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vosh-rakh · 3 months

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3e634 chapter 2

--chapter 1--

Master Kassur sat cross-legged at the peak of a hill in the Reach, hunched over a well-worn copy of The Four Suitors of Benitah, smiling. The wind whipped up the frayed corners of the pages, but he paid it no mind, enthralled as he was by the words. His husband sat a ways behind him on an elaborate conjured chair, fiddling with the runes carefully inscribed on a pair of spectacles. They sat in silence, kept busy by their respective businesses.

The spectacles suddenly appeared held within the grasp of a well-manicured hand over Kassur’s shoulder. Without turning his gaze from the book, Kassur asked, “Have you finally finished with them?”

“I believe so,” Master Aryon answered. “Give them a whirl.”

Kassur shifted his book to one hand and took the glasses with the spare. With a quick movement of his wrist he flicked open the arms and laid them over his ears, his eyes now covered with lenses of carefully polished glass. At first the world was awash with mauve smoke, but it quickly dissipated to reveal perfectly normal vision. “Is there nothing you can do about that startup period?” he asked, turning to face his husband. Aryon was not overlaid with magical smoke, which was a good first sign.

“I’ve tried,” Aryon said with a sigh. “Something about this particular enchantment, it would seem.” He laughed and adjusted the crooked glasses on Kassur’s nose. “There could be some sort of metaphysical implications, if I could be bothered to interrogate them. But I’m no philosopher or Psijic.”

“How shall we test them, then?” Kassur wrinkled his nose, and the glasses fell askew again.

“Well,” Aryon began, indicating one of his famous monologues was to follow, “All I’ve just done is fine-tune it for the drier climate this far west. During our audience with the master of the Greybeards, I discreetly tested it on him. He glowed very brightly.”

“And does it verify me?” Kassur asked. He removed the glasses and handed them to Aryon.

Aryon carefully took the spectacles and placed them straight on his nose with both hands. He squinted for a moment as his vision adjusted, and then nodded. “You glow as brilliantly as Magnus himself.”

“I appreciate the compliment, my dear,” said Kassur with a crooked smile, “but do the glasses work?”

Aryon rolled his eyes behind the glasses and gave him a light shove on the shoulder. “Yes, you dolt. Don’t sweet-talk yourself too much, or Azura will get jealous.” Neither of them cared much for Azura, but it was a common phrase that even venerable Master Aryon had picked up. Aryon handed back the spectacles, and Kassur returned them to his face.

Aryon scratched his chin for a moment. “I suppose the next test would be on the latest Septim, but I doubt we could obtain an audience with him, even with the Hortator’s diplomatic assistance.”

“Are we even sure the Septims after Martin are still Dragonborn?” Kassur asked, scanning the horizon, as if Skyrim were somehow filled with dragon souls lurking around every corner, hiding in every nook and cranny of the cliffs and hills.

“The official Imperial line is that they are,” Aryon said. “Seeing as our device here is the first to accurately detect them, even our best spies couldn’t be sure.” He pondered for a moment. “The Dragonfires apparently remain lit, so we have to assume.”

“Mhm,” Kassur said.

“Are you reading again instead of listening to me?” Aryon snatched the book from Kassur’s hands. Kassur tried to snatch it back, but Aryon retreated. Kassur couldn’t be bothered to stand so gave up. “You’ve read this a thousand times. Why bother reading it again? You could recite it word-for-word from memory.”

“I like reading more than reciting,” Kassur pouted.

Aryon flipped through a few pages. “What drivel. How can you stand this stuff?”

“It reminds me of where I’ve come from.”

“Why this, then?” Aryon waved the book about, not caring if Kassur kept his page. “Why not some, I don’t know, Ashlander tales or hymns?”

“You know why. I couldn’t go back to them if I wanted to, so why bother even thinking about it?”

“Hm. Fair enough, I suppose.” Aryon tucked the book back in Kassur’s bag.

Kassur planted his chin in his hands and his elbows on his knees, looking westward where the road meets the limited horizon of this rough place. Something vaguely purple seemed to rise over the edge and walk slowly down the trail. Kassur paid it no mind at first, but it grew closer and closer, and brighter and brighter, until it separated, as if by mitosis, into two distinct shapes of lavender light.

He blinked once, then twice. He removed the glasses, and saw the two traveling figures in true light. One shining-armored with a black cloak, the other in yellow robes behind. Kassur put the glasses back on and waited for the purple glare to recede. It finally resolved into just the overlay of the two travelers.

“Arrie.”

“Yes?”

“I think you still have some fine-tuning to do. They’re too sensitive.”

“I’ve done about all the fine-tuning I can,” Aryon said, coming back behind Kassur. “Let me see.”

Kassur handed Aryon the spectacles. He put them on, squinted until they calibrated, and looked to see what Kassur was making a fuss about. His eyes widened. “By Mephala’s…”

That was all Kassur needed. He jumped to his feet and started clambering, nearly rolling, down the side of the hill. He faintly heard Aryon shout “Kass!” behind him, but blood was roaring in his ears, drowning out even his awkward tumbling down the earth.

- - - - -

“N’chow,” whispered Dagoth Valer as she watched the wizard tumblr down the hill towards the road. She stopped in her tracks, considering her options. She almost reached for a weapon, but reasoned such a clumsy wizard couldn’t be much of a threat. Just play it -

Before she could finish her thought, the sleeper walked right into her back. Valer had forgotten to will her body to stop when she did. This kind of control was taxing - she wondered how the other ash vampires had managed it, and across so many sleepers, for so long.

Valer reined the sleeper back in and had her step back. Fortunately, the wizard didn’t seem to notice the collision. Unfortunately, he was soon accompanied by another wizard, this one gracefully levitating down from the hill behind the first.

The first wizard - blessedly a Dunmer - dusted off his robes and extended a hand. “Good afternoon!”

Valer did not take his hand, and in fact considered for a moment cutting it off. “Sera,” she began icily, “I trust you might understand how a traveling woman might feel, when suddenly accosted by two strange mer on the road.”

The first wizard’s face fell, and he lowered his hand. The second came up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Apologies for my partner’s overeager behavior,” the second said. “We’re simply very excited to meet such an esteemed personage out here.”

N’chow. How could they know? She didn’t think she was that conspicuous. Without thinking, she tightened the hood around her face. She could feel her confidence waning, and so followed her grip on the sleeper. “I’m just a traveler.”

“Modest, I see,” said the first wizard, apparently recovered from his embarrassment. “And you, f’lah,” he said, addressing the sleeper, “are you also just…why are your eyes closed?”

“She’s deafblind,” lied Valer. “I’m delivering her to a friend of hers in Windhelm.”

“A deafblind dra-...” muttered the first wizard before interrupting himself. Under his breath, he wondered, “Could she even…hm…”

Valer began to quietly panic, her domination of the sleeper fading still further. What did these strangers know? Slowly, so as to not alarm the wizards, she began to reach for her nearest concealed sheath.

“Well, traveler,” the first wizard said, smiling as he took a dangerous step closer to Valer, “I think you’ll find that your modesty is misplaced, and that we shall soon become fast friends.”

Enough of this. In a heartbeat she withdrew her hidden blade of heartblight and stabbed the first wizard with it, leaving it embedded in his chest. Before either wizard could react, she also slipped her sacred hammer from its holster and swung at the second wizard. She felt her hold on the sleeper finally fail completely, but she paid it no mind; there was a much more present danger.

With a quick ward, the second wizard deflected her hammer strike. But the dagger had struck true, and the first wizard wobbled backwards before collapsing.

The second wizard watched as his partner fell to the ground, and then turned his baleful gaze to Valer.

N’chow.

A moment after those eyes hit Valer, so did something else. Something cold. Something sharp. Something wide.

She glanced down at her chest. There she saw a massive shard of ice lodged in her breast plate. From the additional pain in her back, she knew it pierced her completely.

N’chow n’chow n’chow -

Instinct. Careful not to drop the sacred hammer, with her spare hand she conjured flame, both to melt the magical ice and cauterize her massive wound.

And she fled. The sleeper was lost. Her master would be displeased. But his displeasure she could weather. Death, not so much.

- - - - -

Malekaiah opened her eyes, and found she was already on her feet. First she saw a man fall, dagger in his chest. Then she saw the man beside him launch a great icicle into a woman’s chest, a woman Malekaiah vaguely recognized, but couldn’t remember why.

A terrible shriek filled the air, issuing from the woman’s throat, who then ran away into the hills.

The mage who attacked the woman did not pursue her. Instead he fell to his knees by the fallen man and held him close.

Instinct. Even without knowing any context, Malekaiah leapt into action, sliding down next to the wounded mer. The mage holding him held up a hand crackling with electricity, but Malekaiah held up her open hands. “I’m a healer,” she said.

“You’re not deafblind?” the mage asked, the lightning dissipating.

“No?” Malekaiah said as she looked over the wound. “Why would I be?”

“Nevermind,” the mage said, his spell completely fizzling. “We didn’t bring any potions, and I don’t know much Restoration.”

“Good thing I do, then,” Malekaiah said with a reassuring smile. Her hands glowed faintly pink as she probed around the wound with her Healer’s Sight.

The mage tried to mirror the expression, but failed. “Can you save him?”

She probed deeper, then nodded. “We can. Do as I say and he’ll survive.” The mage nodded, so Malekaiah continued. “He’s lucky. It seems the blade missed everything important. We need to keep it that way.”

She rubbed her hands together to warm them and get the magicka flowing. “Do you have steady hands?” she asked.

“Steady enough,” said the mage. “I’m an enchanter, after all.”

Malekaiah wasn’t sure how that was relevant, but nodded anyway. “Good. You’re going to - as straight as possible - pull out the blade while I try to stop the bleeding and close the wound.” She prepared by hovering her hands near the injury, already faintly glowing golden. “Be very careful. If you pull it out crooked you’ll risk damaging adjacent organs.”

“Okay,” the mage said, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Before we start,” she said, eyes lifting to catch the mage’s, “Introductions are in order. What’s your name?”

“What does it matter?” snapped the mage. “Can’t this wait?”

Patiently, Malekaiah answered: “Healing works best with a personal connection. No time for chit-chat, so a name will have to do.”

“...I’m Aryon. His name is Kassur.”

“And I’m Malekaiah,” she said, smiling. “Extract the blade whenever you’re ready.”

Aryon wiped sweat-plastered black hair from his brow and slowly wrapped his fingers around the dagger’s handle, careful not to tilt it from its original angle of attack. But he hesitated. Blood slowly pooled around the wound, sticking Kassur’s robes to his skin.

