath each trophy hanged the weapons he assumed had been used to bring the beasts down: which included every sort of death dealer from chitin and bonemold spears on up to a glass broadsword and ebony battle-axe. A collector himself and regular participant in eastern Imperial auctions, Stentus knew that many of these adornments were worth a fortune on their own. Stentus made a mental note to find out if there was any price that the giant dreugh could be purchased for, but at that moment he was more interested in getting to his quarters. Looking back to the center of the room, he saw that they were being approached by a dark elf man who was clad from neck to toe in very similar bonemold armor to that worn by the guards who had escorted them. "Greetings." The elf spoke in the raspy tone of so many Morrowind natives. "I am Belas Andrelo, House Brother of the Great House Redoran and oathsteward of the Rootspire." Peculiar people, these Redoran, thought Stentus as he eyed the elf's armor. It must have been ceremonial, for Stentus could not fathom why else a steward of all people would be clad in such uncomfortable looking attire. "Your rooms are being prepared," the oathsteward continued. "You are to wait in this hall until they are ready." That surprised Stentus. He pushed back his hood with an ice-crusted mitten. "Just now? We sent word of our coming weeks ago." "The Rootspire is a busy place," the elf replied. "Many come and go, and there is always work to be done. Your impending arrival must have slipped someone's mind." "The arrival of an emissary from the Elder Council of Cyrodiil just slipped your minds?" Stentus frowned. "You will forgive me if I find that difficult to believe." The elf shrugged. "Believe what you will, Imperial." He motioned to the dreugh trophy Stentus had been looking at. "You are free to explore this hall in the meantime. But outsiders are not permitted any further into the Rootspire without authorization." Stentus couldn't help feeling annoyed. Weeks of travel punctuated by an hour-long march through a freezing ash storm had left him desperately longing for a warm fire and a dry change of clothes. Even for dark elves, this was a particularly egregious display of inhospitality. He looked back at his men, and though they had the legionnaire discipline to not voice complaints, their eyes revealed that they shared in his disappointment. "Very well," Stentus said, turning back to the elf. "We shall browse your hunting collection while we wait." "Go right ahead. I recommend reading the plaques beneath. Each one tells the story of the hunt." With that, the oathsteward headed off into one of the corridors, leaving the Imperials with only silent and stationary Redoran guards for company. Determined to make the most of a frustrating situation, Stentus went over to the dreugh. Beneath it was a long warhammer fashioned out of chitin. He glanced down at the wall-plaque under the hammer, then scowled. The plaque's text was etched in daedric script. Typical. He looked over his shoulder at Placcius. "Can you read daedric?" The bodyguard shook his head. Stentus glanced at the other soldier, who said, "I can't read at all, sir." "A shame." Stentus moved away from the dreugh and started around the room to get a closer look at some of the other trophies, the whole time he was conscious of the chill that had yet to escape his bones. It wasn't long before his annoyance returned. Was a place to warm our feet really so much to ask? While he stewed, a dark elf woman entered the hall from one of the side corridors. She was dressed like a servant, and walked briskly past them while carrying some basket. "Excuse me Sera," Stentus said, hoping that his use of the woman's native tongue would endear her to him. "Is there any word of how long it will be until our quarters are prepared?" His efforts appeared to be in vain, as the woman gave him a look that was only marginally more friendly than the ones he'd received in the outer city. "I have no idea who you even are, Outlander." Outlander? The impertinence! He folded his arms. "I am Stentus Ponius, member of the Elder Council and emissary of the White Gold Tower." "Oh, well in that case," she performed a lazy curtsey, "welcome to Morrowind, M'lord." She turned and continued on her way without another word. "Wait," Stentus ordered, far more abruptly than he intended. Clearly, the frustration was getting to him. The elf stopped again, this time leveling him with a gaze that was downright hostile. She spoke sharply. "What?" Stentus drew a breath, collecting himself. Issuing commands to someone else's servants was unbecoming of a nobleman, even hosts as poor as these. "How many of the Great House Councilmen are currently here in Blacklight?" From the look she gave him, one might've thought he had asked how many stars were in the sky. "I have no idea." Before Stentus could ask another question, she spoke again. "Bother someone else, Outlander. I'm busy." She turned away once more and exited the hall. "Can you believe that?" Stentus said to his men. "The nerve." "They're not fond of us here," said Placcius. "Needs a good beatin', she does," said the other guard. Stentus ignored the latter. "I understand the Empire is not popular here, but we have come in good faith with the best of intentions. Hopefully the Councilmen themselves will understand that and treat with us in kind." Minutes passed, and so did more dark elves. Most of them were guards and servants who were no more helpful or informed than the first had been. It wasn't until nearly an hour had gone by that Belas Andrelo returned to the hall, accompanied by another elf. The two were in deep conversation, and walked right past Stentus and his guards without even seeming to notice them. "Excuse me," Stentus exclaimed. "Oathsteward." The two elves continued walking, still speaking in their low and guttural tones. He scowled. "Oathsteward Andrelo!" The elves stopped and the steward finally looked at him. "Councillor," he said, pausing. "What can I... wait, have you been standing here all this time?" "I have." "Truly?" "Truly." "Strange. You were supposed to be informed almost an hour ago. Your quarters are ready. I'll have you escorted to them at once." At this point, Stentus was too angry to feel relieved. That anger was only compounded when he arrived at his quarters. There was only a single room, small, with a short bed, a single dresser, a desk, and a fireplace that had been lit recently but was now only down to the barest of embers. There was a privy in the corner behind the fireplace and a window above the desk. It was a servant's quarters, of that Stentus had no doubt. Its usual occupant had likely been moved somewhere else to make room for him. His frustrations did not end with unsuitable accommodations. The next morning, he and his men were treated to breakfast in a modest dining room, which Belas Andrelo joined them for, but he gave no word regarding the Councilmen or when he could meet with any of them. He was permitted to explore the Rootspire after that, but only the bottom level of the western wing, which only contained his room and a bunch of others like it. Lunch and dinner were provided as well, but the dark elven food was not much to the Imperials' liking and what's worse is that there was still no news from the Council. The first day went by, and Belas learned nothing. Then the second day came and went much the same. On the third day, Belas Andrelo told him that there was a Redoran Councilman who would see them tomorrow, but when the fourth day came, the man was nowhere to be found. That evening, Stentus was was informed that a Councilman from House Sadras was in the Rootspire and would see them soon, but once again, this turned into nothing. On and on this went. Almost every day for two weeks, Stentus had his hopes raised, albeit a little less each time, only for the dark elves to not follow through whatsoever. Meanwhile, there was little to do besides stare at the walls in the same tiny room and play dice with two Imperial soldiers who were as frustrated as he was. By the sixteenth day of their stay, Stentus had all but run out of patience. He and his guards sat down for dinner that evening across from Belas and a couple of servants. This time, the steward informed him that there was a Telvanni Master who was looking forward to seeing them, but not until she was ready. Stentus was beyond incredulous. "A Telvanni Master." Belas finished chewing on a kwama egg. "That's right. Mistress Alfe Fyr of Neruhn." Stentus had seen countless maps of Morrowind and spoken to hundreds of dark elves about their homeland back in Cheydinhal. Never once had he heard of any great wizard named 'Alfe' or any place called Neruhn. By now, he was quite sure that these people were only keeping him around to make a fool of him, to have a laugh at his Empire's expense. "Neruhn, you say?" "That's right. Mistress Fyr's keep." "I've never heard of it. Where is this Neruhn, exactly?" The elf shrugged, taking a sip of matze as he did. "I'm the wrong person to ask that, I'm afraid. It's not on this plane of existence, you see." And just like that, Belas turned back to his meal, as if he hadn't just spoken the most ridiculous two sentences that Stentus had ever heard. Stentus put his fork down. "Do you think I'm a fool, Dunmer?" "Hm?" The steward frowned. "No, I'm quite serious. The Telvanni are known for traveling between realms, especially Fyr." "I bet, and I suppose tomorrow you will tell me that a Councilman from House Dagoth is on his way, or that your Saint Alexia has put me on her list." "It's Almalexia," the elf corrected. "And no, I would not tell you that." "Well whatever you would tell me, I'm sure it's worth just as much." The dark elf stared at Stentus, seemingly waiting for him to continue. And so he did. "For over two weeks now you and your lords have strung me along like a pup on a leash. But I've seen the looks you people give me, heard the way you speak, and I'll suffer this humiliation no longer! I am an emissary from the White Gold Tower, come with good intentions and words that the lords of Morrowind would be wise to try and hear. If they intend to make me spend another day in that rathole of a servant's quarters, waiting for a meeting that isn't coming, then they will be disappointed! Tomorrow, I will take my leave, and I will take the words of Cyrodiil with me. You tell them that, and if they still refuse to hear me, then the consequences shall be theirs to deal with, not mine." Belas gave him a long, dry look. "I will take your message to the Council." "See that you do." With that, Stentus returned to his meal, content he had finally been heard. He slept well that night, and come morning he awoke and packed his bags, more than happy to follow through with his promise. They won't be laughing when a few thousand Orcs suddenly settle beside their border, he thought. For this was the matter he had come to discuss. Very soon, Empress Motierre would be relocating several of Wrothgar's largest Empire-friendly Orc tribes into the southern Valus Mountains. Stentus had offered up an untouched section of his own land as part of the reservation. This was happening whether the dark elves liked it or not, but if they didn't even care enough to be informed of the development, then that was no longer any concern of his. They could hear it from the Orcs. That morning passed like all the others, and by lunchtime, Stentus had already given the order for his guards to be ready. They seemed as eager to leave as he was. He was just about to depart when Belas Andrelo caught up with him in the entrance hall. "The Grand Council will see you," declared the elf. "They await in the upper chamber." Stentus smiled. "Wonderful." He and his two guards were led up a wide staircase that spiraled around the edge of the Rootspire. It was quite the climb, and Stentus's legs were more than a little sore by the time they reached the designated floor. After traveling through several corridors that were far more extravagant than the one he had been consigned to, they arrived at a high-ceiling chamber with many chairs around a massive round temple that appeared to be shaped from pure ebony. Beside the table, two mer stood speaking to each other. Both were dark elves of course, and dressed so exquisitely that they could have only been Great House Councilmen. When Stentus approached, they broke off from their conversation and set their red eyes upon him. Stentus stopped in his tracks. Why were they just staring? Were they not going to speak? Thankfully, Placcius stepped forward beside him and thundered, "You have the honor of addressing Baron Stentus Ponius of Nibenay, member of Cyrodiil's Elder Council and emissary of the White Gold Tower." The bodyguard stepped back, and Stentus cleared his throat. "Fine greetings, Lords of Morrowind." The elves continued to stare, examining him like he was there for