#perhaps they were all destroyed by the Nords‚ alongside the cities and soldiers

[tes-trash-blog]

A Lamentation, believed to be from the Late Merethic Era.

The most complete Falmeris writing discovered to date, the poem describes a series of increasingly impossible tasks to be accomplished before the poet may see their beloved again. A rare insight into not only Falmer writing, but also the process of grieving; the Ice Elves were not, as Ayleid and Old Nordic accounts describe, without emotion.

An approximate translation is as follows, alongside the poem transcribed to Tamrielic script:

#non canon guide to the falmer tongue #while funerary records and final rites exist in fragments #like diaries‚ personal accounts are a near impossibility to find from the Elves of that time period #perhaps they hid the depths of their feelings away in the name of propriety? #perhaps they were all destroyed by the Nords‚ alongside the cities and soldiers? #the world may never know! #the elder scrolls #(technically) #i'm always on my snow elf bullshit #snow elves #falmer

[spellsword-archer]

Aar do faal Diil [Pt. 2]

"This is not a good idea." Vorstag stated for what felt like the thirtieth time that day. "Daedra are dangerous beings, and there's no guarantee that they'll help us." Azaron's ears remained pinned to his skill, as they had been almost since leaving Ivarstead for Solitude. "I know," The Khajiit replied. "But I am already this one's champion, so she will at the least hear us out." As they had descended the seven-thousand steps, Azaron had explained to Vorstag and Marcurio how, at least two years earlier, he and Tarene had stumbled upon a crystal beacon, hidden in a bandit's fort.  Meridia had spoken to them - summoned them to her shrine - and ordered them to cleanse her temple of a necromancer who had taken up residence. They had done so, and the Daedric Prince had named them as her Champions.

A despiser of the undead, Meridia was a powerful being who would take no great liking to a long-dead mage seeking to return to life, surely?

Two carriages and one long hike later, they were beginning to approach the Daedric shrine, and Vorstag was having some vocal second thoughts.

Marcurio really couldn't blame him; the Daedric Princes had reputations for being immoral, manipulative, and very fickle. They had little regard for moral life, except when they meddled with it, and while Meridia had a slightly better reputation than most, she was still a Daedra, and by nature, dangerous. They didn't have many other options, though…gaining the help of a Divine would take more time then they could afford, and if they wanted to save Tarene, then they needed to act quickly. Marcurio couldn't help but feel a little guilty for what had happened - but only a little. He'd done his best to save Tarene that day in Valundre's Cairn, and he'd done so. He'd had no reason to believe that the Nord mage's spirit had gone anywhere but Oblivion, when he'd killed the body. It was best that they focus now on how to expel Valundre's spirit, and not on how he was able to possess Tarene. Even if that meant seeking a Daedra's help… As they reached the shrine, Azaron bade Vorstag and Marcurio to wait on the first landing, and the Khajiit ascended the last set of steps alone. The air seemed to suddenly thicken as the Khajiit climbed higher, and the eerie feeling that they were being watched became impossible to ignore. Azaron had taken barely two steps before Meridia's voice spoke out, echoing through the minds of all present. "At long last, a Champion of my name returns." The Daedric Prince laughed. "Yet…you come alone. Do you and your fellow no loner walk the same path?" Azaron knelt on the ground before the towering statue of the shrine, and bowed his head. "No longer…" He replied. "Tarene has been taken from us." There was a moment of silence to his statement, and then the Daedra spoke again. "Taken?" Meridia repeated. "By what? Or, by whom?" She corrected. Azaron's tail twitched. If he could phrase this correctly, he may be able to utilize Meridia's great dislike for the undead. "One who should be long-dead has invaded his mind, and led him away from us." He explained. "We seek to take him back…but while we wish to destroy the one long-dead, we do not wish to harm Tarene-" "And you thought I had a way to do so." The Daedra interrupted. Azaron bowed his head a little lower, hoping to shorten any step he'd taken over a boundary line. "You thought correct, mortal." Meridia continued. "I do indeed have the power to cast out the undead without harming the living. Come forward," She ordered. "So that I may gift you with a fraction of this power." Azaron obediently stood up, moved to stand in front of the smaller statues standing at the foot of the towering one. A beam of light seared down from the heavens, striking some invisible plane between the outstretched hands of the statues for one blinding moment before fading away. Hovering in the air, between the statues hands, was an amulet; it was circular in shape, with the seal of Meridia stamped upon its center, and two rings of runes surrounding its edges. It gleamed as polished ebony, and hung from a simple leather cord. Azaron slowly reached out to take the pendant, and it ceased to hover as soon as his hand came near, and it dropped into his palm. "Take this amulet," Meridia ordered. "And hold it against your companion's skin. The undead one will be cast out by my power, and your brother at arms will remain unharmed. Do so quickly. I despise the thought of an undead abomination daring to steal my Champion." Azaron bowed deeply, and as respectfully as he could. "Thank you, O Lady of Infinite Energies," He praised. "We shall free Tarene, and banish Valundre, in your name." He turned and walked down the steps, and the thickness in the air receded, until it was as thin and cold as it always was. Meridia had left the mortals' presence, and they had their task before them. Marcurio eyed the small amulet somewhat doubtfully. Not that he meant to insult a Daedric Prince, but he'd expected something more from a Daedric artifact…something scarier, perhaps, or at least bloody, as most Dremora seemed to be. "What do we do now?" Vorstag asked as they descended the lower steps. They had their key to success, but if they could not find Tarene, it would still do them no good. Azaron quietly stowed the amulet in a pouch on his belt, and made sure it was secure before they started off. "Paarthunax told me of a dragon priest buried in a ruined crypt, on the northern coast of The Pale." He explained. "A Nord of Valundre's age would not be above claiming such power…especially if he has use of Tarene's Thu'um. The draw of it would be almost impossible for him to resist." He added. "…his big plan is to assault one of the men gifted with power from the dragons of old?" Vorstag repeated, a note of confusion in his voice. He had faced down one or two of these dragon priests alongside Azaron, and had heard many legends about them. They were no easy opponent, and even a single priest could be the deaths of a legion of ill-prepared soldiers. The Khajiit sighed. "He may very well succeed…." Azaron growled quietly. With Tarene's power, and Valundre's apparent knowledge of magic, even the dragon priest may have a tough battle to face. "Our only hope is to reach the ruin before Valundre, and possibly ambush him there." "Ambush Tarene." Marcurio repeated in an unimpressed tone. "Oh yes, that sounds like a brilliant plan. Let's ambush the Dragonborn." Azaron growled in return. "I, too, am Dragonborn." He reminded the mage. "And I do not hear you coming up with anything better." The Imperial opened his mouth, then thought better of it, and closed it again with a sulk. Azaron snorted affirmatively, and turned to lead the way back down the road. "We can return to Solitude before the sun sets, and then set out along the coast in the morning. We will hike to the ruins from there."