“It’s okay,” Malekaiah said. “You can do this. But do it. Straight and swift, like peeling a plaster.”

After another breathless second, Aryon pulled the dagger free.

Immediately Malekaiah went about flowing magicka and Dibella’s grace into the wound, bidding it close behind the dagger’s tip, and staunching the stream of blood that erupted from the removal. Once she was satisfied, she probed the area again with her Healer’s Sight.

“Good work, Aryon!” she exclaimed. “No organ damage. He’ll live, but he needs rest.

She noticed Aryon examining the bloodied blade in his hand. It looked exotic, sure, but she couldn’t tell if it was any special otherwise.

Suddenly, Kassur’s eyes fluttered open, and he grabbed Aryon by the arm. Aryon’s attention jolted from the dagger to his partner’s face.

“Arrie, Arrie,” Kassur slurred. “Did you see…that hammer…”

“Yes, dear,” Aryon whispered, just barely loud enough for Malekaiah to still hear. “Sunder. The last Dagoth yet lives, and she’s in Skyrim.”

“And,” Kassur coughed, “she’s Dragonborn.” With this final phrase, he lost consciousness again.

- - - - -

As night neared, they set up camp on the nearby hilltop. Malekaiah gathered scraps of wood for the fire, only for Aryon to light a magical flame upon the pile that could sustain itself all night without fuel.

Huffing and puffing from carrying the wood, Malekaiah asked, “Why’d you let me do all this, when you could’ve just cast the spell at any time?”

Aryon shrugged. “I thought you knew who I was.”

Malekaiah asked, “Is your name supposed to ring a bell?”

“I’m a Telvanni magelord, Master of Tel Vos, as well as a frequent confidant of the Hortator.”

Aside from vaguely knowing what a “hortator” was, Malekaiah didn’t understand any of those qualifications. “I’m from Cyrodiil,” she said. “I don’t know much about Morrowind politics.”

“Well,” Aryon said, crossing his arms indignantly, “my husband and I are what you youths might call ‘a pretty big deal.’”

Malekaiah glanced at Kassur, who was lying asleep near the fire. She had helped Aryon change him out of his torn and bloody silk robes into a spare set of clean ones. Both sets were so intricate and obviously delicately crafted - “Finest Daedra spider silk,” Aryon had said - that Malekaiah was certain she’d never laid eyes on a piece of clothing so expensive.

She took a look at Kassur’s face. Whereas Aryon had the signs of age clear upon him, looking rather middle-aged, Kassur looked as young as Malekaiah. She knew the aging of elves was slow and different, but the apparent age difference between these two made their apparent married status strike Malekaiah as odd.

She remembered a question she wanted to ask, and worked up the courage to pose it. “What was that about, what he said when he woke up?”

Aryon sighed. “I shouldn’t tell you. It’s technically a state secret.”

“I don’t know anyone from the Ebonheart Pact,” Malekaiah said. “Who would I tell?”

“That’s not a very good reason,” Aryon said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “but I will tell you anyway. Long ago, Morrowind was plagued by a corrupt House called Dagoth. The Hortator destroyed them two hundred years ago. But somehow, one escaped. She was your captor. Valer.”

Malekaiah remembered the razor-sharp yellow teeth lining the witch’s mouth, and the glowing crimson eye tattooed on her forehead, and shivered. “And the hammer? Kassur said it was special.”

“It’s really not important. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

Aryon shook his head. “I’ll leave it at this: it’s a historical artifact of great significance. It was once in the possession of the Hortator. A few years ago, it was stolen, but we didn’t know by whom.” He tilted his head. “Although I suppose now we do.”

Aryon was right: Malekaiah didn’t really understand. But she nodded her head like she did. “And he said something else,” she said. “Something about dragons, I think. So did Valer, when she captured me. What does that -”

Kassur began coughing again. Malekaiah reached over to keep an eye on him. She was alarmed to notice blood around his mouth, so she rolled him over on his side so he wouldn’t choke. She placed her hand on his forehead - still feverish. To check his pulse, she placed two fingers on his neck. Slow. But more concerning was the lump there. It didn’t seem to be a swollen lymph node, but something else.

“Aryon,” she called. He came over, the Dagoth’s strange dagger still in his hand. “I know you’re not a physician or healer, but feel this.” She pointed at the growth on Kassur’s neck.

Aryon placed a few delicate fingers on his husband’s neck. “This feels like…” His eyes widened. “Oh no.”

“Do you recognize this?” Malekaiah asked, turning towards him.

He looked at the dagger in his hand again. “Could it be this…?”

“Was it poisoned?” Malekaiah asked.

Aryon shook his head. “I studied under Divayth Fyr, in his Corprusarium,” Aryon said, looking away. “This feels like that. Like Corprus.”

Corprus. The word terrified Malekaiah. An intense fear of the disease had been instilled in her by her Restoration tutors, an ailment as devastating as the Knahaten Flu, or the Thrassian Plague - but completely incurable.

“I’m so sorry,” Malekaiah said, placing a consoling hand on Aryon’s shoulder. But to her surprise, he seemed much less crestfallen than she expected. “You know what that means, right?”

“Of course,” Aryon said. “Fatal unless cured quickly.”

“Aryon,” Malekaiah said, her voice stern. “There is no cure for Corprus.”

Aryon laughed, but it was an empty, dry laugh. “Allow me to let you in on another secret, Malekaiah. Another state secret, one carefully guarded by the Temple in Morrowind.” Conspiratorially, he leaned in close. “There is a cure. Our Hortator was cured of Corprus, over two hundred years ago. After Divayth’s…unfortunate demise, I worked with his daughter Uupse Fyr on further developing the cure.” He looked back at the dagger in his hand. “There’s little need for a cure, since Dagoth Ur’s defeat by the Hortator, but I believe I can recall the formula we concocted.”

Malekaiah’s jaw dropped. “So it’s actually possible?”

“Yes,” Aryon said. “But the specific ingredients we used were mostly local to Vvardenfell, and are therefore out of our reach. But I believe there may be suitable substitutes to be found here in Skyrim.”

Aryon stood, dusting off his robes, and stepped away for a moment. With a click of his finger, a worktable appeared, faintly luminous and violet. He reached into his bag nearby and pulled out a couple parcels.

Malekaiah stood also, and marveled at the conjured worktable. It was kitted out with what seemed like delicate alchemical apparatuses, retorts and calcinators and alembics, and little tubes and pipes to feed them, and flames to heat them. She didn’t understand their purposes, but could imagine that a better alchemist than her could work wonders with them.

“On our way to Skyrim,” said Aryon, “we stopped in Solstheim.” He opened one of the parcels, a small jar. “We discovered strange beasts, reminiscent of ash creatures created by Dagoth Ur’s blight long ago. Upon their death they released a similar substance to the ash salts found in Vvardenfell.” Malekaiah peeked inside the jar; it seemed to contain a fine gray powder looking very much like ash, but somehow more crystalline. Aryon continued: “Uupse’s original recipe called for ash salts. This should serve as a substitute.”

“Okay,” Malekaiah said. “What else do we need?”

“A shoot of Nirnroot, and two hearts.”

Hearts? Malekaiah shivered. Hopefully he was being metaphorical. She decided to focus on the less scary part of that answer. “What’s Nirnroot?”

“It is a glowing, singing plant that grows by the water all across Tamriel. I don’t have any samples here, but it shouldn’t be difficult to find some. There’s a river on the other side of this hill, beyond a small copse of trees. You should be able to find some there. Go on ahead while I procure the Daedra heart.”

Malekaiah nodded. She checked on Kassur one last time before she began to slowly climb down the hill. It was still dark, but the cloud cover was bright, illuminated by the full moons behind, and her Orc eyes acclimated quickly. The copse Aryon mentioned was small but dense enough to obstruct the river she could hear on the other side. She had to move carefully through the trees, as their shadows kept the light of the heavens from reaching her. Finally, she reached the small river, and looked around.

Malekaiah could guess “glowing,” but what had Aryon meant by “singing?” She looked up and down the stream, trying to see any light along its course. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Frustrated, she picked a direction and started following the banks westwards.

The white noise of the flowing river was making her ears ring, and it seemed to get worse the longer she was by it. She was just about to give up when she remembered what Aryon said. She backed up, retreating eastwards. The ringing seemed to get quieter. Eyes peeled, she kept heading west.

Finally, she saw a strange light peeking from behind a boulder. She wrapped around it and saw the plant, a spiky-leaved thing, luminous green, and chiming a sharp note.

Using her hands (she didn’t want to get her dagger dirty), she gradually dug up the roots and pulled the entire plant from the earth. Once its roots were free, its noise died down to a whisper.

Something caught her attention in her peripheral vision. A small thing, alighting on the slow-moving surface of the river. It didn’t sink, but left a small impression on the water. Then she noticed another, and another. Then she felt something cold fall on her nose, and she looked up.

It was snowing. She had heard of snow before, but never seen it herself. She held out her empty hand and caught a falling flake, and quickly tried to inspect it before it melted from her body’s warmth. It was a beautiful, geometric crystal. It reminded her of the tattoos priests of Zenithar often wore, denoting their faith to the mathematical god of industry. Perhaps, Malekaiah wondered, during creation, Zenithar collaborated with Kynareth, the goddess of the rains, to create such beautiful frozen artifacts.

The falling snowflakes began to increase in volume, until so many landed on Malekaiah’s head it sent a shiver down her spine. She pulled her hood over her bare scalp, and began to head back east to the copse at the base of Aryon’s hill.

When she finished climbing the hill - a bit more difficult now, as the precipitation was making it icy and slick - Malekaiah greeted Aryon. Kassur didn’t seem to have moved from his position when she left, which she tentatively took as a good sign.

“Do we have all the ingredients now?” she asked, holding up the Nirnroot plant.

Aryon, now hooded himself, glanced over from his work at his enchanted table. He seemed to be boiling down a dark red, almost black, organ she couldn’t identify. A Daedra heart? she wondered. “Ah, thank you,” Aryon said. “Although I didn’t require the entire plant. Just a sprig would do.” Malekaiah frowned. “But it never hurts to have extra,” Aryon added upon seeing her expression.

Malekaiah brought forth the Nirnroot. With magical shears Aryon cut a leaf from the plant and had her set the rest aside for now. Then he cut the leaf into small strips and added them to the boiling heart’s juices.

“But do we have all the ingredients now?” Malekaiah repeated.

“Oh, not yet,” Aryon said. “We still require a Briarheart. Specifically, one taken from a living subject’s chest.”

“Okay,” Malekaiah said. Her conscience couldn’t help but butt in. “So, does that require murder?”