study. Several excruciating seconds passed, then at long last, the one on the right, a middle-aged mer clad in robes of black and gold beneath an ornate bonemold chest piece, folded his arms. "Greetings, Cyrodiil. I am Varvur Sarethi. Archmaster of House Redoran." "And I am Velum Girith," said the other. Even for a Dunmer, this one's voice was dark and gravely. His blue robes with silver and gold trimmings were less militant than those of his companion, but every bit as fine. "Councilman of House Sadras. You have traveled far to speak with us." "Indeed I have." Stentus had expected to treat with the entire Grand Council, or most of it at least, but after getting strung along for so many days, he was perfectly fine with only having to speak with two. They could share the news he brought as they desired. "I come under the combined authority of Empress Dales Motierre and the Elder Council to share with you news of upcoming developments along the border of our two countries." Councillor Girith leaned back against the ebony table, folding his arms. "Go on." "Specifically, these developments will pertain to a currently uninhabited region of the Southern Valus Mountains, southeast of the city of Cheydinhal and northwest of Kragenmoor. The region in question has long been upheld as Imperial land, even prior to the Treaty of the Armistice. My own household has managed it in decades past." "I know those lands," stated Girith. "There is little in that part of the mountains aside from goblins, cliff racers, and dirty iron." "You are correct, which is why my family and two others have opted to relinquish ownership of this land to the White Gold Tower, who have in turn opted to convert it into a reservation." "For goblins?" "For Orcs." That got their attention. Though the dark elves hid it well, Stentus noticed the subtle shifts in their body language. The quiet Redoran's eyes narrowed ever so slightly while the Sadras shifted his weight where he sat on the table. He continued, "As you have likely heard, the kingdom of High Rock has recently seceded from the Empire, nullifying all Imperial treaties that were in place to maintain peace between the Bretons and Orcs. This leaves our Orsimer allies in a precarious position. Empress Dales, in all her compassion, has seen fit to offer them new land, far from the dangers present in the west. Several tribes have already accepted the deal, and aim to begin construction of a new Eastern Orsinium upon their arrival." "That land, it borders Sadras territory," said Girith. "You would put a thousand Orcs right against my border." "It will probably be more than that, Master Sadras" Stentus said, trying his best to sound understanding. "The invitation for settlement is open to all Orcs, and rumor has it that the Bretons have already started to harass them back west." Before either Dunmer could voice further displeasure, Stentus raised his hand, adding, "The Orc chiefs have agreed to settle their tribes peacefully. There is to be no raiding against Morrowind." "Telling Orcs not to raid is like telling Nords not to drink," said Varvur Sarethi. And truth be told, Stentus agreed. In fact, he had already stretched the truth somewhat by saying that this was something the Orcs had agreed to. In truth, only a single chief had made such a promise. "Those who choose to come east are either hopeful or desperate," he replied. "In either case, they are in no position to threaten you. They will come weakened to a land that is poor in resources. If the goblins of the mountains offer no threat, then neither will the Orcs." "Goblins are stupid," said Velum Girith. "They kill each other more than anyone else. Orcs are stupid too, but they are hardy and capable of unifying, something goblins could never achieve. How many decades will it be before they are strong enough to threaten Sadras lands? Two? Three? That may seem long to you, Outlander, but for a Dunmer it is but a passing of seasons." Varvur Sarethi spoke up. "You speak of events that will happen, not what may. You haven't come to negotiate, but to tell us your intentions, whether we like it or not." "That is true," agreed Girith. "Are you only here to gloat?" "Certainly not." Though I would very much like to. "I have come as a friend, under the impression that you would prefer to know of this in advance than to find out as it happens. I would remind you that this was once my land, and it borders my own estate as well. These Orcs will be my neighbors soon as much as they are to be yours. There is nothing I can do about it either, but I intend to make the most of it." "House Redoran does not count the Empire among its friends," proclaimed Sarethi. "But go on, tell us how you plan on making the most of this." "The Orcs will arrive carrying only what they can. They will want coin to build their city, and jobs to keep them busy. I will be employing them as laborers where I can, but more importantly as guards and mercenaries. When the next Great War comes, I would feel safer knowing that the legendary warriors of Wrothgar stand between myself and the Dominion. Do you not also face the threat of raids from your southern neighbor?" The elves exchanged a glance, though Stentus had a hard time reading what it meant. Looking back at him, Girith said, "The Argonians have stolen much wealth from our southern lands during their raids. The Orcs would stand to benefit from launching raids against them." "These Orcs are citizens of the Empire, and the Empire would never condone the raiding of Black Marsh," Stentus winked. "Not in any official capacity, at least. White Gold can hardly keep tabs on everything that goes on at the fringes of its borders." "I still don't like it," said Sarethi. "And neither will anyone else on the Council, I imagine. But it is not Redoran territory that is at risk. This issue has been laid squarely upon the doorstep of House Sadras." "I cannot speak for my whole House," Girith said, "let alone the Grand Council. But I don't like it either." He glared at Stentus. "I could have two thousand soldiers and twice as many Ashland mercenaries in those mountains within two months, ready to kill any Orc on sight. What say you to that, Imperial?" "I say that you will be in violation of our borders, and there would be nothing stopping White Gold from sending a legion to clear you out." It was a bluff, of course. Stentus had no authority when it came to deciding the use of the legions, but he rather doubted Empress Motierre could spare one with the war looming. "We're not afraid of your dying Empire, f'lah," Sarethi growled, but Girith suddenly didn't look as confident. Probably because it was his men who would be at stake. Stentus seized on this. "I do not wish for conflict. I am only stating the situation. You can fight over some useless mountains, lord Girith, or you can do as I am and try to get something out of it. Meet with the Orcs, ally with them before they have the chance to become a problem. You could end up with a valuable ally." Girith was silent, still contemplating his answer, when out of nowhere came a blinding flash in the space between the two parties. "By the Nine-" Stentus shielded his eyes. Behind him, his guards were drawing their swords. When the light receded, there was some... thing in the space between them. The bottom half of it looked vaguely like a woman, in bizarre yet splendorous purple and golden robes, yet the top half, particularly around where the head should have been, was a massive insect-looking shell with dozens of eyes and mandibles that stretched almost a foot from its 'face'. The creature stood, or rather, hovered above the floor for several seconds, unmoving, then finally in a voice that sounded even more alien than that of a dremora, it spoke. "Greetings. I am Mistress Alfe Fyr of House Telvanni. These are my assistants, Vraxxukel-" There was another flash, and a huge creature with a somewhat manish body and a crocodilian head appeared on the wizard's left.And Stuk'acath." One more flash, this one revealing a blue skinned beast who stood at least eight feet tall and was all muscle and red tattoos. The Telvanni did not move or turn her head, but Stentus got the impression that she was looking at him all the same. The dead eyes on her bug-shaped headware seemed to be staring into his soul. "Now what is this business about Imperials?" Stentus stood in shock, his mouth agape. "I... We-" Even Girith seemed to be put off his guard. "The uh, the Imperials are... they're moving a bunch of Orcs into the Valus Mountains. Thousands of them." "Well that's annoying. But it is no concern of mine. Carry on, then." There was one last flash, and just like that the Telvanni and her minions were gone. Probably back to Neruhn or wherever in Oblivion they had come from. "What in Mara's name just happened?" blurted Placcius, in a rare slip up of his legion discipline. "Telvanni," muttered Sarethi. "It's rare enough that they attend Council meetings, but when they do, that-" he motioned to the spot where the wizard had been, "- is about how it typically goes." Stentus knew then that he was more than ready to return to the mundane sanity of his Nibenese estate. "Right. Well then... I believe I've told you everything I have to say." Both dark elf Councilman were staring at him with the same scowls that he had grown quite used to by now, and it was clear that they were not at all happy with his proposal. "I would suggest giving the matter further thought, for I truly do believe that it can be turned to your advantage. Archmaster Sarethi, Councilman Girith." He tipped his head to both of them. "I bid you and your... beautiful country farewell." Stentus turned, and without further ado, he and his men left the room and gathered their things. Within an hour, they were out of the Rootspire and on their way back home, and they could not have been happier. 3 Quote It's always nice when your writing gets reinforced by the canon after you come up with it. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
The Good Doctor Posted March 7, 2021 Author Share Posted March 7, 2021 4E 5 With the Oblivion Crisis ended and an unprecedented four out of Vvardenfell's six Telvanni Councillors dead, the Great House was primed for a changing of the guard. It was not long before a new generation of young and ambitious wizards started to emerge from the lower dredges of the House, and nothing short of calamity could have prevented them from claiming what the ancient lords had left behind. Thirty years. That was how long Senise Thindo spent plotting the demise of Mistress Dratha of Tel Mora. Every day from dawn til dusk, she trained in the arts of destruction and conjuration. Every night from dusk til dawn, she dreamed of the day that the old woman would lay dead at her feet. At least, she had these dreams until inter dimensional contracts made sleep no longer a requirement. Then she trained through the nights as well. The matter wasn't personal. While Dratha had indeed slighted her on numerous occasions, Senise knew well enough that the old Mistress was infamous for slighting damn near every mortal she spoke to, and most of the immortals as well. It was hard to feel offended when the woman had been known to speak to Daedric Princes in similar tones. No, it was power Senise sought. The same power that Dratha had no doubt killed for time and time again. The power of Tel Mora, of prestige and respect, the power of artifacts ancient and new, and of Mundus and Oblivion. Whoever could slay the ancient Mistress would gain access to treasures and contacts one could scarcely imagine. In the blink of an eye, they would be in a position to carve their name into the annals of history. Based on information gathered from spies and her own calculations, Senise predicted that she would be ready to challenge the Mistress some time within the next two centuries. However, something she absolutely did not predict was that Dratha would go and get killed by someone else in the middle of a daedric crisis! It was not necessarily bad news, of course. The upstart, a wizard by the name of Endar Drenim, did not take public credit for Dratha's murder. As far as Senise was concerned, this was all but an admittance that he had not in fact done the deed. If he had, then surely he would have made it known to the world for the prestige it would bring. No, this self-proclaimed 'Master' Drenim was but a pale shadow of the ancient Mistress she had so long prepared to face. Odds were good that it had been the hordes of Oblivion who cast her down, and that Drenim merely had the good fortune to arrive on the scene and claim her tower. It would not be his for long. Senise stepped off her boat onto a narrow dock made of root. She could not teleport, for the wards of Tel Mora prevented outsiders from using such magics in its vicinity. Soon, she thought. Soon, your secrets will be mine. The giant mushroom tower extended far into the sky, its twisting roots