As the sun slowly began to court the horizon, miles away from the great city on the arch, and deep within the cold stone walls of a crumbling Nordic ruin, Draugr stirred. They walked the halls of their tomb in endless pacing, patrolling in the flicker of the torches. So many more of them slept, now, for their master had changed, and their new master had no need for their offered life force…..not yet, anyway. This master was still living, and quite young. He would live for a while yet. Beyond the empty halls and their Draugr guards, a throne room sat in silence, deserted but for one lone figure seated upon the throne. He was no natural resident of the crypt; his heart still beat, and he did not share the ancestral roots of the Nords buried around him. The figure sat sideways, one ankle crossed beneath his knee as he examined his reflection in the cleaned surface of a silver platter. As amber eyes took in their reflected twins, the golden skin, and the pale hair, Valundre couldn't help but frown. If only this one had been a Nord…then his resurrection would have been so much more fitting. But beggars can't be choosers, and he wasn't about to spend another few hundred years waiting around for a Nord adventurer or bandit to wander into his trap. This Altmer had been the first to do so for several hundred years, so he'd take what he could get. He could always repeat the transference process again upon finding a more suitable Nord body. Then again, perhaps the Altmer wasn't so bad. He did come with an additional boon that Valundre hadn't counted on at first glance. This Thu'um…this beautiful, powerful voice. Such power and strength created from simple words…! Valundre let out a little chuckle; the sound was young and light, quite foreign to his ears, but a refreshing change from the grating rasp of his old voice. How gleeful he had been when he'd realized that he had overshadowed one who was Dragonborn. What luck! What fate! Surely then, his resurrection was meant to be! Valundre lowered the platter, and set it to the side of the throne. He shifted to lean back against the tall back support, the clank of his new armor echoing across the room. Well, it wasn't entirely new….polishing had done wonders, but it was still marred by centuries of being locked away within a coffin, deep within these walls. However, that dragon priest certainly didn't need it anymore, and it was just perfect for one of his status, wasn't it? If only he'd been able to find that mask…they were rumored to have such power within them. Ah, but he had plenty of power of his own, and the mask was most likely lost to the icy waters beyond the ruin. He had no need to worry for it.        

#mun's writing #Azaron #Tarene