“That depends,” Aryon said, “on if you consider the destruction of a necromantic beast murder. Frankly, Briarheart warriors are not human anymore. They make pacts with hagravens and the Daedra Lord Hircine to become what they are.”

Malekaiah considered it. If it’s necromancy, it can’t be murder, right? She nodded. “Okay. So how are we going to get one?”

“It will take some time to find and obtain one,” Aryon began. “And one of us must stay with Kassur. Seeing as I am not a healer, that must fall to you. I will go, by stealth, to tear the heart from a sleeping warrior. I believe the Forsworn have a camp not far from here. If I’m not back in three hours -” Aryon started to say, but he looked at Kassur and reconsidered. “No. I’ll be back in about three hours.”

“Okay,” Malekaiah said. She took a seat next to Kassur and waved Aryon off as he swiftly departed.

- - - - -

With great effort, the Emperor sloughed off his regal fur-lined coat before his attendant had a chance to offer his assistance. Unburdened, he spun around to see Merculus frowning.

“You know, Your Highness, that I’m here to assist you,” Merculus, an old white-haired geezer of a Cyrod, said.

“Oh, brighten up, will you?” the Emperor said with a bright grin. “It’s a beautiful day in…er…”

“Helgen, Sire.”

“Of course,” said the Emperor with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I was only feigning ignorance.”

It was, of course, not a beautiful day. The young Emperor was known for embellishment. The sky in southern Skyrim was a dreary gray, and the ground here in the fort sucked at your boots like it wanted you to stand there forever. His two Blades in his entourage, both Nords, had told him this was fairly usual.

“You’re lucky if you see the sun once a year in this shithole of a province,” the tall, shaggy blonde Fjulgur had said.

Thargun, the shorter, ruddy-complexioned one, sighed. “Your tongue, Fjully.”

“Sorry,” said Fjulgur, covering his mouth. But the Emperor could tell he was smiling underneath his hands.

Now, Merculus asked, “Is there anything you’ll allow me to do for you, Your Highness?”

The Emperor rubbed his throat. “You know, Merculus, I could go for a drink before bed. What do the locals have here?”

“I believe Helgen is known for its juniper berry mead, Your Highness. I could procure for you a bottle.”

“No, just a glass will do. Or a mug. Do they drink it hot up here? Surely they do.”

“Yes, Your Highness. I will return as swiftly as possible.” With this, Merculus, in his usual way, glided out the door, which closed behind him with a soft click.

The Emperor turned to inspect the room. For a “shithole province,” they certainly knew how to furnish a chamber for royalty. The bed had four tall posts, supporting a frame from which hung a black curtain, sporting on all sides the Imperial insignia, a diamond with a dragon at its center, in red. In the corner by the window sat a similarly red-upholstered armchair, the cushions of which looked like they could swallow even a Nord or an Orc in their depths. The crimson curtains on the far-side window, which stood a few stories high over the fort’s courtyard, were pulled open for the Emperor to look out upon his subjects. The two nightstands on either side of the bed were of dark spruce, as were the massive dresser and desk across from the bed’s foot.

The Emperor hesitated; he felt his neck warming up. He glanced down at the Amulet of Kings, and felt a voice ring out in his head: BEWARE.

He glanced around, letting his peripheral vision do the heavy-lifting for him. But he saw nothing.

“Come out, assassin,” the Emperor commanded, just quietly enough that no one outside could hear.

“How did you know?” whispered a voice that seemed to come from every corner of the room at once.

The Emperor flashed his teeth, part smile, part threat-display. “Magic has an odor. Especially Illusion magic.”

There was a long pause. Then: “You just made that up. It was a lucky guess.”

“It was a lucky guess,” the Emperor admitted, keeping his volume even. “But I had you going, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t,” said the voice, who suddenly revealed herself, the figure in the plush corner chair appearing piece-by-piece of vanishing invisibility. “Uriel Septim.” She tilted her head. “Are you the seventh, or the eighth?”

“The ninth, Hla-eix,” he said. The Hortator of the Ebonheart Pact’s daughter was unmistakable: a Dunmer by almost all features, save for side-slitted lizard eyes and patches of pale, ephemeral scales on her skin.

“Ah,” she hissed, wrapping her thin fingers around the delicate point of her chin. “You humans take so many lifetimes to accomplish so little.”

Uriel ignored her and asked, “How did you get in here? The window?” Even as he asked, he doubted it; the dust on the windowsill looked completely undisturbed.

“Who’s to say I haven’t been here the whole time?”

Uriel smiled. Fair enough. He decided not to think about the worrying implications for his security. “We’re not meant to meet until tomorrow. What are you doing here now?”

“I wanted to appraise you,” Hla-eix said simply.

“Like a piece of jewelry? A ring to wrap around your finger?”

She smiled, her lips barely parting to reveal razor-sharp teeth. “You have a sharp tongue. Expected for a Cyrod, an Emperor no less.” She planted her hands on the arms of the chair and pushed herself out of the deep seat, landing on her toes. “But is it as sharp as the blade at your throat?”

Reflexively Uriel swallowed deeply, but hoped it was mostly imperceptible; he never let down his smile. “And here I thought this was just a friendly visit. Are you sure you’re not an assassin?”

“I’m not one anymore,” she said, stepping even closer. “The Shadowscales and the Morag Tong both answer to me. But they’re not the ones you should worry about.”

“And who, praytell, should I worry about?” He resisted the urge to step back.

“There are snakes in the lion’s den.” She was now so close Uriel could feel her breath on his cheek. “And venom is indiscriminate.”

“And how, praytell, would you know such a thing?”

“Simple. Assassins make good spies.” She shot a glance at the door behind him. “And Blades make weak ones.”

“I don’t understand your motive, Hla-eix. Our peoples’ are on the precipice of war. Why should you concern yourself with the strength of my Empire?”

“That’s not for you to know.” She leaned in close to his ear, and he couldn’t help but flinch this time. “Keep your wits about you…Emperor.”

There was a loud crack, and she was gone. The air left behind seemed to pull at the folds of Uriel’s robes for a moment before it settled again.

The door behind him burst open. He turned to see Fjulgur and Thargun pushing through the threshold, katanas in hand. “Sire!” Thargun shouted. “Are you alright? What was that noise?”

“Stubbed my toe on the bed, dammit,” lied Uriel. “Everything’s alright. Calm down.”

Thargun tilted his head, but said, “As you wish, Sire.” The Nords scanned the room through the eye slits of their helmets before sheathing their swords and leaving, the door closing softly behind them. Uriel sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his forehead. Nine-damned dark elves, he thought. Oblivion take them and their schemes.

#tes #tesblr #oc: malekaiah #oc: kassur #oc: dagoth valer #oc: uriel ix #master aryon #skyrim #orc #orsimer #dunmer #imperial #cyrod #cyrodiil #nord #my writing #oc: hla-eix

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vosh-rakh · 3 months

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3e634, chapter 1

"I'm sorry, the Temple of Dibella is closed,” the priestess said. “You can receive your blessing, if you wish, but the other sisters are in seclusion."

Malekaiah frowned. She looked around anxiously at the alien masonry of the temple’s interior. The four statues of nude Dibella resting against the pillars kept their gazes resolutely forward, ignoring Malekaiah’s plight. She pressed her fingertip hard against the point of her tusk, a bad anxious habit she’d long ago acquired. The tusk was too dull to draw blood, but one could hope.

Finally, her eyes alighted on the shrine against the wall, its points rising like flower petals towards a central space, and she was given the courage to look back at the priestess. “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice quavering, but somehow she pushed on. “I’ve been an acolyte of Dibella all my life. I’m on an important mission to spread her love to those who have never known it.”

“I’m sorry, sister.” The priestess offered a small smile as compensation. “The sisters cannot be disturbed.”

Malekaiah looked up at the brass chandelier on the ceiling, and closed her eyes briefly. “Okay,” she said, nodding, but avoided the priestess’s pitying gaze.

The priestess nodded, and returned to her cleaning.

Malekaiah approached the shrine to Dibella. She gently placed a hand on one of its dull red wings, trying to feel for Dibella’s energies. Then she knelt, clasped her hands, bowed her head, and prayed.

Please, sweet Dibella, I beseech thee: grant me the power and wisdom to see thy love and beauty in every facet of this world, so that I may spread the knowing to those who know only sorrow and ugliness. Let thy kiss become my kiss, lips sweet enough to embrace the world.

Malekaiah couldn’t remember how the prayer was supposed to end, so awkwardly she cut it short there. Unclasping her hands, she rubbed her face, trying to bring some heat to her cheeks, and rub some wakefulness into her eyes. It was so cold here, in Skyrim, and she had barely slept on the long carriage ride from Anvil to Markarth. She had a long journey ahead of her, and she needed to be prepared.

Almost on instinct she quickly felt for the short steel hiding under her ochre robes. Yes, Da’s dagger was still there. Even in this foreign place, it brought her a strange sense of safety.

Malekaiah rose and walked out the temple door. She was immediately faced with the western mountain enclosing the city, waterfalls cascading down the cliff with a deafening roar, flowing into the waterways that ran down the city’s streets. Behind those falls stood proud and ancient the bizarre stone-and-brass architecture of the dwarves, yet as ordinary to the people here as timber and brick.

After a moment of awe, Malekaiah drifted left along the stone walkway, skirting south around the pillar which the temple of Dibella crowned. Down a level of the city, straddling one of the rivulets, was a small smithy, jarringly built of wood. Over the roar of the waterfalls rang out the sharp clang of hammer on metal, and a woman shouting at her apprentice with very colorful language. Turning her head to the left, Malekaiah saw the distant silver mines, crawling with hard-at-work miners, seeming from this far away like ants carrying their burdens of ore.

Malekaiah descended the stairs, making her way down from the temple. They led her closer to the smithy, where she caught a glimpse of the smith. She was an Orc, which stopped Malekaiah in her tracks. There were very few Orcs in Anvil; most had left for bustling Orsinium about a decade or two ago. Despite going to their homeland to proselytize, she didn’t know much about her race. She had read as much as she could about them and their history and ways before leaving, but most of the sources she was able to get her hands on were outdated and often very bigoted.

The smith must have felt Malekaiah’s gaze, and she looked up at her with a scowl. She waved her off with a hand holding an unfinished sword.

Malekaiah quickly turned to continue on her way, but in so doing she ran straight into one of the city guards. He reached for the sword on his hip. “Watch where you’re going, outsider!” he shouted.