and bulbous caps chaotically spread in many different directions. They formed dozens of smaller houses and similar structures, around which a number of lesser Retainers went about their business. One Dunmer was tending an alchemy garden. Another herded a gaggle of netch. There were a few Argonians in a nearby field, and a bonemold-clad Altmer stood guard on a fungal balcony that overlooked the area. Nobody paid Senise any mind, nor did anyone make a move to stop her from heading on up to the circular main door and entering Tel Mora. The main floor was exactly as she remembered it, with low-ceilinged rooms and narrow halls. Levitation magic was required to reach the upper floors, and so Senise cast her spell and continued on up. She was halfway there when a voice spoke inside her head. "Have you come to rob me, mage?" It was Drenim. Senise had no doubt. She decided to test him. Instead of speaking, she replied with nothing more than a focused thought. No, I have not come to rob you. A couple seconds passed while she continued to rise, and then the voice penetrated her mind again. "To challenge me, then." So he was a little competent, at least. Still, Senise wasn't worried. She had spent decades training to defeat a better mage than this upstart. Still, it wouldn't hurt to try and catch him off his guard. She focused another thought for the wizard to hear. No. I am here for learning. Surely the new master of Tel Mora would be willing to hear out a hopeful Spellwright. Several more seconds of silence, then, "You are the third this month of your kind. You people are getting really tiresome." Senise wasn't quite sure what he meant by that, but seconds later she passed through a hole in the ceiling and emerged on the upper level. It was dark, pitch black, in fact. She cast an illumination spell, but instead of filling the room like she intended, it shrank down to the size of a candle light and started to drift around in a wide circle. What the- The tiny green light illuminated an enchanting table, then it moved on to a summoning circle, then an alchemy set, then a robed figure wearing a cephalopod helm, then a doorway... Startled, Senise raised her ward just in time to catch the unknown blast of magicka that crackled from the darkness. She prepared to summon a winged twilight, when her arm suddenly went numb, then her shoulder. The rest of her body quickly followed suit. She was paralyzed. A new spell flared up, illuminating the entire room and revealing Endar Drenim's abyssal visage. "Nice try," said the wizard. His voice came out of the cephalopod helm with a magical vibration. "I had hoped that letting the daedra take credit for Dratha's death would get you people to leave me alone. It seems I was wrong." Senise struggled, attempting to overpower the spell, but it was in vain. Drenim's magic was far greater than her own. This is impossible, she thought. I had never even heard of this wizard until recently! "That right there is your problem," said Endar. "Impossible is not the sort of word that a Telvanni should be using. Now off with you." Senise's vision was flooded with a bright light that blinded her to the world. She felt movement, a swirl of magicka followed by a sharp tugging sensation. All at once, time itself seemed to release its hold on her, and what could have been seconds or days passed by in the blink of an eye. Senise shivered, her senses returning. She opened her eyes and found herself on a beach, wearing nothing but her smallclothes and an obnoxiously tall Colovian fur hat. What did he... Where am I? She turned over and spotted the glowing outlines of Vivec and Baar Dau far across the water. Senise groaned. If Drenim didn't intend to kill me, he could have at least sent me somewhere in Telvanni lands! She shuffled to her feet, feeling stiff but mostly unharmed. Well, it was worth a try, she thought. I wonder how many years of training I'll need to try again. Senise started to walk, oblivious to the plummeting meteor behind her. 3 Quote It's always nice when your writing gets reinforced by the canon after you come up with it. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheCzarsHussar Posted May 17, 2021 Share Posted May 17, 2021 Precipitous of Snow-Hell There in full dread-winter, the montane castle stood in defiance of his master, who well endowed in the trophies of the west, assembled a most glorious siege of the freezing wooden baroque keep. His master in full splendor, would claim lordship of even the unruly mountain lords, for what under the sun could deny such a victor? The host of his master battered the many pole-banners that hung above the battlements with terrible arrows, that none among the defenders may forestall the assaulting ones. Yet the warriors of the host climbed the walls would never return, and the wooden gatehouse remained sealed. The dread-winter muffling the cries of agony that echoed from the castle after each assault. Such it was that his master, who forestalled by force of arms, challenged the defense by placing into question the lord's honor. Armed in splendid red, with many-champions-blood endowed in his arms. He was his master's champion, and the scales of his person had never known the bite of another sword, and in splendid red did his armor bear no scratch or wear. Alone the serpent retainer, clad in glory, marched with dignity across the deep snow. His immaculate stance sunk only slightly in the white ground. With his back to the besiegers he stood alone before the icicle-laden battlements and their frozen, arrow ridden serpentine corpses. The action was graceful and demanding, and no lord would survive the shame at refusing another's champion. The champion basked in the snowfall, letting it wash over his splendid red armor as his slitted eyes studied the gatehouse. Expectantly it gave way, parting into the darkness within. And from the darkness it came. In unspeakable horror he firstly saw wretchedly scarred white arms, muscular and bulky it passed through. It grasped the frame of the wood and the devil knelt it's body close to the ground and emerged into the dread-winter. The devil emerged nearly to the first battlements in height, it bore the face of the tyrannical longship-kings of memory, wicked devils of the west who breathed winter and ate raw meat. The devil wore nothing in splendor-arms but the mane of a poisonous jellyfish as a war-cloak, and a garland of heads twenty long hung from it's neck, otherwise standing in the nude in the gentle gales of snow. The wounds that a katana bestows were apparent all about it's body. The devil trudged through the snow, and though it sank deeply within, with each forceful step, it parted as if the devil commanded it. Fearful he may be, the eyes of his master were firmly upon him, and he would honor his lord's gaze not with cowardice. The champion raised his dai-katana in a high stance, assuming a stance to reflect his graceful movements. At this the devil's arms arose and the beast lunged a barbaric stake-like weapon that had been hidden behind it's imposing arms towards the champion. No sooner had the champion in his battle focus deflected the terrible weapon with his dai-katana, who stumbled from the impossible force of the impact, did the devil howl's rise above the gentle snowfall. It sprinted across the snow, which offered no burden to the monster. The champion could already feel his heart beating hard in his chest before the towering devil clashed with him in unimaginable fury. The devil wielded two barbaric westernly war clubs, though one was more a knobbed war-axe. It grunted and roared, fury-browed and reckless. The champion was put underfoot and forced to make way against the devil. His dai-katana slid against and surrendered to the weighty war clubs with the devil's swings, the champion could not retaliate against the hatred filled flurry of swings, carried out in reckless abandonment. The devil made way of his dai-katana at each attempt of riposting, the attempts each time threatened to disarm the champion from the sheer power of the devil, smacking away the graceful sword with either his clubs or his bare arm itself, procuring even more wounds. It was with his skill alone that the champion prevented the monster from literally crushing him. Agonizing seconds passed, and an ever looming sense of doom began taking hold of the champion. The more he dreaded and struggled against the devil, the more heinous and furious it became. Like a wolf to a wounded doe was the blood-lusting devil upon him, screaming and frothing like a hurricane. He was on the cusp of faltering when one of the jellyfish tendrils, still latched to the mane brushed across his exposed hand, engulfing the champion in agony. The devil feels no pain! Yet the skill of the champion was tremendous and to stand against such war-hatred in single combat was equally tremendous, if only for seconds, it was seconds well earned. The trial of arms revealed what would be his saving grace when the devil's knobbed axe chipped into his dai-katana in such a way that it disarmed both it and the champion, but depriving the devil of momentum. Acting as lightning does, the champion drew his sidearm, an ornate katana from it's sheath faster than the devil could blink it's eyes and in single swift movement lunged forward to the devil's side, slicing it across it's chest and feeling the cutting of bone. The champion felt exhausted but victorious, or at least he did in that instant until devil's huge hand strangled around the back of his neck, breaking bone in a single vice grip and throwing the languishing champion to the ground. In that single instance that the champion twisted to look upward at the devil, witnessing the terrible cut deep across the ribs of the monster hadn't mortally wounded the horrid thing. He could not even raise his hands in a final desperate defense as the monster pummeled into the champion. Gnashing flesh and muscle into bone and hemorrhaging the organs of the poor champion. The scarce, gargled pleas and bloody moans persisted as the devil stood over him, watching the champion writhe in agony. It watched with the same furious expression as he died. **** Magalos stood over the dying serpent, staring into it's pleading eyes that begged for a quick death. The screaming pain within his chest intermingled in the intoxicating fear the dying Tsaesci felt. And the berserker reveled in the sensations of battle, who felt nothing but desire for it. Anger. Rage. Regret. It hung about him and lingered still even as the snake's eyes stilled, and it's labored gasps ceased. When finally he began regaining some senses of himself, Magalos looked upon the blooded snow and onto the horrified master of the retainer. The giant then took the retainer's foreign sword and broke it's blade in hand, the humiliation would not be lost upon the dead retainer's master. Nor would the sounds of axe-beheading that Magalos claimed another head with. Though he wished it was the head of a Cyrod. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheCzarsHussar Posted July 6, 2021 Share Posted July 6, 2021 (edited) The First Flight of the Whale ~Memoir-poem of King Eporios the Whaler ~Dovahzul; Jun Eporiokaaron Into the sky, armored in black The weight of mortality holding me true For this flight beheld burden, the pull of Nirn Yet in the skies did my eyes reflect fatal attraction How could I escape this irresistible flight? The circling clouds did the Whale ascend beyond A Nirn-bound mortal I, no navigator to find my way home Then did the ice form on the tips of my beard The dread of the unbound skies did naught to close my eyes A burdened soul did I have, yet determined to try. Wingless were we, and yet learning to flyAbove the clouds did my shadow grace This dream threatened by the formless air A sea of tearing dark, divine bodies and distant light No sensation alike to this, suspended animate and unburdened mind. How then could I ever think as the Giant does Who has glimpsed profound flightBelow the clouds did the Whale descend Frozen coast and a burdening Nirn did I beholdHow then could I keep from thought Of the circling skies? Edited July 7, 2021 by TheCzarsHussar 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheCzarsHussar Posted August 12, 2021 Share Posted August 12, 2021 (edited) Census and Historiographies of BoiliobrisImperial Geographical Society Chapter One ~Prehistory and Landscape, a charter of the mythic. Archeological and scrying evidence surmounts that prior to the freezing of ancient Atmora, much of western Roscrea was inhabitable. With a multitude of frozen monolithic ruins alike those of prehistoric Skyrim reigning in the ice-deserts. It is surmised that what is now Old Dowry Hold was a rural and unimportant region, as there are no surviving ruins of comparable size to what once served as cities in Atmoran society. Geographically speaking, the costal peninsula of the Nordlaw which houses Boiliobris is