“Sorry,” Malekaiah quickly mumbled. The guard, seemingly dissatisfied but uninterested in an actual confrontation, pushed Malekaiah aside and continued on his way.

Malekaiah rubbed her shoulder where the guard had pushed her and looked again at the smith, who had apparently seen the whole thing. She shook her head at Malekaiah and went back to her work.

A bit shaken, Malekaiah continued descending the stairs, following one of the rivulets. She reached for the talismans around her neck. First, the amulet of Dibella: she rubbed the violet stone in the center of the metal flower. It was cold, but it gave her some comfort, anyway. Her hand roamed across her neck to the other talisman, the strange icon left in her swaddling cloth when her parents abandoned her in Cyrodiil. She could feel its rageful face, teeth and tusks bared, and a fuming heat flooded her face. She let go, shook her head, and tried to forget about the encounter with the guard.

Malekaiah continued along the stone path through the city, hoping to find an inn where she could stay the night. Instead, she found herself at the front gate again, faced with the small market situated there.

The square was bustling with activity, a dense crowd - surely half the city - swarming from stall to stall, gawking at and haggling for the goods on display. The few children who could pry themselves from their mothers’ watchful eyes ran through the forest of legs, squealing like pigs.

Something caught Malekaiah’s eye. A gleam of silver, or steel. Her vision snapped to the stall on the far end of the market, selling jewelry. A woman was trying on a prospective purchase.

But there was something else, a man pushing through the crowd, the sun shining in his hand.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The woman removed the necklace. The man grabbed her mouth from behind. He raised his shining hand and jerked it across her neck, right where the necklace was a moment ago. Blood sprayed on the silver on the stall’s counter. The woman behind it, her face also spattered with red, covered her mouth and screamed.

Just as the crowd began to react to the shriek, the assassin turned around, still holding up the now-mute and struggling woman by her chin. Her head was nearly severed, so vicious and deep was the spurting gash.

“The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!”

The throng devolved into chaos, women and children screaming, men shouting and shoving to escape. There was only one guard nearby, somehow, and he was slow to react, ineffectually trying to push his way through the crowd.

Malekaiah was frozen, staring at the gore of the wound. The man dropped the woman after she stopped moving, and turned back to the stall. The jeweler had fallen to the ground in shock. The assassin vaulted the counter, sending rings and necklaces and torcs to the ground with a tinkling sound that Malekaiah shouldn’t have been able to hear over the din, but could have sworn she did.

He advanced upon the jeweler, dagger in hand, blade under fist. She extended an arm to protect herself, and the assassin’s blade pierced her hand, stabbing all the way through. Her pained scream pierced the sky. The assassin inverted his grip, blade over fist, and began slashing. The jeweler took a cut to the stomach before raising her arms to defend again. The steel tore through the sleeves of her dress as well as the flesh of her forearms.

A fire ignited in Malekaiah’s throat, melting her freeze and compelling her move. She hiked up her robes and withdrew her dagger from the sheath fastened around her thigh, and she advanced through the dissipating crowd. She vaulted over the counter, knocking off yet more jewelry, and approached the assassin’s back.

Firmly gripping the dagger’s hilt, in one simple motion, she thrust the blade deep into his back, sliding effortlessly between two ribs.

Poppies bloomed around the wound, soaking into his shirt.

The assassin exhaled sharply as his lung collapsed, and stopped attacking the jeweler. His weapon clattered to the ground, and he slowly turned to face Malekaiah. With shaky breath, and through bloody coughs, he mustered, “I die for my people,” and then collapsed, dead.

Slowly, shakily, Malekaiah bent down to pull the dagger from the assassin’s back. Once the blade was free of his flesh, there was an upwelling of blood, painting his tunic a deeper black.

She looked across at the jeweler, who stared at her, frightened, tears streaking down her face. Malekaiah took a step forward, causing the jeweler to squirm backwards with a squeal.

“P-please…don’t…” mumbled the jeweler.

Malekaiah glanced at the bloody blade in her hand. Some portions were untouched, clean steel, and she could see her reflection clearly in it. But in the bloody bits, the wet gore reflected a demented distortion of her face. She screamed, too, and tried to wipe the blood from the blade with her cuff. But all she accomplished was staining her sleeve.

Malekaiah returned the dagger to its sheath on her thigh, struggling to keep her hand steady. She tried to approach the jeweler again, with open hands. “I won’t hurt you,” she assured. “I’m a healer.”

The jeweler hesitated, but nodded, letting Malekaiah come forward. Malekaiah knelt next to her and channeled Dibella’s grace to her hands, which glowed with a golden light. She began to hover them over the jeweler’s wounds, slowly bidding them close.

Suddenly, something cold and sharp lifted Malekaiah’s head by the chin. Forcibly she looked up to see one of Markarth’s guards pointing a sword at her throat.

“What are you doing, murderer?” the guard spat from beneath his helmet.

“I…” Malekaiah quavered, blinking rapidly.

“You idiot,” shouted the jeweler at the guard. “She saved my life!”

The guard seemed to finally take full stock of the situation, seeing the woman’s slit-throat corpse, the assassin’s face-down body, and his bloody blade discarded at his side.

In the meanwhile, Malekaiah continued healing the jeweler, starting with the slashes on her arms and the thankfully superficial cut on her abdomen. Malekaiah looked at the stab-wound through the jeweler’s hand with dismay. “I can’t heal this on my own,” she told the jeweler, who had mostly calmed down.

Malekaiah turned to the corpse and dagger behind her. She wiped as much blood from the blade as she could, and used it as a tool to cut a relatively clean strip of the assassin’s tunic. She turned back to the jeweler and apologized. “This will hurt.” The jeweler nodded and offered her injured hand. Malekaiah delicately wrapped the strip of cloth around her palm, tying it tightly. The jeweler groaned at the final tug but otherwise didn’t complain.

“She needs a more experienced healer for her hand,” Malekaiah said, looking up at the guard, who had withdrawn his sword to its sheath.

“I’ll take her to the temple,” the guard growled. Taking her unhurt hand, he helped the jeweler stand. As they began to walk off, he turned his head and said, “Keep your nose clean, orc.”

Malekaiah knelt there numbly for a moment. But eventually her close proximity to two corpses and so much blood became too much, and she forced herself to stand. She examined her robes, and found them surprisingly spared, save for the cuff she used to wipe the blades clean.

The market was almost completely empty now, save for a few late-arriving guards come to gather the bodies. But there was another man, fast approaching Malekaiah. His smile did nothing to disarm her anxiety after the preceding harrowing events, and she reached instinctively for the dagger through her robes.

“Easy there, friend,” said the stranger. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He glanced at the dead woman being carried off by a couple of guards. “Gods. A woman attacked, right in the streets.” He seemed to notice the blood on Malekaiah’s cuffs, and asked, “Are you alright? Did you see what happened?”

“I was right there,” Malekaiah answered. She ran her hand across her bare scalp and looked away. “He killed that woman, and then…tried to kill the jeweler.” Her words felt like lead dropping from her tongue, seeming to almost hang from her lips, not wishing to be said. Her voice didn’t feel her own. “So I…I…I killed him.” She covered her face so the stranger wouldn’t see the unbidden tears welling up in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” the stranger said. “I hope the Nine give you more peace in the future.” Malekaiah lowered her hands to look at him, just as his expression suddenly changed. He quickly reached out his hand, shoving something into Malekaiah’s. “Oh, by the way, I think you dropped this.”

Malekaiah jumped at the sudden movement, but calmed a bit when she realized it was just a piece of folded paper. “Is this…yours?” she asked, confused.

“Mine? No, yours. Must have fallen out of your pocket in the commotion.” He offered a little wave and then turned to leave.

Malekaiah was positive she didn’t have any parchment on her before this man gave her this note. She unfolded and read the brief note scrawled in an uneven hand: “Meet me at the Shrine of Talos.”

Malekaiah looked back up at the man, who was now halfway across the square. “Shrine of Talos?” she hollered. “Where’s that?”

He stopped in his tracks and half turned towards her. “Huh?” He scratched his chin. “Not sure. I don’t worship Talos, myself. I think I heard someone mention it was underneath the Temple of Dibella, in the big crag in the center of the city.” Then he turned and walked away.

Malekaiah’s eyes followed him until he was out of sight. Then she glanced at the note again, and sighed. She folded the paper back up and slipped it into a pocket in her robes.

She looked up toward the center of town, at the crag where she had just come from the Temple. It truly was an enormous feature, dominating the city’s skyline.

She checked for her dagger again, and against her better judgment, she made her way towards the Shrine of Talos.

-----

It took some walking around the crag to find the correct path to the shrine, as well as walking past its unmarked doors on accident several times. The doors were large and notable: huge brass double doors twice her height, surrounded by ornate ancient masonry. But there was no indication they belonged to the shrine of a Cyrodiilic war god.

Malekaiah pushed open the heavy doors with some effort, and stepped into the dark corridor, faintly candlelit and sloping downwards. She narrowed her eyes in the darkness, but her Orcish vision quickly acclimated. At the bottom of the slope she could make out two figures: one, surely a statue of Tiber Septim, stoically leaning on a sword; the other, a man kneeling before the altar, head bowed.

Malekaiah slowly descended the corridor towards the shrine’s sanctum. She tried to be quiet so as not to disturb the man’s prayer, but despite her best efforts he still somehow noticed her approach as she neared the end of the ramp.

The stranger from the market quickly stood and turned to face Malekaiah. “You came,” he whispered. “Thank you. I’m sorry to drag you into Markarth’s problems, but after that attack in the market, I’m running out of time.”

Malekaiah blinked rapidly. “What?”

Breathlessly, the stranger continued, “You want answers? Well, so do I. So does everyone in the city. A man goes crazy in the market. Everyone knows he’s a Forsworn agent. Guards do nothing. Nothing but clean up the mess.”

Unbidden, images flash into Malekaiah’s mind: a torn open throat, poppies, and a demon staring back at her in the bloody blade.

It was as if her head detached from her neck, and began to float away. She responded numbly to the stranger in an automatic process seemingly devoid of any conscious intention. Her conscious attention was no longer in the room.

The entire conversation grazed past her like a breeze. She may have agreed to something, but the memory of precisely what was slippery. She was vaguely aware that at some point, the man - suddenly she remembered he called himself Eltrys - left the shrine. But she remained, standing before the altar, invisible to herself.

Malekaiah returned to her body, and found herself kneeling at the altar, hands clasped, muttering an unintelligible half-prayer to - presumably - Talos. She stopped herself. She had never worshiped Talos; it struck her as odd that Skyrim had shrines at all, as he was chiefly a Cyrod’s god. She felt nothing stirring in her heart from the attempt. Oddly enough, though, she felt something stirring in her gut.