on two sides dangerously steep glacial-scarred cliffs which serves as a natural shield against the often violent Sea of Ghosts. A long geo landform, called Stuhnsfinn runs the length of the Nordlaw's eastern face, that at the entrance of which is a natural harbor, however in the inner bay of the geo is an extremely violent ever raging crashing of waves and currents; powerful enough to sweep and drag a giant out to sea. Within the Nordlaw are three imposingly large mounds that dominate the skyline, the largest with only a few longships in length away from the low-clouds. They are each within the peninsula and are spread out from one another. Though imposingly cold, and a familiar temperature to most Nords, the Old Dowry Hold is ripe with vegetation and hosts a large herding culture. Castles, hill forts, keeps and the like have historically been centers of power in the Old Dowry since prehistoric time. Evidence has shown that one's social standing directly corresponded to the size of their herd and their ability to seize additional livestock from weaker men, additionally protecting your own grazing land. Thus having fortified strongholds to not only protect one's self and clan, but the herd in rough seasons is evident by the lack of large scale settlement even in ancient warmer climates. The Nordlaw offered both good grazing lands, and an ease of protecting one's own herd by the isolated nature of the peninsula and it's narrow entrance by way of inland. Chapter Two ~The Earliest Inhabitants, and their oral histories. Believed to be in the late Merethic Era, centuries prior to the Skyrim Conquests, was the foundation of a primeval castle built not by the hand of Atmoriant, but an ancient Nordic warlord; Torc-King Borr, erected his Keep of Torcs atop the smallest mound within the Nordlaw. This semi-legendary figure is the center of numerous skaldic sagas, including his vocal hewing of an 'jill-voice' into a magical torc that never allowed his time of doom to manifest itself, and was invincible. The authenticity of this figure is debatable, as though his clan supposedly have survived until present day in the frigid northwest, no barrow has been discovered that houses his remains. However, his keep links solid evidence that a warlord corresponding to the Torc-King did in fact rule the Nordlaw at one point. It is this command in a isle of giants that lent linguistic evidence towards the peninsular name. However, evidence both mundane and arcane have revealed very little in shedding light on the keep's abandonment and dilapidated state by the era of the Nordlaw's following inhabitants. Chapter Three ~Taming of the Hills, and the development of the Burghs. Writing had just began to resurface in Roscrea at this period, yet was continued entirely in the Middland Plateau of further inland. Mostly oral history reveals the resettlement of the Nordlaw by the Atmoriant herding clan Dosurvaalt; which translates into People of Yellow Fold. Their legs were as strong as the mountain goat and they scaled the greatest mound to make camp and fence in their herds. They were native to the plateau but were driven out by the settled folk, unfortunately they did not bring writing with them, although they did bring the draconic worshipping faith to the Nordlaw. Unique in construction to the herding giants of the Old Dowry was their castle-brochs.Depiction of the castle-broch of Dosurvaaltbric. Alike to ancient Nordic works in that it's stonemasonry was without brick and mortar. A castle-broch is a type of semi-underground community-dwelling enclosed within a heavy stone wall. Typically numerous buildings surround a central great tower that houses the livestock in the lowest level, and much of the ruling clan above. Self contained, and self ruling under a system of clan ordering called a Burgh. The chieftain of the clan presides under his estate with the authority of any Jarl of Skyrim. The largest of these can house an entire Nordic village within their sheer monolithic walls; However, for the Atmoriants, it is a tightly knit abode of herder families. The Dosurvaalt clan did not immediately begin constructing their stronghold, it was the labor of several generations and a hugely spanning will. Their Burgh was named: Dosurvaaltbric. As it was, clan Dosurvaalt experienced a slow incline of subjects, lesser men and Atmoriants who were dependent on their generosity and benevolence increased alongside the ruling clan's own population, such did their herd increase to the largest of the Old Dowry. Atop one of the lesser but more flat topped mounds of the peninsula, a second Burgh was constructed, as the mound of Dosurvalt's was too steep for further development, and the old royal Burgh was too small to protect the clan's wonderous and bountiful livestock. Often the son of the chieftain would rule over the largest Burgh in Roscrea, Burghenbric, as a subservient to their father. Though Burghenbric housed a tremendous seventeen buildings within it's walls, it was far less fortified than the elder castle-broch. And it's own central great tower was equally lesser. The dilapidated Keep of Torcs could not accommodate any settlement of Atmoriants, but they were too fearful of the ancient Torc-King and his descendants to dare destroy it. Settling of the Nordlaw increased beyond that of the ruling near-giants since the establishing of Dosurvaaltbric who were more numerous but of lower social standing than the near-giants, who could steal their herds with greater ease through the use of massive rock hurling slings. Proud and mighty are the Nords, but they are felled as easily as any by a fist sized rock of significant velocity. Such was this strife that wise Nords would offer up livestock and services to be under the aegis of strong Atmoraint clans. In the Nordlaw this exchange of service and sheer abundance of the ruling clan's livestock allowed both settlement and the owning of lesser herds by Nordic inhabitants of the peninsula. These Nordic inhabitants, most of which had lived in Roscrea since the beginning of time, dwelt in roundhouses of one to several stories. The lowliest roundhouses had only a single spanning room that all familial life revolved around, should the family have any herd to their name, it is stored in a pin just outside the home. The greater steads will be partially underground and of the two to three stories in height, the lowest houses larger livestock while the upper quartering is reserved for familial life. The distinct Nordic longhouses of Skyrim were a rarity in Roscrea prior to modern history, as these roundhouses were better suited to the generally smaller herding families of the Old Dowry Hold. Chapter Four ~Coming of the Mountain Clans, and Roscrean Kingship. The expansion of the once sole surviving center of power in the prehistoric times of the isle, the citadel of Roscaereath had by this period expanded in a series of conquests by the renowned Kreinalhd Sun-King. The grizzled warlord went against ancient tradition and amassed Nordic style armies instead of the contained duels of noblemen and their retainers. When he and his war-procession came upon the Nordlaw, they stormed the lowland and seized the loyalties of the Nords, also coercing the subservient son of the chieftain into allegiance. The warfare against ancient and towering Dosurvaaltbric nearly broke his army when the smoke rising from the great tower's hearth was throat-cursed into a lightning hurling storm-funnel, and the sea rose from Stuhnsfinn to drag the giantry warriors out to sea. When the strength of his army faltered, the warlord challenged the burgh's chieftain; Boilios Dosurvaalt to single combat. According to oral legend, their battle roused the ghost of Torc-King Borr from his keep to observe the honorable combat. Kreinalhd defeated but did not slay the chieftain, elevating him into his host as a brother and thus were joined in kinship. Under the mountain Atmoriant's kingship, Kreinalhd organized the Nordlaw as the Old Dowry's hold capital and erecting the chief western assembly within it; naming it in honor of the chieftain. Thus birthed Boiliobris. It was nearly impossible for centralization of the Middland Plateau for the extreme nature of it's geographical divides the inhabitants and reduces direct authority of the kingship. The Old Dowry was void of such troubling cultural divisions, as apparent by the unified herding culture that existed throughout it. Under the auspicious court of Ecoriobriga, centralization in the Nordic model was strived for, that is to say very decentralized though of more authority than the mountain tribes. Some minor settlement occurred from the Old Holds of Skyrim, yet mostly remained the same in Nordic population. Dowry-Tribes that swore themselves to the warlord were rewarded with land in the Nordlaw, under the authority of clan Dosurvaalt, their descendants would address the later kings as 'elder brother'. As Roscrea is a poor island in way of resources, one such tax under the kingship was a labor tax in which able bodied men, and Atmoriants were required to pay tribute by undertaking projects of the court-assembly. Historically a cultural leftover of the Dragon Cult, though much less oppressive in nature. This often included building of longships, constructing of earthworks, a tribute of tools and their produce. For the Old Dowry, the kingship left much to the court-assembly of Boiliobris in governance of the hold. It could be said that if a Breton might find a hill and become a king, should an Atmoriant not find suitable hill, they'll make one. Massive construction of earthworks dominated the Nordlaw's labor tax as they cheaply fortified the inland entrance to the peninsula with huge quantities of earth. Building a complex of oppressively steep faces and earthen holdouts to throw javelins and hurl rocks from. This was drastically needed as the far eastern Kamal warred with the kingship of this period. Though during the golden reign of Eporiokaaron Sun-King, the kingship prevailed for over a hundred years before their own ruin. Chapter Five ~Conquest and Empire, a union with Tamriel. Centuries after the golden reign of Roscrea's last strong king, the island of Roscrea became the first of several conquests in a prelude to the disastrous invasion of Akavir. For Boiliobris, an attack came most unexpectantly by the expedition's armada. A naval assault against the natural harbor alongside a force march of the forward legion from some kilometers away took the natives utterly by surprise and within an hour the lowland was taken by the naval cohorts. Disastrously however, the same ominous rising of Dosurvaaltbric's hearth that decimated Kreinalhd's army made ruin of the legionaries, no sooner did Stuhnsfinn drag the survivors to sea, and shatter the ships nearest to the natural harbor. Emperor Uriel could ill afford a prolonged, staggering siege of what amounted to a sparsely populated Nordic village and two giant castle complexes, as the expedition needed a base of operations. Therefor, the Emperor ordered a full storming of the inland earthworks.Depiction of the siege of Boiliobris. The unrivaled discipline of the legion was tested against the half mile trek in testudo, against barrage after barrage of huge javelins and hurling of rocks. The tightly packed formation resisted the former, but the slings of the near-giants claimed hundreds of legionaries as even the finest arms of Tarmriel failed against them. Archer formations could hardly be used as a skirmishing force as the near-giants far exceeded their range. Horrible as they were, the battlemages were able to protect the approaching cohorts from the eldritch storm-funnels and within minutes of harsh melee combat, the courage of the Roscreans faltered and they fled into their burghs. When the Nords could not climb the largest mound and were taken pity on by the legionaries, they were allowed unspoiled surrender, though any who fought on were slew to the last. With the lowland retaken, the cohorts and their strained battlemages stormed Burghenbric where after horrible fighting against seasoned retainers and noble warriors they finally took the broch, unfortunately when victory was at hand, instead of surrendering to the centurion, the chieftain's son took his own life after sustaining mortal wounds. There was little resistance within the Keep of Torcs, abandoned and dilapidated did the children and infirm took refuge, they too were unspoiled in surrender. The insurmountable Dosurvaaltbric proved challenging, as it could not be scaled from all but a well protected winding path. All the while did the storm rage from their great tower. The court-assembly understood their strength of arms failed against the legion, and placed one final effort in the personal strength of the chieftain. Who descended from his castle-broch, chanting a song of challenging to the Emperor. The chieftain stood alike an Atmoran of old, with painted shield and dark ringmail. Emperor Uriel ascended to meet the chieftain and there he fell before the Red Dragon, who was second only to Tiber Septim in strength of arms. The court-assembly honored the duel of the Emperor and welcomed the victorious within their now cold and still castle-broch to lay arms and allegiance to his person. Unlike the grossly bitter sentiment of the mountain tribes to the Imperial conquest, the court-assembly fell into his camp without issue. It was simply a greater warrior with his greater host defeated them, and it was time to pay allegiance and reap the rewards of his host. Chapter Six ~The Nordlaw, a changing of the guard. Boiliobris served as the Imperial seat of power for the duration of the three year conquest. If any rebellious sentiments churned privately within the Roscreans, the garrison of an entire legion dissuaded the acting upon it. An upwards of forty percent of the giantry nobility fought to their deaths in Emperor Uriel's conquest of the town, and their clan's line of succession was in question. Emperor Uriel resided over an assembly to elect a relative of the chieftain into power, who through force of arms elected himself warlord of the clan. The Imperial's junta was established in the Keep of Torcs, who built upon the ruins and erected their fortress. Aside from presiding over the reorganization of the clan rulership, the Imperial court allowed native system of governance to continue so long as they provided for the legions. Following Emperor Uriel's conquest, and the pacification of the isle, the construction of a proper capital in the east of the island would eventually take the administrative burdens off the region. Though a garrison remained in the Keep of Torcs to ensure loyalty. Once again Boiliobris entered obscurity in the subsequent decades and the herding way of life continued as it had since time immemorial. When Solitude, under King Thian, annexed the fiefdom there was a tremendous number of Nordic settlers that colonized much of the Old Dowry Hold. The grand majority hailed either from Haafingar or The Pale, and the rulership of Boiliobris was transitioned under the court of Solitude. The township's first governor was a Roscreaphile and confidant of King Thian's court, Rolff Spindle-Foot who encouraged much in the way of settlement by royal decree. Purportedly a very humble man, dutiful to his king and loving of the Hold he ruled, even visiting the kingly court of the Atmoriants in his earlier years. His eighteen year reign saw the expansion of the township and modernization; However, the semi-autonomous Burghs were respected and allowed to self-govern with tribute to Solitude. Breto-Nordic masons and architects made much of the sparse roundhouses. When the old governor passed away, Boiliobris was nearly a proper Nordic city. His successors were more apparent to the wills of the Blue Palace. The expansion of sedentary Nordic farmsteads was replacing the herding way of life, and though much of the native Nord population took well to this, the rural Atmoriants did not who were entrenched in their traditional ways. There is a growing strife between the increasingly sidelined Atmoriants and their distant lords of Solitude. The loyalty of the Burghs are firmly with Solitude, who have profited greatly from this change in lifestyles. Worship of the Nine have long replaced dragonic ways, and even Talos is heralded more often than Ysmir or Shor in the city. With a wealth of new tribute flowing from the frozen island, and expeditions to Atmora from the now modern harbor. It appears that Boiliobris and Old Dowry Hold is destined for a prosperous future from it's glorious past! Edited August 12, 2021 by TheCzarsHussar 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
The Good Doctor Posted October 29, 2021 Author Share Posted October 29, 2021 4E 154 The second century of the Fourth Era was a time of growth for the fledgling Aldmeri Dominion. In the aftermath of the Void Nights, the Khajiiti kingdoms of Pelletine and Anequina swore fealty to the elves of Summerset, bringing to completion the revival of the old alliance between the greatest southern powers. With a new influx of coin and manpower, the Dominion redoubled its efforts to restore its nations to the glories of their past. Rebuilding was only one part of this, however, for their home would never be ideal so long as it bore the stains of imperialism. Their measures to remove these stains were not always pleasant, and they created many enemies. "Focus, Thalmor. There are worse fates than death." Curissil stared at the creature levitating before him and knew the words to be true. In fact, contrary to its reputation, death wasn't really all that bad. His own death had been rather swift, a brief jolt of electricity, no more painful than the many he had been hit with while training back in Auridon, followed by a sensation of weightlessness. No, he thought. The pain of death is highly exaggerated. What comes after, though? Now that was truly terrifying for a ghost in his position. The creature was clad in robes similar to those he had seen worn by the heretical wizards of the east, loose-fitting and blood-red, with golden trimmings and finery all adorned with daedric runes. But instead of the ashen face and fiery eyes one would have expected, the creature's visage was that of a nightmarish cephalopod, with void-like eyes and a "beard" of short tentacles. "You will reveal your secrets," the creature demanded. "Or I will lease you to a friend of mine in the Shivering Isles. She has more experience with all this torture business than I." Curissil struggled against the tethers that bound him to this realm. He wasn't quite sure how the mechanics of this whole 'disembodied ghost' thing worked yet, but even in death he still had his willpower, forged and hardened by centuries of battle. More importantly, he still had his faith. "Send me where you will, heathen. Whatever pit you throw me in, Auri-El's light will guide me home eventually." "Unlikely," replied the sorcerer. "But it would be intriguing to witness. Such an eventuality would not be a complete loss." Curissil scowled to the best of his incorporeal ability. He could feel something, some invisible force, keeping him bound to this spot. But beyond that was a more distant feeling; distant, yet warm and comfortable. Aetherius awaited him, tugged at him. He only needed to hold out against this devil until its pull could snap whatever foul necromancies kept him tethered. Then he would go and be with his ancestors. "It is no wonder that your kind diverged from mine," Curissil said. "Calling you a heathen is too kind. You are a monster." The creature cocked its head. "Given your age and rank, I assume you fought in the Oblivion Crisis. Am I correct?" At first, Curissil did not answer. But after a few seconds he felt a cold pain that seemed to vibrate throughout his essence, compelling him to speak. "I did." "Then you should know what a true monster looks like. As it happens, I managed to locate some of the very monsters who took part in laying to ruin your Crystal Tower. Delightful company, truly. That is, if you can get around all the salivating and gnashing of teeth." Whatever substance made up the present incarnation of Curissil's essence, every spark and fiber of it burned with hatred for the creature before him. The trapping of a fellow mer's soul was a vile thing, but he was a Fist of the Thalmor, and not entirely innocent himself. He could not entirely blame an enemy for employing such methods against him. But to consort with the very daedra who had sundered the heart of his people? Murdered innocent mer by the tens of thousands? Only the most despicable of mortals would keep such company. The sorcerer continued. "And they told me things that I found rather fascinating. Secret things that I am told you are aware of. Your Tower is dead, but some power yet remains in the depths of its corpse. This is what I would like to know more about." "Oblivion take you, creature." "Hmm... Poor choice of words." The sorcerer made a motion with its hands, and Curissil noticed a circle of runes begin to glow on the floor around him. Then, in the blink of an eye, he felt himself start to fall in every direction at once. And when he landed, he was standing in a different room entirely... ... He was standing! With physical legs and feet! Curissil held up his hands and saw them once again appearing as they had in life. An old primal part of him wanted to celebrate, as if the death he had suffered was nothing more than a dream, but he was no fool. The sorcerer had sent him here for a reason. He had a physical body for a reason. "So Drenim came through for me after all." Curissil swerved, and found himself looking through a set of prison bars at a red-haired Dunmer woman in a frilly black dress. Her arms were folded, and she appeared to be studying him. "A strong soul, this one. Grand, even." "Who are you?" he demanded. The Dunmer did not answer. "Yes, it will do nicely." "Can you hear me, Dunmer? What is going on?" Her red eyes snapped up to his. "Hush, you! I'd rather not take your tongue until I'm certain it holds no other uses for me. Regrowing those can take days. Or minutes. Depends on the tongue. And the minutes." Curissil started to reply, but wasn't sure the best way to even respond to that. Before he could come up with anything, she spoke again. "Now tell me, what is the worst pain you have ever felt, both before and after dying?" He hesitated. Should I answer honestly? Should I answer at all? Curissil had to decide quickly. "The death of my son." ... It was a lie. He had no sons, only daughters, and both still lived. "Emotional pain. A common answer among mortals. We should be able to top that with enough physical pain in, oh..." She looked him up and down a few more times. "... I'm guessing two minutes." She held up her hands, readying a spell. "Now hold still." "Hang on, what are you about to-" "I told you to hush!" snapped the Dunmer. "Screaming in pain is acceptable, useful even. Otherwise, you are only to speak if spoken to. Drenim has leased you to me for five minutes in your world. If you behave, I can make it so those five minutes only take a few hours. If you do not, this shall feel like decades. Now I say again: hold still." The Dunmer cast her spell and Curissil started to scream. *** Endar looked at his hourglass, enchanted to run faster in accordance with the five minutes he had rented out his ghostly captive. Had the spirit not been so unmistakably Thalmor, he might have felt some amount of pity. The woman he had sent it to was the neuromancer Relmyna Verenim. Five minutes with Relmyna could make a man beg for Coldharbour. The Thalmor spirit began to reform within its binding circle exactly when it was supposed to. The wretched thing now looked more wraith than ghost. Its eyes were going hollow and its mortal-like visage starting to distort. "No more," it cried the moment it finished reforming. "Please! You cannot send me back there!" "Actually, I can. Very easily, in fact. Now I say again, focus: what lies beneath your ruined Tower?" "W- What?" Endar rolled his eyes. "The Crystal Tower. You are to tell me what you know of its depths." "The Tower…" The spirit hesitated. "It… I… ancestors protect me, I cannot tell you. I will not." Endar made a mental note to record this surprising turn of events. Even after the suffering it had endured, the spirit still had wits and will enough to not only resist his compelling charms, but also to not cave under threat of further pain. "I will be very clear. Refusing to provide answers will only result in me sending you back to Relmyna. That will be the only reward for your resilience." The Thalmor ghost stared at him, distressed, but not yet broken, then he lifted his ghostly chin. "Ae Aldmeris." Endar cast the spell, sending the Thalmor back to the Shivering Isles. After another five minutes passed, the spirit returned, even more devastated than before. "Why?" muttered the once-impressive Thalmor. "Why?" Endar folded his arms. "I set aside all of my plans for this, Thalmor. I can go on for days. For you, though, I suspect the next few hours will feel like centuries. For reference, you have only been dead for fifteen minutes." The wraith looked on in despair, and so Endar continued. "What is beneath the Crystal Tower ruins?" *** Valenwood There was no rest in the bustling port city of Woodhearth. If the docks were not crawling with workers and seafarers of every southern stripe, then the multitude of inns and taverns assuredly were. The Sea Drake's Rest in particular was known for its strong root ale, exotic Bosmeri dancers, and to very select clientele, its discretion from the law. The first two made it the perfect dive for sailers, dockworkers, and Dominion soldiers looking to relax and blow off some steam, but it was the third thing that attracted Agent Alondril that