Oh. She was hungry. She stood, dusted off her knees, and left the shrine.

———

Not even the warmth of the inn could take the chill from Malekaiah’s bones. She shuffled into the threshold, and suddenly all of the many eyes of the crowded tavern were on her. Whispers accompanied them:

“Is that…”

“Did she really…”

“She really is a…”

Malekaiah pressed her thumb into her tusk hard as she shambled towards the bar. She vaguely recognized that she was falling into her old bad habit, but it seemed to keep her head screwed onto her neck, so she allowed it this time.

She clambered onto a stool at the far end of the bar. She knew she needed to order dinner, and rent a room for the night, but she was an immobile statue, unable to speak. So she folded her arms on the counter and buried her face in them.

After a moment, a gentle male voice reverberated, “Hey, lass.”

Malekaiah lifted her head to see the barkeep looking at her.

“You’re the Orc who killed Weylin, right? Saved Kerah’s life?” He didn’t look angry, but it felt like an accusation to Malekaiah nonetheless.

Without speaking, Malekaiah nodded slowly.

The barkeep reached underneath his side of the counter and placed something on top of it. Malekaiah recoiled immediately, but her alarm softened as she saw what it was: a tray filled with food. A bowl of steaming potato cabbage soup; a thick rye-bread trencher, topped with a hefty slice of goat cheese and an entire roasted goat shank; on the side, some kind of dark-berried pie, and a large mug of what smelled like mead.

“You did good, lass,” said the barkeep with a smile. “Food’s on the house. Bed too, if you need one for the night.”

A holler went up through the room, all the whispering mouths turned to joyous raucous. A nearby Nord reached over with his mug. It took a moment, but Malekaiah realized she needed to lift her own and clank it against his. Both cups overflowed, and the coolness of the splashed mead felt good on Malekaiah’s hand.

Malekaiah was afraid to eat at first, not sure her appetite would be up to the massive challenge. But she didn’t miss a bite. She even drank the whole mug of mead, despite never having had alcohol in her life. The barkeep, whose name was Kleppr, led her to her room after the festivities became too much for her. It wasn’t long after her head hit the pillow that she fell into a deep sleep.

-----

It was early morning, and the sun was yet to peek through the window into their home. All that lit the room was a small candle on the table between them. Its flame flickered across her father’s dark face, dancing across his features: his round spectacles and the dull brown eyes behind; his large, bulbous nose, a mountain dividing his face into two separate landmasses; and underneath, the thick mustache covering his upper lip completely, a dense dark broom of hair. His clean-shaven scalp even caught the light, casting vague orange smears across his head.

She admired his looks. He looked like a father ought, she thought. She pitied her childhood friends and their imperfectly paternal fathers.

Sometimes, at night when she couldn’t sleep, she tried to imagine what her “true” father looked like. Would he measure up at all? Surely he was greener, and with prominent tusks, but what of the mustache? The spectacles? It was usually at this stage that she began to feel intensely ashamed for considering it at all. Da was her father, and that was that…

Da slapped her hand away from her mouth – she had been pressing her fingertip into her tusk again. “Stop that,” he muttered sternly.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Lost in thought, again.”

Da huffed. “Don’t think so much.” Pivoting quickly, he said, “Don’t be afraid.” From the satchel leaning against the legs of his chair he pulled out two items. She squinted to make them out in the darkness: one seemed to be metal, gleaming in the candlelight; the other was some loose assemblage of leather strips.

“A parting gift?” she asked, incredulous.

“No, Kaiah.” (She loved it when he called her that.) “Nine forbid you ever need to use this.” He delicately handed her the objects; as the metal one passed nearer to the flame, she recognized it as a dagger.

“What is this?” she asked, startled.

“I said don’t be afraid,” he rebuked. “It’s protection. You go alone into dangerous lands. Nine forbid you ever need it, but…just in case.”

She slowly reached for the blade’s grip, her hand shaking ever so slightly. As her fingers wrapped around the hilt, Da let go. She was surprised by the lightness of it; she had expected heavier.

“And this,” Da said, holding up the tied leather strips, “is your sheath. It will tie around your thigh. Keep it concealed beneath your robes.”

She nodded numbly as he gave her the sheath. The leather was soft under her fingertips.

“How will I know when to use it?” she asked.

“You’re a grown woman now, Kaiah,” answered Da. He began to rise from his chair. “I trust your judgment.”

She began to rise as well, expecting an embrace. But he turned his back to her, and approached the smoldering ashes of last night’s fire in the furnace. There he stood, quiet, hands clasped behind his back.

She wanted to hug Da, for him to tell her she was doing the right thing, that she would be okay. She started to slowly shuffle up behind him –

But the dagger was still in her hand, and her fingers tightened around it. She surged forward, blade first.

His lungs deflated with a sudden gasp, and poppies welled around the wound in his back, piercing right between his ribs.

She cried out, “Da!” She let go of the dagger and tried to back away from this murder.

But his hands unclasped themselves, and reached up to grab her arms – joints popped and bones cracked from the unnatural extension required. He began to turn his head back, further and further, vertebrae shattering as it swiveled to face her. But it wasn’t his face.

The candle on the table behind her seemed to roar into a conflagration, fully illuminating his hideous visage, a demented ashen demon, teeth glistening with gore, lips spread wide with malice and rage. It shouted, “Killer! Killer! Killer! Killer! Killer!”

-----

She woke up screaming, “I’m sorry!”

She grabbed the burning hot talisman hanging from her throat and, through her tears, saw Da’s twisted, angry face in the icon. She ripped it from her neck and threw it across the rented room, and wept.

-----

Blessedly, the ancient stone walls of the inn seemed to be thick enough to stifle her screaming and sobbing. At least, no one came knocking on her door to get her to shut up.

Malekaiah knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep; she was too afraid of further nightmares. She decided to get dressed and go for a walk.

Before she left the room, she glanced back at its dark corner. A faint gleam caught her eye; the demon talisman from her swaddling cloth. She approached it and retrieved it; it was still slightly warm. She reasoned she couldn’t blame it entirely for the dream, and after all, it could prove useful in Wrothgar - it could open some doors. She tied it back around her neck.

Malekaiah quietly left her room and passed through the stone corridor into the inn’s main chamber. Although packed and active last night, in these early hours before dawn it was dead. Everyone had retired to their beds, except for a single drunkard passed out in the corner.

In the lingering light from the fires, she caught a glimpse of the bloodstains on her cuffs. She decided on where her walk would take her.

The air outside was near freezing. Malekaiah wished she’d packed a pair of gloves. She pulled up the hood on her robes in an effort to protect her cheeks from the chill.

It seemed the guards of Markarth kept the streets lit overnight; she saw one a ways down who was tending to a brazier with her torch. Malekaiah considered asking the guard if she had a torch to spare, but she wasn’t brave enough. So she carried on by the occasional light of braziers, hoping she remembered her way back to her destination.

After some searching, Malekaiah arrived: the small stream by the blacksmith’s. (The old Orc woman didn’t seem to be there yet.) She wasted no time undoing the red sash around her waist, and then pulling her ochre robes off and over her head. All that remained was her woolen underclothes, but they still covered her neck-to-ankle.

“Pretty wiry for an Orc, aren’t you?”

Malekaiah jumped and dropped her robes into the stream. She tried to snatch them out, but the flow was too strong. She turned to try to make out who had addressed her in the dark.

“Sorry,” the voice said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted to make sure you knew you weren’t alone, so you didn’t strip all the way down.”

Malekaiah strained to focus her eyes. The woman a ways down the stream had a crate of objects that glimmered in the moonslight, and a bandage wrapped around her waving hand.

“Oh,” Malekaiah said. “You’re…”

“My name’s Kerah,” answered the woman in the darkness. “I figure the least I owe you for saving my life is my name.” She waved her hand again. “Can I have yours?”

“Malekaiah.”

“That’s a pretty name,” Kerah said. She reached out with her uninjured hand and grabbed Malekaiah’s robes as they passed by her in the stream. “Come here, Malekaiah. You might want these.”

Malekaiah slowly obliged, drawing closer to Kerah. As she did, she noticed the box was filled with blood-spattered silver jewelry.

“Cleaning the merchandise before we open,” smiled Kerah as she handed Malekaiah the robes. “It needs to be presentable, of course.

Malekaiah knelt beside Kerah and furrowed her brow. “Are you okay?”

Kerah tilted her head slightly. “Oh, it doesn’t hurt anymore,” she said with a light wave of her bandaged hand.

“No,” Malekaiah said, “I mean…” She gestured vaguely at her own shaved head.

Kerah’s face hardened a bit. “It’s fine. Such is life in Skyrim. Especially the Reach.” She pointed at the bloodstains on Malekaiah’s robes. “Not the first time blood’s been shed in this city, and it won’t be the last.”

“Oh,” Malekaiah said. Attention having been drawn to the bloodstains, she began to scrub futilely at them in the stream.

Kerah idly watched Malekaiah’s attempts to clean her robes while fiddling with a necklace from her crate. Finally she said, “That’s not going to work. Here.” She reached beside her and offered Malekaiah a small round object.

Malekaiah took it gently, and her fingers brushed against Kerah’s. She had expected them to be soft, but the tips were rough and calloused. Malekaiah realized Kerah wasn’t just a jeweler - she was a silversmith. The sensation sent a shiver down her spine.

It took a moment for Malekaiah to return to her senses. She examined the smooth object in her hand. It was yellowish-white, with darker flecks throughout. “What is -”

“Soap,” Kerah interjected. “Goat tallow, potash, and a little lavender imported from Whiterun for the scent.” She waved towards the robes. “Give it a try.”

Malekaiah gave the bar of soap a sniff - it did smell faintly of lavender. She began to scrub at the blood stains with it, and gradually they began to fade until all that was left were patches of slightly darker ochre.

“Thank you,” Malekaiah whispered when she was done. She tried to hand back the soap, but Kerah pushed it away.

“No, keep it,” Kerah said. “I have plenty. Margret taught me how to make it a while back.”

“Margret?” Malekaiah asked.

Kerah winced. “She is…was…a customer of mine. She was…the one at my stall this morning. When you were there.”

It took Malekaiah a moment to piece it together. Then the image of the woman’s bleeding throat flashed before her eyes, and she quickly shut them tight. But it didn’t help.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered.

Kerah wiped a moonslit tear from her eye. “It’s okay.” She sighed, her entire body shuddering. “I don’t know about where you’re from, but in Skyrim, we celebrate our dead. Even when they’re taken from us.”