night. Alondril was a broad-shouldered Altmer, with red hair and green eyes both shaded away beneath a deep hood. Woodhearth had an abundance of both rain and Altmer, so nobody gave the tall hooded figure two glances as he made his way down the old Empire-cobbled streets and to the front steps of the Sea Drake's Rest. Like most of the coastal city's buildings, the tavern was made from stone in accordance with the natives' Green Pact, and stood two stories high with a sharply-slanted roof. The interior was a lively place, with all manner of Bosmer and Altmer drinking, laughing, and gambling away their meager earnings. To the right of the entrance, three natives clad in the barest of clothing danced on a stage for a cheering audience. In the opposite corner, four Khajiit of various furstock whispered among themselves from within a cloud of what smelled like skooma smoke. The bar was tended by an antlered Bosmer who was covered from head to toe in tattoos, and the door nearby was blocked off by a big old Wood Orc with folded arms that looked like tree trunks. Among all these colorful characters, it was the Orc who Alondril had been told to see. As he approached, the beast-mer cocked his head and gnashed his tusks. "This door restricted, Elf," the Orc said in the most broken of accents. "No go in without path word." Alondril nodded. "Of course." It was the third week of Sun's Dusk on an even numbered year, which meant the current password would be: "Cosades." The Wood Orc's wrinkly pig-like nose twitched, and a subtle awareness flashed in his eyes. "Go down." The door opened into a stairwell that led to the tavern basement. Starting down, Alondril immediately detected the presence of muffle charms woven into the walls, and so it came as no surprise when he descended into a small room and found two men whose mouths moved as if in conversation yet not a sound could be heard. They were sitting at a table, one a Dunmer and the other what looked to be an Imperial. They both looked up when he arrived, and after a few seconds and some more muffled words, the Dunmer snapped his fingers with a green flicker of magic. "There. He should be able to hear us now." The Dunmer's voice had the harsh inflections of a Morrowind native, and to Alondril's trained ears, an eastern accent with obvious traces of nobility. Telvanni, he guessed. From Vvardenfell. It was one of the easier dialects to pick up on, especially so for Alondril, who had operated in Morrowind under the Septims' reign for many years. The presence of a potential wizard-lord was surprising, but not as surprising as the Imperial. It had been decades since the last time a human had been allowed to pass beyond the docks in Woodhearth, and that particular instance had ended very badly. What's more is that neither of these strangers was the contact Alondril had come here expecting to meet. "Very good," the Imperial exclaimed, his own accent suggesting a background in Colovia. "You must be Alondril. Please, join us." There was a single empty chair at the table. Alondril pulled it out and took a seat. "Where is Ralindar?" The Dunmer did not react to the name, but for the briefest of moments, he could see a glint of pain in the human's tired brown eyes. The man then answered, "Agent Ralindar was arrested last Frostfall. If he lives, he is most likely in Blue River Prison." "I see." It was disturbing news. Ralindar had been operating in Southern Valenwood for decades. If the Thalmor managed to discover him, then nobody was outside their reach. "And you are his replacement?" "I am his superior," the human corrected. "Normally, I would send an elf to fill Ralindar's position, but we're shorthanded and I don't have time to bring someone new up to speed on your whole mission. You can call me Garich Onvel." Alondril didn't know the name -it was probably fake anyway- but he did know that Garich Onvel must have at least held the rank of Spymaster to qualify as Ralindar's superior. No wonder he was able to get into Woodhearth, Alondril thought. Human or not, this man knows how to move unseen. "And this," Garich continued as he motioned toward his companion, "Is Telvanni Endar Drenim. "He provided the information we used to make your mission possible." "Is that so?" Alondril looked at the Dunmer, quietly curious. The wizard-lords of House Telvanni were known for their isolationism and eccentric, self-serving behavior. They rarely did anything out of the kindness of their hearts. "In that case, you'll be happy to know that every detail you gave has proven accurate so far." "Of course it is accurate." The Dunmer waved his hand dismissively. "My source was in no position to lie." "Master Drenim has offered to assist us further as your final operation draws near," said Garich. "I assume everything in Alinor is still going according to plan?" "I had to reassign one of my undercover agents to a less direct role in the field," Alondril replied. "He was drawing suspicions, and knew enough that his discovery would have jeopardized everything. The problem is solved now, however, and the rest of my team could fool the First Emissary herself into thinking they've been with the Thalmor their entire lives. They are all ready and on standby." "Perfect. Do you still have your moth scroll?" "Always." Alondril reached into his wide satchel and produced a narrow roll of parchment covered in Ayleidoon script. The moth scrolls were intended for high-priority Dreamsleeve communications only, so he had not used his in some time. "It is only linked with Ralindar's scroll, however." "That won't be a problem." Garich produced a scroll of his own and handed it to the Telvanni. "Master Drenim here will be able to link ours, as well as make it so they can maintain connection through Dominion wards." "A weak connection," the Dunmer added. "Vaermina herself would struggle to maintain a clean sleeve where you're going." Alondril shrugged. "It's better than nothing." He handed over his moth scroll. "Codename: Mystara." The Dunmer set to work, weaving complex spells between the two moth scrolls that even Alondril only had the faintest recognition of. After watching this for a few seconds, Garrich spoke up, "I understand that you already have the finer details of this mission mapped out. But with Ralindar gone, I intend to keep in touch with you before, during, and afterwards, and will expect regular updates." "Understood." "And of course, should you find yourself in a situation where capture is unavoidable, you are to prioritize the destruction of your scroll." Alondril nodded. The human didn't really even need to tell him that. No agent could become authorized to carry moth scrolls without extensive training, a good third of which revolved around keeping the artifact from enemy hands. Shortly later, Drenim ceased his casting. "It is done." He returned the scrolls, meeting Alondril's eyes as he did. "I am eager to explore your findings, Blade. This could prove invaluable. Provided you make it out, that is." "Recall spells will be prepared for my whole team beforehand," Alondril replied. "Even if the mission fails, we very much plan on making it out." "And when exactly do you intend to embark on your mission?" "Five weeks." Alondril smiled a rare smile. It was a surreal feeling. Five weeks, that's all the time left before he would go where few mer ever had. In the name of the Empire, he would walk the ruins of Crystal Tower. *** Alinor Five weeks later By secret glyph: dreamsleeve transmission Dreamsleeve: urgent, security protocols granted Security Protocols: Chim-el Adabal Wards M: Perrif's Dream, this is Mystara. I have successfully breached the inner chamber. Two agents have fallen. Two forced recalls. I am proceeding with the mission alone. PD: Understood, Mystara. Keep me updated. M: Say again? The wards. You're barely getting through. PD: I said keep me updated. Tell me what you're seeing. M: Right. There are these pods made of white crystal. Something moving inside them. Ignoring for now. I have reached what appears to be the final chamber. ... PD: Mystara this is Perrif's Dream. It's been ten minutes since your last transmission. What do you see? Is everything okay down there? ... PD: Mystara, please respond. We need to know what's happening. If you are receiving- (Transmission interrupted) M: It's a person... a mer... I couldn't stop looking... Have I been standing here all this time? PD: Explain, Mystara. Who are you talking about? M: I... don't know. An elf. He's dead, a corpse, yet he hurts, feels the pain of thousands... He told me so. PD: The corpse told you so? M: They've found me! I can hear them at the door. I'm bringing the body with me. Initiating recall. ... M: Recall mark dispelled. There's no way out. PD: Understood, Mystara. Relay us any data possible then destroy your scroll. We cannot risk it falling to the Thalmor. M: He's here. In the room with me! I can feel his pain. By the Divines, I see it! The isle dies! So many people! NO! PD: What's happening? Are you still receiving? Mystara? M: Ruin begets ruin. What was lost shall be reclaimed with fire and death! PD: Mystara? M: They're inside! Get back! I can't let you- PD: Mystara, acknowledge. ... M: We hear you, human. (transmission terminated) *** The Dawn's Pride slipped past an illusory field and into the secret island harbor on the low morning tide. The two officers onboard stood side-by-side. The younger of them, a sharp-faced mer of merely two-hundred years, resisted the urge to gasp in awe of the floating islets and crystalline obelisks that started to materialize around them. The elder, a silver-haired Sapiarch whose years numbered more than the last two Empires of man, was unmoved by the sight. Unlike his compatriot, he had seen it all before. Like a pair of statues, the disciplined mer waited straight-backed and motionless at the starboard until their ship came to a complete stop. The elder said a few words to the younger, who gave an affirmative nod, and when the docking plank lowered, they were the first to set foot on the Isle of Eyevea. As was customary, a contingent of battlemage Sentinels stood ready to meet them. Their commander, who wore the adornments of a Battlereeve, greeted the duo with a curt salute and requested their names. "Justiciar Rulindil Areleth Elisinor," replied the younger officer, "of Cloudrest." "High Kinlord Naarifin," replied the elder. "Sapiarch of Translimenal Dynamics." The Battlereeve's brow arched with surprise. Eyevea was a place of research for the Sapiarchs deemed most important, but it was incredibly rare for one to arrive via the docks, least of all one with a reputation such as the mer who stood before him now. The Battlereeve quickly stepped aside, intent not to be remembered by the High Kinlord as a cause of delay. As it happened, Lord Naarifin had already forgotten the man's existence by the time he and his companion made their way to the levitation well that would deliver them to the top of the cliffs. His mind was consumed by more pertinent thoughts regarding the future of all elvenkind. "Repeat it for me." Justiciar Rulindil cleared his throat. "Alondril," Rulindil replied. "True family and titles unknown. Operative of the Blades and chief field agent in their infiltration of the Crystal Tower ruins. Operated in Morrowind for three decades under the alias 'Tyermaillin'. Relocated to Alinor in the second year of the Fourth Era, at which time he planted himself within the party. He has been feeding his organization information ever since." "Until last week." "Until last week." They approached a tall structure made of marble bricks and solidified welkynd mortar. Storm atronachs patrolled the outer yard, but paid no mind to the ranking Thalmor as they passed. The exterior was warded, as all the island's facilities were, and the duo had to grasp a pair of truthstones and speak their names aloud before the magicks that kept the place sealed would let them through. Once inside the hall, they passed through a series of brightly lit rooms containing all manner of arcane laboratories and research chambers. Most were empty, for these were Naarifin's own facilities, and as of late he had conducted most of his work from his home. The dungeons below, however, were a different story. Upon descending to the bottom, the two came upon dozens of crystal cells, each one laden with daedric runes. "Do not stare at the prisoners," Naarifin warned his companion as they started forward. "Nearly all of them were taken from Oblivion…" Despite the warning, Rulindil could not help but turn his head when something immediately slammed against the clear crystal shell on his left. It was a clannfear, drool spilling from its beak as its wicked yellow eyes followed them. "Most are ordinary enough," the Sapiarch continued. "But to look upon some of them with an untrained mind can drive lesser mortals to madness." Rulindil frowned. Was he just implied to be a lesser mortal? "These