“Anvil,” whispered Malekaiah.

“Hm?” replied Kerah, tilting her head.

“I’m from Anvil. In Cyrodiil.”

“Oh. So was Margret. From Cyrodiil, I mean. Not Anvil.” Kerah smiled. “She was here to buy a pendant for her sister in the Imperial City. Have you ever been there?”

Malekaiah shook her head. “Never left Anvil county. Not until I came here.”

Kerah reached out her hands. Malekaiah accepted the offer with some hesitation, placing her hands in Kerah’s. They certainly weren’t the pampered hands of a merchant; this woman worked a forge. And judging by the quality of her wares, she was good at it.

“So what brings you to Markarth, Malekaiah?” asked Kerah.

“I’m an acolyte of Dibella,” Malekaiah answered. “I’m on my way to Orsinium to proselytize.”

“Hm,” Kerah said. “That must be a tough crowd.” Malekaiah’s face fell a bit, so Kerah added, “But maybe they’ll listen to you, since you’re an Orc and all.”

Malekaiah smiled slightly. “Maybe.”

The sun was beginning to rise now, Kerah’s crate of silver dazzling in the early dawn light. “Damn,” she blurted, pulling her hands away from Malekaiah’s and burying them in the assorted jewelry. “Sorry, I really need to finish this and get ready to open.” She smiled again, wide and sparkling in the sun’s golden glow. “It was lovely getting to know you, Malekaiah. Be safe in your travels, and good luck.”

Without the warmth of Kerah’s hands, Malekaiah’s fingers felt lonely in the cold Skyrim air. “Thank you for the soap,” Malekaiah said as she gathered her wet robes and began to stand.

“You saved my life,” Kerah said as she scraped hard blood from a sapphire. “It’s the least I can do.”

Malekaiah waved awkwardly with the hand holding the soap, but Kerah was now fully engrossed in cleaning her merchandise. Malekaiah nodded and walked away.

The robes tucked under Malekaiah’s arm were dripping wet. Looking up the stream, she saw the blacksmith’s forge again, situated on an island in the center of the flow. She squinted at it in the dull morning light, and could just make out a couple of aprons hanging from a line strung between two of the hut’s posts. She still didn’t see the Orc there, so she approached.

Malekaiah had to ascend a level of the tiered city to find the stone bridge crossing the stream. At the smithy, she glanced around. On a table near the anvil she found a pair of small iron clamps. She took them and used them to hang up her robes on the line with the aprons.

Exhausted from her short sleep that night, she sat at the stool by the table. She pulled her hands in her sleeves to keep them warm, and laid down her head on the table…

-----

Malekaiah was pulled awake by a firm hand wrapping around the back of her neck and yanking up her head. She yelped and reached up her hands, but her assailant slapped them down.

“What are you doing in my workshop, whelp?”

Malekaiah was just barely able to turn her head to see the fuming Orc smith gripping her nape. “I…I…I…” Malekaiah’s sudden rip from sleep kept her from forming a sentence.

“Not thieving, I hope?” continued the Orc woman. “You know what we do to thieves in the strongholds? We take their hands, whelp.” Suddenly, Malekaiah noticed a flash of light on the steel axe in the woman’s other hand.

“Uh, Ghorza?” It was a man’s voice, albeit a timid one, coming from behind the furious woman.

“Not the time, Tacitus,” growled the woman, presumably Ghorza.

“Look,” Tacitus continued anyway. He must have pointed, because Ghorza turned. She moved her whole body to look, letting Malekaiah see Tacitus was gesturing at her hanging robes. “She’s just drying her clothes,” Tacitus laughed.

Ghorza dropped Malekaiah and moved over to the robes. Malekaiah scurried into the corner.

Ghorza plucked the clamps from the line, causing the mostly-dry robes to fall to the floor. “These aren’t clothespins, girl,” she growled. “I’ll have your hide if these rust.”

Tacitus, a soot-faced young Cyrod, bent down to look at Malekaiah - he seemed to take notice of the sheath on her thigh. “Wait, Ghorza. I know this one! She was the one at the market yesterday, who killed the Forsworn!”

Ghorza huffed wordlessly. “Stand up and let me have a look at you, girl.”

Malekaiah felt heat rush to her cheeks as she slowly obeyed, keeping a hand hovering near the sheath just in case. Ghorza towered over her, but Tacitus in the corner was about Malekaiah’s height. Malekaiah began to wonder if she was short for an Orc.

Ghorza placed her rough smith’s hands on Malekaiah’s shoulders, squeezing as she moved down to feel her biceps. “Pretty scrawny,” she said before grabbing Malekaiah’s chin and tilting her head this way and that. “And maybe not so bright - no common sense, at least - but you know how to kill. A decent sign.” She let go and turned around. She pulled something from a rack and turned back to brandish it before Malekaiah. “Here. See how this feels.”

It was a sword - Malekaiah guessed it was made of iron. She took it by the offered handle from Ghorza and waggled it around a bit. It was lighter than it looked.

Ghorza stepped back. “Give it a few swings.”

Malekaiah looked up at Ghorza’s eyes, anxious. But she did as she was told, and swung at the air a few times. They were clumsy swipes, and the sword nearly fell from her hand at the end of the last.

“Stop,” ordered Ghorza. “No training. Shouldn’t be surprised.”

Malekaiah laid the blade across both hands and inspected it. The metal was dull, without the sharp gleam of her Da’s dagger. She asked, “Is this…a gift?”

“No. It wasn’t going to be free, at least.” Ghorza retrieved the sword from Malekaiah with a delicate touch that betrayed a great respect for the iron. “But it wouldn’t do you any good without any skill. Swinging it wildly is ineffective, at best. Get you killed, at worst.” She pointed the sword at Malekaiah’s sheathed dagger. “Better off with something smaller. And staying out of trouble in the first place.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Malekaiah as she watched Ghorza return the sword to its rack. She took the opportunity to retrieve her robes from the floor.

Ghorza turned back and looked Malekaiah up and down for a moment, arms crossed. Finally she said, “You did good in the market yesterday. Take care of yourself.”

“Thank you,” Malekaiah said.

“Get out of my sight.”

“Yes m-” Malekaiah began, but Ghorza’s eyes flared up, and so she hurried away, nearly tripping over her dangling robes in the process.

-----

Unlike in Anvil, the sun in Skyrim never seemed to rise very high in the sky, even by midday. But Malekaiah knew she’d be mostly keeping to this same northerly latitude for her journey, so she figured she’d have to get used to it.

Malekaiah had stocked up on food and supplies this morning, spending almost all of her remaining gold, before leaving the city about an hour ago. She followed the main road west as it faded from paved to dirt to cleared to tracks to footprints to complete obscurity. Now she and Magnus faced the same direction, the latter sure of his path over the mountains, but Malekaiah much less so. She knelt in the dirt and puzzled.

When overwhelmed, Da always taught her to take things one step at a time. She scanned the jagged horizon of slate-gray peaks, and looked for low passages between the rising slopes and cliffs. She followed a trail of them closer and closer until a nearby path emerged.

She stood and dusted off her knees. She was ready to keep walking, but then she heard footsteps behind her. She turned back to see a woman there she hadn’t noticed before. She was a dark elf, a Dunmer, wearing shiny brass armor and a deep black cloak with red trim. Her hood shrouded her face in darkness, but two locks of white hair spilled out from underneath onto her shoulders.

“Muthsera?” croaked the Dunmer, betraying what Malekaiah understood as the accent natural to residents of the volcanic island of Vvardenfell, in the Ebonheart Pact.

Tentatively, Malekaiah responded, “Yes? How can I help you?”

The dark elf said, “I’m lost. Which way to Solstheim?”

“Oh, I’m not from here,” Malekaiah said with an apologetic smile. But she wracked her brain for memories from her geography lessons. “Solstheim…that’s an island, isn’t it? In the Sea of Ghosts?” She pointed east, behind the Dunmer.

The dark elf didn’t so much as turn her head to acknowledge the gesture. “Oh,” she said, staring exclusively at Malekaiah. “Thank you.” She broke eye contact briefly to glance up at the skies as she asked, “Seen any dragons lately?”

“Sorry? Malekaiah said, looking up where the dark elf did. She didn’t see anything, so she looked back down. “Dragons aren’t real, are they?”

The Dunmer’s lips spread open wide, revealing two rows of yellow, viciously sharp teeth in a wicked grin. “Oh, yes,” she said, her teeth not separating as she spoke, “Of course they’re real.” Her red-nailed fingers wrapped around the corners of her hood and peeled it from her face, the shadows receding to reveal her eyes, blood-red and wide, and the third, tattooed on her forehead, crimson ink glowing brightly. “You’ve just met one.” She rushed forward, grabbing Malekaiah by the face and pressing her thumb into her forehead.

“Praan.”

And nothing but thick blackness remained.

#tes #tesblr #my writing #skyrim #dibella #talos #oc: malekaiah #oc: dagoth valer #markarth #dunmer #orc #orsimer #nord #breton #forsworn #imperial #cyrod #cyrodiil #redguard

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vosh-rakh · 4 months

Text

(late) wip wednesday! thanks to @arcturite for tagging me! i’ll tag……..anybody who sees this who wants to be late with me!

a little snippet from my malekaiah wip under the cut:

Malekaiah returned to her body, and found herself kneeling at the altar, hands clasped, muttering an unintelligible half-prayer to - presumably - Talos. She stopped herself. She had never worshiped Talos; it was illegal to do so throughout the Empire. And she felt nothing stirring in her heart from the attempt. Oddly enough, though, she felt something stirring in her gut.

Oh. She was hungry. She stood, dusted off her knees, and left the shrine.

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vosh-rakh · 8 months

Text

madstone: chapter 4

-previous part-

The Archmagister looked up through the parted fingers of the brass gauntlet clutching her head. When she saw who it was she removed the gauntlet from her face. “Aryon. What are you doing here?” She glanced over at Kassur, who suddenly felt very small. “Oh. Right. Forgot about him.”

“You seem to have a lot going on,” Aryon said, observing the scorch marks all around the small office.

“Just leftover business from dealing with Galmis.” She stopped to gaze at the scorch marks herself. “He’s not going to be a problem anymore.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing,” Aryon said. Kassur was confused but couldn’t tear his attention from the Archmagister.

The Archmagister stretched her digitigrade Argonian legs and then stood. She approached Kassur and held out her brass hand.

Kassur slowly took it, his small hand engulfed in the massive ornate gauntlet. She gave his hand a tight squeeze that hurt for a second before relaxing her grip. “What was your name, again?”