creatures are unbound, then?" "They are bound to their cells. That is enough." The unsupervised conjuration of daedra not bound to their summoner was forbidden in Alinor. But then, who was going to tell Tamriel's foremost expert on matters of the limen that he needed someone to look over his shoulder? Certainly not Rulindil. He understood better than most that sometimes the most useful acts were best performed in private. In fact, that was precisely why Naarifin had brought him here. They stopped at a cell near the back of the dungeon, and Rulindil peered through the crystal shell at its wretched occupant. "This is the Blade?" "He was," replied Lord Naarifin. "He was quite the specimen when I brought him here. Strong, golden, eyes like emeralds, hair the color of flames. Good stock. I am told he also has a brilliant mind, though what he saw beneath the Tower has left him confused, unable to discern the reality in front of him from those that were placed in his head." Rulindil knew better to inquire about that. Such things were classified for a reason. Instead, he set his thoughts toward the task at hand. The prisoner looked nothing like the High Kinlord described. He was thin, his flesh scarred and discolored. His hair had gone gray, and the 'emerald' eyes appeared glassy and bloodshot. His week in hyperagonal stasis had certainly taken its toll. "That's a shame." "But you can work with him, nonetheless?" "I can make him talk. What he says is another matter. Broken minds seldom become more lucid after torture." "His mind is not broken, merely muddled. I am confident that you will sort it back out in due time." "I am to be given complete freedom?" "Yes. And privacy. Whatever you require shall be provided. Just see that he does not die." Does he think me an amateur? "Of course, your eminence." Naarifin did not immediately reply. Rulindil turned and looked back to find the High Kinlord now staring at him, his eyes narrow and unblinking. It was a little unnerving. When he finally spoke, the old mer's voice was grave. "If he speaks even a whisper of what he saw down there, I expect you to put it from your mind. Understood?" "Of course." "Very good. Perform well, Justiciar, and there will be many rewards in store. Until then, do what you must. I am eager to discover what secrets hide in the mind of our new friend." *** A wizard raised his ward. A hundred more followed suit. A brass giant descended on them, unfazed. Alondril awoke with a fright, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. No. That wasn't right. He had not fallen asleep. Even in the waking world, the dreams he had stolen beneath Crystal Tower never ceased. They played out still, all around him. Mothers screamed. Children cried. Soldiers loosed their arrows. Endless demons surged against the crystal walls like a tidal wave. The torturer was in the room, humming as he cleaned his tools. The High Kinlord stood behind him, a shadow within the shadows. He had told them everything. Everything he knew. The mission. The dreams. His comrades who had escaped. There was nothing left to tell. Why did they not kill him? Why was he not allowed to die? If he died, would he be free? Or would he lose what remained of himself to the dreams? Two royals swapped rings. A choir sang. Nobles from across the land raised their glasses in cheer. The shadow was speaking to the torturer now, congratulating him, now dismissing him. The torturer bowed and departed from the room. Now only the shadow remained to keep Alondril company. High Kinlord Naarifin stepped into the chamber, golden now, no longer a shadow. To Alondril, this was somehow worse. His captor was a god of the most terrible sort. "You have been invaluable these last few weeks," said the Kinlord. "On behalf of the entire Aldmeri Dominion, I thank you." Alondril could not bear to look upon the Kinlord. His gaze fell to the floor. Tall figures walked in columns. Their movements were in synch. Their black robes were fitted and trimmed with gold. All who looked on either cheered or averted their eyes in shame and fear. Naarifin's voice was soft, almost friendly. "Look at me." Alondril shook his head. "My cousin, look at me." Alondril looked up, meeting his captor's golden eyes. Contained within them was a kindness he'd never thought possible for a Thalmor. "I have not come to gloat. Untold lives may yet be spared because of the information you have given us. Does this please you?" Alondril's head slumped again. Perhaps Aldmeri lives would be spared, but it would come at the cost of his comrades. "I thought not. A Blade must be hard. He understands the losses necessary to achieve an end. We are much the same in that regard." Naarifin stepped closer, knelt down so they were at eye level. "Look at me." Alondril looked. "I will be honest with you, my cousin. I too am unmoved. Your order will fall, and soon, but we both know that this victory will be meaningless beside the great works to come. Politics, war, the meddling of spies, all the death and carnage they bring about… these are the games of children when viewed through the scope of divinity. You looked through that scope for a moment, didn't you?" An orb pulsed, opening and closing like an eye, each time releasing more of the infinite magicka contained within. Nearby, a lone Altmer quivered as he forced it open. The power to unmake the world… at the fingertips of mer. "The things you see," continued Naarifin, "the visions you have told me about. They are gifts. Most who come in contact with the Heart of our Tower do not survive. But you? You are blessed, as I am." Alondril's lips were cracked and his throat dry. He had not spoken for fear of what he might say, but the Kinlord's understanding tone surprised him. Had Naarifin suffered the same fate? Could he help him? Alondril needed to find know. His voice came out harsh and damaged. "I saw no heart. Only a… a-" "Corpse," Naarifin finished for him. "You saw the corpse of a hero from an age long past… The brave receptacle for the Heart of our people." "That was no corpse." Alondril thought back on that day, deep beneath the Tower when he had looked into the eyes of the man they had chained against the walls. "He spoke to me." Naarifin nodded. "When the Tower fell, only the Heart remained. But a heart with no body cannot beat for long. We had to take measures into our own hands." Alondril was puzzled, but the Kinlord waited patiently until the despicable realization hit him. "You used necromancy." "Precisely. Powerful necromancies, and other things. My own role was to commune with the daedra, to make deals that would buy us time. You know of the future we delay. You have seen it." Alondril swallowed, nodded. He had seen it in his waking dreams "It has already started," Naarifin said. "And that is why I do the things that I do. Many of our brethren are driven by hatred of man, or even hatred of the very world we inhabit, but not I. I seek only to save our people from the doom to come." Storms, hunger, plague, war… the downfall of Summerset. "Without Crystal Law we shall wither and rot like a corpse, until our enemies swoop in like carrion birds and devour us. The Thalmor will not allow this. I will not allow it. And you know what must be done." Once again, Alondril nodded, for he had seen that too: Cities on fire, a desert washed with blood, the rivers of Cyrodiil dammed up with corpses. "Why are you telling me this?" Naarifin's expression became somber. "Because you are the only other one who has seen what I have seen. Others have tried, have communed with the Heart in their own ways. All who survived were driven mad beyond repair. All, save you and I. Whatever you did differently, whatever quality it is that makes you so extraordinary, it has fated you to be my one and only peer. No other mer can truly comprehend the importance of my mission, nor the magnitude of it." "I don't even know what your mission is." "You will," Naarifin said. A new Heart beat within the White Gold Tower, surrounded by countless dead. Their blood was not in vain, for it would water the seeds from which a new order would grow. Aldmeris. The Salvation of Mer. "Auri-El willing, you will." 3 Quote It's always nice when your writing gets reinforced by the canon after you come up with it. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheCzarsHussar Posted March 23, 2022 Share Posted March 23, 2022 (edited) Varieties of Faith in the Empire's Peripheries Vol. 2, Fiefdom of Roscrea, Old Dowry Hold.Preface. The prior documentation presented by Brother Mikhael Karkuxor on the Nordic faith is, mostly, relevant for the understanding of the pantheon of the Roscreans. Though divergent in language and culture to the Nords of Skyrim, the Nords of Roscrea; and the fearsome giants of the hinterland, harken to the same divines as their southern kinsmen. However, far removed from the primordial centers of power in Skyrim, and deathly Atmora, the isle developed many regional deities and hero-worshiping cultures utterly absent in the orthodox practices by Whiterun's Witch-Queen and her ilk. Chapter One, Old Dowry Hold. Within the oral traditions of the Hold, there exists heresy and inaccuracies to the proper faiths of the south. Though the fledgling, if ever growing, township of the Nordlaw; Boiliobris is ever introducing the native herders to the more orthodox and modern Nordic Pantheon, as is the unpopular Nine Divines, they continue to incorrectly worship the totemic serpentine aspects of Shor; which is himself the Nordic aspect of Lorkhan. Furthermore, what is attested to be, by the Imperial Mission, a cultural memory of an primordial dragon priest, is mistakenly worshipped as a near demigod hero throughout the Hold. Known as the Chieftain of the Seven Bountiful Herds, as is the namesake of the herd, is believed to have been the retainer of Kyne; the Nordic aspect of Kynareth. Much of his folklore surrounds the conflicts with the Daedric Lord Hircine, testing the strength of the Roscreans, and teaching the herder folk how to honorably strife with one another. Chapter Two, Hircine and the Divine Herds. The Chieftain-Hero's earliest legend entails of his lordship over ten divine herds while the great hosts of Shor waged war in the far north. How the guiles of Hircine stole the herds of the Boar, Bear, and Wolf from the Chieftain-Hero, and corrupted them to take the forms of Nords, akin to elven trickery. The furious Chieftain-Hero swore up terrible vengeance that he shouted such winds that they took the form of Kyne's wings, and flew across the mountains into the realm of Hircine, and flattened many of Hircine's trees and pastures. However, the defiling of the divine herds ate away their divinity, it was cast upon Hircine's beloved cursed who now could pass into his realm. With diminished herds, and oaths of feud shouted into the devil's realm, the Chieftain-Hero shouted apart the one mountain that denied passage of the oath and threw it into the ground far away as punishment, it now served as the corpse-host of which assembly was held hence forward, and is known as the Stoney Knee. Here he called upon the hunters of Kyne and taught them how to spot the Weird Herd in true form, he tested them by taking away their iron and throwing it to Shor's Host in the far north, so that only the bones of the slain may be weapons of the hunters. Chapter Three, When Jhunal Heard the Call of Assembly. Hearing the call of assembly, the spurned Jhunal flew in totem form to the assembly from the far north. A host of gloom-chanting clever men roamed with him within the shadows of his wings, their voices chained to his talons of many inscriptions. Jhunal yanked their voices to hew into his talons the spoken record. Then the gloom-chanting shouted the knowhow of the before-world, the faintest memory of a hunting ground aflame. The wise owl, ever learning, knew a direct solution would be discarded by both Tusk and Hero and so chose to inspire in it's stead. Though Hircine, having hidden with the Herd of the Bear as they hibernated in the glacial caves of the mountain-turned-assembly-host, lept from the caves hunter-like and obscured from sight. For the Chieftain-Hero was distracted by the mumblings of clever men and the most beloved of his Seven Herds, the Herd of the Reindeer, grazed unprotected. For both Devil and Hero sported the same clan heraldry, that of the Herd of Hart, and the Daedric Lord coveted all that bore the hide and horns of Hart. And so did Hircine steal the Herd of Hart and lay claim to the heraldry of it's clan. Chapter Four, How the Beard was Stained Red. As such, it is said that the Chieftain-Hero, braided of hair, sported the spotted mane of the Hart. Was gored by the cursed blood of Hircine, who laid claim to all the heraldry of Hart. Yet the cursed blood became tangled and knotted in the braided hair of the Chieftain-Hero who shouted it so ever and always into a knotted-rune. And threw it upon the Herd of Hind, barring them from Hircine's Weird Herd. Though the Herd of Hart was the devil's now, and so the loyalties of the Herd of the Reindeer was henceforth divided. Swearing to reclaim his spotted mane of the Hart, the Chieftain-Hero, now red of hair, made mark of his feud with Hircine in assembly. To those of his assembly he taught the knotted-rune, which braided into beast fur would bar it from the Weird Herd of Hircine. Thus he gifted the Seven Bountiful Herds to the folk of the assembly. The Chieftain-Hero was soon to lead the hunters of Kyne into the mountains of the east, to forever hunt the herd and spotted mane. Chapter Five, Of Honorable Strife. To the folk of his assembly, gifted of his herds, knew his voice one final time in the living world. To this he preached of his master, always and ever to Kyne and her wrathful testing. He swore to pray for her winds to ravage them equally in piety as in ignorance. That her raging praise would be granted to those who held the strength to seize his kin's herd in full view of Sovngarde, and cursed all who would steal his kin's herd in the dark, that the hereafter they shall witness Sovngarde only from afar, as it is the hall of champions. In strength the Chieftain-Hero swore this single law and bound the assembly to his voice. Chapter Six, The Hunters of Kyne. Though there is a number of local-clan stories involving their ancestral services and battles alongside this figure. In the overall oral narrative of the herders, this heroic figure departs the Old Dowry into the mountains of the east and is lost to history. Although another richly orated element of Nordic folklore, it must be stressed to be just that. Likely to be a cultural memory of a servant of their dragonic gods, perhaps one which greatly worshiped Kynareth and vehemently opposed her theological enemy Hircine. While the narrative ends in departure to the east, the oral histories of the reclusive hunter-clans of the easternmost Middland Plateau have their own hero worship of a red haired lord that is strikingly similar to the Chieftain of the Seven Bountiful Herds. In the following volume, their folklore surrounding this mystical character is further explored. Edited March 23, 2022 by TheCzarsHussar 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Centurion Posted November 18, 2022 Share Posted November 18, 2022 Mournhold 4E 5 “Sir, sir, excuse me, Captain Relas! I bring news... from Davon’s Watch!” The Dunmer ran quickly up to Selman Relas. He stopped just short of running into the imposing mer dressed in a full suit of Ordinator armor belonging to the Order of War. Selman looked at him, waiting for the news that so urgently needed to be uttered. Getting impatient, he uttered with a deep, strained, raspy voice, “What is it?!” The mer got ahold of himself then and dug in his satchel bringing out a letter sealed with the Winged symbol of House Indoril. Selman snatched the letter out of his hands asking if there was anything else to which the Dunmer simply shook his head. Selman turned in an instant, walking back to his home on the outskirts of Mournhold for the day. He walked through the door of his house and set his golden mohawked helmet down on the table immediately next to the door. He continued further into the quiet abode to his personal armory where he stripped the rest of the way, putting his armor on its stand and placed his sheathed ebony longsword on the wall mount. He pulled an expensive purple shirt over his bald head letting it fall loosely on his shoulders. His expensive pants slid on with the same elegance and were held up by an extravagant belt. He found his most comfortable pair of shoes and put them on before walking out into the common of his house where his newborn son, Drelan Relas, was being nursed. “How was work today, Darling?” His wife Mehra asked without looking up from her suckling babe. “Uneventful, other than this messenger who was in such a hurry he couldn’t speak when he got to me.” Selman sat on the other side of the fire pit from his wife and pulled out the sealed message. He broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. Captain Selman Relas, I regret to inform you that the sudden and severe trembles felt the other day ripping through Morrowind was in fact Baar Dua falling on Vivec City and the Red Mountain appears to be waking. We must do what we can to suppress this news and keep people on the true path. These New Priests and their “True Ways” are poisoning the minds of our people. They have decreed the Orders to be heretics and enemies of the Faith. I fear we may become hunted mer in the coming days. Hold to the Three and your faith will be rewarded. Master Indoril Ryviel Inspector, Order of War Selman looked up at his wife with mournful eyes. He stuck the parchment into the fire and let it burn. She could see the pain in his eyes as he spoke. “It’s from Master Ryviel, He spoke of Baar Dua falling from the sky, taking Vivec City with it. It appears Vehk has joined Ayem and Seht in wherever they’ve gone and is no longer with us and the ‘New Temple’ is capitalizing on the news to spread they’re heretical message of returning to Daedric worship.” He took a deep breath before continueing, “I fear for our children and their future here in Mournhold.” He got up and kissed his wife’s forehead while rubbing his littles arms. With a deep sigh he walked to the bedroom and sat in front of the mirror. He pulled out his knife and slowly cut away the hairs that were just barely growing on top of his head. With each stroke he brought cool water over his head, washing away the shavings and any blood that had appeared. He dried his head and walked to the bed, laying down and letting sleep take him. He awoke in a coughing fit. The room was dark and the air felt heavy. A small layer of ash covered his body and more was pouring in from the open window. He jumped up and ran to the window. The sun was barely managing to peek through the overcast just enough for Selman to see a large column on Ash jetting into the sky in the North of Morrowind. Mehra ran into the room with Drelan in her arms. She looked around frantically for something to cover herself and her baby with to protect their lungs from the ash. After she had found a cloth rag she ran to Selman, “What’s going on?!” Selman looked at his young wife, unsure of what to say and simply grabbed her, pulling them close in a loving embrace. It was the only thing he could do. *** Mournhold 4E 6 Selman woke to the sound of Drelan crying. There was an eerie silence throughout the rest of the house. He sat up and looked around for his wife, who was nowhere to be seen. He got up and walked through the house to Drelan’s room before grabbing the 1 year old and walking back to the common area of the house. He noticed that the door was opened slightly, so he set Drelan down in the room with a toy to keep himself occupied and walked to the entryway. He fastened his ebony longsword around his waist and stepped out into the ashy night. What awaited him sent chills down his spine. He saw his wife in between three argonians dressed in scales, armed with swords. Two of them had a hold of her arms while the other was dragging his claws across her skin softly. Selman drew his sword and ran to the group. The two argonians who had a hold of his wife hissed and the third turned around just in time to catch Selman’s sword through the gut. The scalebacks threw his wife to the ground and drew their own swords before coming at him with a fierceness he hadn’t seen before. The clashing of metal on metal was soon interrupted by the sound of ebony ripping through scales and pained hissing from one of the combatants. The other scaleback landed a fierce kick to Selman’s chest, knocking him to the ground. The argonian turned to flee, but before he ran he brought his sword down hard into Mehra’s back, severing her spinal cord and cutting her open. “The Horde will be here soon…. Hssss… hahaha!” Selman screamed and ran to his wife who had been unconscious the whole engagement. Her breath became short and then halted all together in Selman’s arms. Selman wanted nothing more than to sit there and grieve, but thoughts of his son told him he needed to run. He sprinted back into the house, equipping his armor as quickly as he could and grabbing as many things of importance to his family as he could carry. He grabbed Drelan and slung him to his back as he was fond of doing and took flight out the back door. He looked towards Mournhold one last time and was greeted by the terrible sight of the glowing orange and red of fire running wild. The road North to Davon’s Watch was hard and food was scarce due to the ash falls. By the time Selman made it to the gates he was skin and bone, barely able to hold his sword or keep his pants from falling around his ankles. Everything edible along the journey was given to his infant son and still he barely made it alive through the ashen wastes of Stonefalls. The guards assisted him inside upon hearing his name and escorted him carefully to the temple. Upon his arrival the priestesses of the Three took Drelan and cared for him while Selman went to speak with the other Ordinators. “Captain Relas, you've seen better days. What brings you?” “Where is Master Ryviel?” “He is in a meeting with the Temple leaders. He shouldn’t be too much longer” “Let him know that I’m waiting in his office when he arrives.” Without another word he slipped off to Master Ryviel’s office for some peace and quiet while he waited. The office was small with a desk in the middle and bookshelves on either side sporting many different texts about the Tribunals' many edicts. On the desk sat the Master’s golden Indoril helmet and a ledger charting the days that had passed since Baar Dua had fallen. Selman was taking it in as he drifted into a calm dreamless sleep. About thirty minutes had passed when the door opened and an old Dunmer sporting a white Mohawk walked in. He walked around the back of the desk and sat quietly in the chair, studying the mer who was passed out in his office. Eventually, he reached over and tapped on his shoulder. “Selman, you wished to speak with me?” Selman shook awake startled for a moment before settling back down and looking at the old Ordinator. “I bring news from the South, from Mournhold. The lizards have launched an all out invasion. They have razed Mournhold. They-“ He was unable to look him in the eyes so he stared unflinching at his chest instead. He fought past the block in his chest bringing tears to his eyes. “They killed Mehra.” They sat in silence for what seemed like forever before Ryvel pulled out a piece of parchment and scribbled something down. He folded the paper and sealed it before calling for his assistant and sending him off with the message. He stood stone faced and unwavering. He spoke with no indicators of the pain or anxiety in his voice, “Come Selman, let us check on Drelan.” *** Davon’s Watch 4E 7 “Selman, you must go. Go to the Redoran. Indoril has fallen, the Order is no more. The Lizard horde and the New Temple clergy are both coming for this last bastion of faithful, though only Seht knows who will be left to pick through the ashes” “Master, I cannot leave you here to die!” Selman pleaded with his old friend. “I am nobody's Master anymore, my friend. I haven’t been for a while. Take Dralen to the safety of Blacklight and move on. You have many good years left. That’s an order.” Selman let loose a single tear before turning to leave the temple. He stripped the now smudged golden armor from his body one last time and set the Mohawked helmet down upon the Shrine of the Tribunal. He whistled to Dralen and scooped him up before putting him in his back mounted carrier. Selman reached for the door and in a final moment of grief and pain looked back towards Ryviel, saluted and walked out the door. The shipyard was buzzing with all the people trying to escape the oncoming Argonian horde. Western Stonefalls had already fallen and the lizard armies were pushing into the Telvanni’s heartlands, and traveling east on foot was considered suicide with all the scaled scouts on the prowl. The only option was to evacuate by boat. Luckily for Selman and Dralen, his service to Morrowind was honored with the only thing the remains of the old temple could provide. Passage on ship from Davon’s Watch to Blacklight. The voyage was mostly uneventful as the ship cut through the waves of the inner sea. The ash fall from Vvardenfell had to continually be cleared on the deck to prevent the ship from amassing so much weight as to cause it to sink and this allowed Selman to clear his head so he didn’t mind volunteering for the work. When the bells tolled and the Captain of ship bellowed about Blacklight appearing on the horizon, Selman finally felt a shred hope at last. 2 Quote Fuck Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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