“Kassur, Archmagister. Uh. Nerevarine. Uh…”

She laughed, a deep, throaty laugh. “Call me Ku-vastei.”

“Okay,” Kassur said. He didn’t know what kind of name that was, but it didn’t sound like Velothi to him. Of course it didn’t, she was an Argonian. For some reason he expected the Nerevarine to have at least a Dunmeri name.

“What was your complaint?” Ku-vastei asked. “Something about your tribe? Erabenimsun? Your scouts didn’t report anything the other day.”

“No,” Kassur said, shaking his head. “Ahemmusa.”

“Did someone take Ald Daedroth again?”

Something about the question irked Kassur, but he couldn’t place a finger on why. Besides, he was too wrapped in awe to display any displeasure. “No, Ku-vastei,” he said. “They’ve gone mad. They’re holed up in Ald Daedroth.”

“And they might be building an army,” Aryon interjected politely after Kassur paused to look for words.

“An army. The Ahemmusa? Are you sure?”

Aryon smiled. “That’s why I said might, Ku-vastei. Kassur left months ago, but indications seem to suggest they could be. Which would put Vos and Tel Vos at risk, potentially even the rest of the eastern coast.”

Ku-vastei glanced at Kassur. “Is that so?” Kassur nodded solemnly. “Explain what you mean by ‘gone mad,’ Kassur. Do you think this is the doing of Sheogorath, perhaps?”

Kassur nodded again. “Yes, Ku-vastei. He has long antagonized our people. His presence is strongest in Ald Daedroth. And without the Madstone…” Kassur again struggled to find words.

“The Madstone?” Ku-vastei asked, tilting her head. “The trinket the Wise Woman gave me when she declared me Nerevarine?”

“No mere trinket, it seems,” said Aryon. “It appears to hold back Sheogorath’s influence.”

“We need it back,” said Kassur.

“Hm,” said Ku-vastei, rubbing her chin in thought.

“Please,” Kassur said, not well hiding the desperation in his voice.

“Oh, no,” Ku-vastei said, waving her hand dismissively. “I’ll give it back. I’m trying to remember where I left it.”

Aryon groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “In a Mage’s Guild Hall, perhaps?”

“Yessssss,” hissed Ku-vastei. “Balmora, I think. Let’s go.” She briskly set off past Aryon and Kassur, and the Ordinator at the door.

“Bye, then,” said Llethym, who had seemed to meld into the shadows as the others conversed. The sudden reminder of his presence made Kassur jump. Aryon pulled on Kassur’s hand as he followed swiftly behind Ku-vastei. Kassur found it nearly impossible to keep up without almost running.

- - - - -

Ku-vastei was fast. She pushed her way through the crowd in the Hlaalu plaza like she owned the place, and nobody seemed to mind. Once they slipped through the open plaza doors, they squinted in the morning light as they identified their destination canton. Again they skywalked across the air to the Foreign Quarter, Kassur a little more confident this time, but still holding Aryon’s hand. Inside the Foreign Quarter plaza Ku-vastei was just as to-the-point and forceful, like a hammer on the anvil that is her destination: the Mage’s Guild.

They descended into the structure until they returned to the Guild Guide. “Flacassia,” Ku-vastei said abruptly as she nearly bumped into her. “Take us to Balmora, please.”

“Where is Balmora?” Kassur asked Aryon as they stepped onto the platform.

“Northwest of here, southwest corner of the island,” Aryon said. “Big Hlaalu town. I’m not looking forward to this.”

Before Kassur could interrogate Aryon further, Flacassia’s casting completed, sending them through Oblivion to the Balmora Mage’s Guild.

This time the sudden jolt nearly took Kassur down, but Ku-vastei caught him in her surprisingly strong arms, hidden under the folds of her robes. “Alright?” she asked him as she set him on his feet.

“A-alright,” Kassur mumbled, blushing again.

“Mhm,” Ku-vastei muttered before letting go. “Ajira,” she said with a quick wave, and a Khajiit - or so Kassur has heard the cat-men are called - in the corner waved back with what Kassur guessed was a smile.

“Have you had a chance to search for the ring this one mentioned to you, Archmagister?” the Khajiit - apparently Ajira - asked.

“No,” Ku-vastei said. “I’ve been busy.”

“Ah,” Ajira replied. “No rush. Artifacts don’t tend to wander too much.”

Ku-vastei nodded and swiftly went into the next room. In the far corner by the opposite corridor was a small screened-off section. When Kassur approached he saw benches laden with hundreds of glowing, shining objects - rings, amulets, weapons, pieces of armor, rare books, and more.

Ku-vastei perused the items on display, searching bench by bench from one end to the other. Then she started over from the beginning and searched again. Then another time. Finally she gave up and stuck her head out of the enclosed space. “Sharn?”

“Yes?” A robed figure in the far corner opposite the corridor turned around, revealing a rough green face, sprouting two white tusks from the corners of its mouth. “Ah, Archmagister, hello.” Her voice was as aggressive as her visage.

“Sharn, where are my artifacts?” Ku-vastei asked calmly. But Kassur noticed a twitch in her tail, and some instinct told him this was not a good sign.

“They’re all right there, aren’t they?” Sharn asked, clutching a book to her chest tightly.

“No,” Ku-vastei insisted, her voice raised slightly. “I’m missing an important amulet, and several other things besides. What happened to them?”

Sharn seemed to look around nervously before settling her gaze on the Archmage’s bare reptilian feet. “I…let Galbedir borrow them. For experiments.”

Ku-vastei ran a hand down the side of her face in ill-hidden exasperation. She spoke again, her composure barely maintained, and patience fading, as indicated by the erratic movements of her tail: “Why, exactly?”

“Well, you see…” Sharn began to explain, “She kind of just came up, took them, saw that I saw her taking them, and told me they were for experiments. And not to tell you.”

“You’ve done well to tell me anyway,” Ku-vastei said, “albeit a bit late.” She glanced around the room. “Where is Galbedir?”

“She took them to some ruins nearby, I think. Dwemer if I recall. Ark…Arkung…”

“Arkngthand?” Ku-vastei groaned.

“Yes!” Sharn said, excited. “Precisely the place.”

“Well,” Ku-vastei said, turning to Aryon. “I suppose we have another detour to make.” She turned back again towards the adjacent corridor, but stopped for a moment. She looked around the room again before spotting someone, a Dunmer in an opposite alcove. She swiftly approached him, nearly startling a book out of his hands. “Marayn?” she inquired forcefully.

After regaining his composure, Marayn answered, “Yes, Archmage?”

“You’re a Dren, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Marayn, offering a shy smile. “Marayn Dren, at your service.”

“Do you know of a Galmis Dren? Distant relative, perhaps?”

“Not so distant,” Marayn said. “He’s my older brother.”

“Were you aware your older brother was a slave smuggler?”

Kassur felt a bit left out of the loop, here. This conversation wasn’t for him to observe, it seemed. He glanced at Aryon, who smiled and shook his head pointedly. Let it happen, that gesture seemed to suggest.

“Well,” Marayn said, looking away. “If you know who our father was, then it shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

“I hope you won’t give me any problems, either, Marayn,” Ku-vastei said, the young Dunmer’s name passing almost like a curse from her lips.

“I was…disowned long ago, you could say,” Marayn replied. “It’s won’t be an issue, Archmage.” He looked back up at her. “But what of Galmis?”

“He’s dead,” Ku-vastei answered. “Executed for the crime of slave trafficking in Telvanni territory. And for trying to assassinate me and the Grandmaster of House Hlaalu.”

“O-oh.” Marayn seemed to look through Ku-vastei for a moment. Finally his eyes snapped back to reality. “I suppose it’s for the best.”

“Quite,” Ku-vastei said. “Good day.” She turned to leave, and Aryon and Kassur followed her out of the Mage’s Guild.

Just as they had descended into the Mage’s Guild in Vivec, they ascended out of Balmora’s. Kassur expected them to arrive at the top of a towering canton again. But when they emerged from its front door they were at street level, under a stone awning lit by a blue lantern.

Balmora seemed to be a city of smooth rectangular mudbrick structures, an architectural style wholly unfamiliar to Kassur. His people used simple yurts made from wood, corkbulb, and guarhides; the Telvanni used fungal pods and towers, and at Tel Vos adopted the stone-wrought architecture of the Imperials. He supposed these buildings were most similar to the smaller houses of Vos proper, although the corners of these were notably curved so as to avoid true angles. These Hlaalu must be a superstitious lot, fearful of their Four Corners. Many of these buildings rose into the air two or three stories, and if the rest were anything like the Mage’s Guild, they likely descended into the earth a few levels, as well.

Before he could investigate the city any more, Kassur was swept swiftly along by Ku-vastei and Aryon down a main street to the city’s gates. Outside he was faced with a high-cliffed canyon with a mighty river flowing through it, which the city seemed to straddle as it flowed out to the coast to the south. This land was similar to the land he’d glimpsed from afar from the dizzying heights of Vivec’s Foreign Quarter, green and dotted with trees and Emperor Parasols, littered with corkbulb shrubs and flowering bushes of golds and purples and blues. It felt so different from the Grazelands of his home somehow, although that place had almost all the same things. The colors were all darker, more vibrant here; the sky felt bluer and the grass greener. It almost felt like too much for his unadjusted eyes, so he narrowed them to limit his sensory intake.

They crossed the river via two bridges meeting on a small island in the middle, and then they carried on into a darker place. The foliage seemed scarcer and scarcer as they delved into the mountains, and the color faded into a myriad of grays and blacks. In the distance Kassur could see what looked like the Imperial part of Tel Vos, a gray-stone fortress wreathed with red banners. But before they arrived, they took a left, and the dismal environment swallowed them up.

“What is this place?” Kassur asked.

“Foyada,” Ku-vastei said before Aryon could answer. “Mamaea, to be precise. Old lava flow from Red Mountain. You’ve never seen one?”

“This is the first time I’ve come this far from the Grazelands,” Kassur admitted shyly.

“Hm,” Ku-vastei said, never once stopping her advance.

They climbed a steep hill until they reached the top, where an ancient-seeming bridge of stone and brass railings crossed a terrifying gap. On the far side emerged from the earth a series of spires of the same brass, which had been obfuscated by cloud cover along the way. Now that they had risen above the cloudline, they could see it in all its abandoned glory: Arkngthand.

The main structure didn’t seem to have a door; there was just a brass sphere jutting out from where the door might have been. Nearby was a brass post rising from the ground. There was a strangle semi-circular handle of some sort hanging from it.

“Kassur,” Aryon said, “if you would be so kind as to turn the crank for us.”

Kassur obliged, approaching the strange post. He tentatively reached for the horizontal protruding rod of the crank, and looked to Aryon for affirmation. Aryon simply nodded, and gestured vaguely to continue. Kassur expected the crank to turn slowly, based on its apparent age, but its movement was smooth, as if well-oiled. As the crank turned, the sphere on the wall opened up from a vertical seam in its center, revealing a pair of matching doors within its recesses.

“Very good,” said Aryon. “Let’s go.”

Kassur let go of the crank, which earned him a scathing glance from Ku-vastei as the sphere began to close again. “No,” she said. “You can’t come.”

“The Dwemer had door-guards, you see,” Aryon explained, “whose job was to open the doors to strongholds when people needed to enter or exit. You’re going to be our door-guard.”

“Plus,” Ku-vastei added, “it’s for your safety. We don’t know what’s in there.”

Sighing, Kassur grabbed the crank again and turned it back to its fully open position.

“We’ll be back with the Madstone shortly,” Aryon said. Then he and Ku-vastei disappeared into the tower, the stone doors closing behind them with a loud thud.

Thankfully the crank wasn’t difficult to hold open, but Kassur couldn’t sit down while keeping it turned. Even if he could, he didn’t want to get the pretty robes Aryon had given him dirty on the ashy stone ground. So he stood there, awkwardly, bored, for several minutes.

Then he heard a sound. It was a low, rumbling sound, very distant. But it began to grow louder. And louder. Until it was almost deafening - and that was when he felt the wind pick up. And with the wind came ash, brushing against his skin roughly, like a thousand tiny pumices. Visibility began to diminish until he could barely see the open sphere in front of him.

That’s when he abandoned the crank and ran for the doors.

He barely made it inside before the sphere closed shut behind him. There was barely enough space in the sphere for two people to be squeezed up against the stone doors. He pushed one open and slid inside, glad to be free of the ashstorm.

Inside was dimly lit by giant but guttering Dwemeri torches ensconced on the walls; Kassur’s eyes had to strain to see. He was on a brass platform that seemed to end not far from the doors, but as he approached he noticed a crumbling stone ramp that led down into the depths of this massive chamber. He stumbled through the shadows at the edges of the pathway, taking each tentative step down until he trusted the walkway would be stable enough.

About halfway down he found a small outcropping which opened up onto the scene below. On the left were two more brass platforms stacked on top of the other, the upper story accessible only by another stone ramp. At this top platform was a short woman, some foreign kind of mer, standing in front of a table laden with arcane implements Kassur didn’t recognize at all. She was surrounded by men of various races, all heavily armored and armed to the teeth. She shouted across the way at Ku-vastei and Aryon, who stood at the base of the semi-circular stone ramp Kassur found himself on.

“You always favored that nasty cat, Ajira,” the short woman yelled. “Helped her to advance, even though I was more qualified! Nepotism, pure nepotism.”

“Irrelevant, Galbedir” Ku-vastei called back. “Give me back my artifacts and I won’t kill you.”

“No!” screamed the woman, evidently Galbedir. “This is how I’ll make my mark on the Guild, earn my rank as Wizard! You’ll all see how powerful I truly am!” She raised a wicked curved dagger into the air - Kassur faintly recognized it as one of the feared Daedric weapons.

“You’re a fool of an enchanter,” Ku-vastei said. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Galbedir whispered something to the nearest guard, who nodded, shouting something to the others which prompted them all to advance on Ku-vastei and Aryon. Ku-vastei readied her spear and snarled.

“This is a mistake, Galbedir,” said Aryon, raising his own hands, preparing to cast. “You can still get out of this clean. We can help you work on your advancement another way.”

“Oh, and now I’m supposed to take the advice of some Telvanni?” Galbedir scoffed, before screaming, “I need more time! Kill them!”

The guards charged at her command; Kassur guessed there were six of them. There was no way his companions could -

It all happened in a blur, before Kassur could even finish the thought. Aryon lobbed a fireball, taking out two of the guards instantly. Ku-vastei lunged forward with a yell, skewering straight through the heavy armor of another. Lightning burst forth from Aryon’s fingertips, chaining between the remaining three; two of them fell, but the last persisted. Ku-vastei slashed from a distance, extending her spear as far as it would go, slicing the final man’s throat. He fell to the ground, clutching his neck and spasming.

Just then, a gray hand covered Kassur’s mouth, smelling of ashyams. A gruff voice whispered into his ear, “Scream and I’ll cut your throat.”

Kassur felt the sound rising, but he killed it in his throat before it cost him his life.

Something sharp at his back prodded Kassur forward, down the shadows of the stone ramp and behind Ku-vastei and Aryon, who were still negotiating with Galbedir. Kassur stumbled a few times, both on juts of rock and with his captor’s feet kicking into his heels from behind, but they still didn’t seem to make a sound.

Galbedir saw all this and smiled. After coaxing Ku-vastei and Aryon closer to her with her words, she inquired, “And is this a pet of yours? Perhaps a slave?”

The two turned around to see Kassur emerge from the shadows, the dagger now at his neck.

“N’chow,” swore Ku-vastei. “We told you -”

“A slave then,” said Galbedir, laughing. “Those hardliners were right, weren’t they? All this ‘abolition’ business was just so you could turn the tables on the Dunmer.”

Ku-vastei turned her head to glare at Galbedir, but quickly returned her gaze to captured Kassur. She took a step forward, but the Dunmer holding the dagger wagged a finger and dug the blade closer to Kassur’s skin, almost drawing blood.

But Aryon reached out his glowing gloved left hand to stop her, twitching his fingers in a strange way. “You’ll let him go now, won’t you?”

Something changed in the captor’s stance, and his eyes seemed to flicker yellow. His head twitched slightly, and then he let go of Kassur. Kassur ran towards Aryon and nearly fell down at his feet.

“Very good,” said Aryon, grabbing Kassur by the shoulders. “Now, cut your own throat.”

The captor’s dagger-hand shakily rose to his neck, and in one swift motion, he sliced open his neck, sputtering blood everywhere. He fell to his knees, then all the way to the floor, motionless.

Ku-vastei looked impressed. “I thought you couldn’t Command someone to hurt themselves.”

Aryon smiled as he inspected Kassur’s neck for wounds. “I went above and beyond with my Dominator, all those years ago.”

Galbedir screamed incoherently from behind them. “No, no, no! It will not end this way!”

The three turned to face her, just as she stabbed her Daedric dagger into her own hand. Daedric runes formed out of the blood, floating in the air, and an ominous shrieking filled the chamber. Her body began to stretch and mutate, her arms becoming wings, her feet becoming talons, and her form becoming massive. Kassur knew this monster could be only one thing: some sort of gigantic Winged Twilight.

What was once Galbedir screeched, splitting Kassur’s ears. It lunged forwards, clawing with one its wings, straight for Kassur -

When he looked up from bracing for impact, he found he was safe and sound. Her claws had collided with some purple barrier that Ku-vastei put up, protecting him from harm.

Then Aryon raised his gloved right hand, which glowed brilliantly gold. A cloud of smoke appeared between the Twilight and the three, and from the mist appeared three figures: a Flame Atronach, feminine form burning bright; a Frost Atronach, an ice-spiked soldier; and a Storm Atronach, bundle of rocks held together by lightning. At once they assaulted Galbedir, their elements colliding and fusing into pure magic, a concentrated attack of unrelenting power.

She shrieked from the burns, the freezes, and the shocks, and her Daedric form was ripped apart until nothing remained but ash.

Ku-vastei slapped Aryon on the back. “Very well done, Master Aryon. Those gloves sure do come in handy.” She began to climb the stone ramp to where Galbedir had stood to collect her artifacts.

“Quite,” Aryon said, before turning back to a stunned Kassur. “Now, why exactly did you abandon your post outside?”

“Ashstorm,” Kassur said, forgetting to speak Dunmeris for a moment.

“Ah,” replied Aryon, stroking his chin. “Very well, I suppose.”

“Found it!” Ku-vastei shouted from above, raising an amulet over her head in triumph.

“The Madstone?” Kassur asked.

“Yes,” Ku-vastei answered after she returned to the two. “We’ll have to teleport out since we’ve no one to open the door. Almsivi, Aryon?”

“Seems appropriate enough,” Aryon said.

“Here,” Ku-vastei said, offering Kassur one of her rescued artifacts, some kind of necklace. “Enchanted with Almsivi Intervention. It’ll take you where we’re going, too.”

“How do I use it?” Kassur asked, accepting the amulet.

“Rub the stone and think of a Tribunal Temple,” Ku-vastei said. “Doesn’t have to be a specific one; it’ll take us to the same place regardless. Works on proximity.”

“Okay,” Kassur said.

Ku-vastei popped out first with a spell, then Aryon. Kassur rubbed the amulet, closed his eyes, and thought as hard as he could of the chapel in Vos. Which reminded him: he still had his Dunmeris lessons to think about. But before he could think any more on that topic, he was whisked away through Oblivion.

- - - - -

Before he opened his eyes again, he was immediately hit by the smell of the sea. But it was different from that of the northern coast by his home. It was almost like -

“Aryon,” Ku-vastei asked, “Why are we in Vivec?”

Kassur opened his eyes, and sure enough, they were on one of the many floating cantons of the great city of Vivec.

Aryon looked around and scratched his head. “I’m not sure. We were closer to Balmora’s temple. Maybe the ashstorm sent us off course?”

“Can they do that?” asked Ku-vastei.

“Theoretically,” Aryon said, “if the storm contains some residual Blight. The Blight is known to affect magic in strange ways.”

“It is a byproduct of the Divine Disease, after all.”

Ku-vastei, Aryon, and Kassur turned to see who had spoken. Kassur had never met him before, but he knew from his skin that he was -

The name escaped his lips before he could control it.

“Vivec.”

#tes #tesblr #my writing #dunmer #argonian #oc: ku-vastei #oc: kassur #master aryon #vivec #balmora #oc: hlaalu llethym hlaarothan

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vosh-rakh · 9 months

Text

tes summerfest - august 10th - "in bloom / blood"

cw: intense gore/body horror/insects

The Flower King Nilichi stood in the barren center of a circle of flowers. Scorching yellows, burning reds, and raging oranges were tempered with aqueous blues and royal purples, spreading outwards for about a yard from the inner circle.

In the centerline of this row of flowers wrapped a chain of bound slaves. They were men, the men-of-ge, docile creatures. They stared intently at Nilichi, waiting.

“I have planted the flowers and arranged the slaves as you asked,” Nilichi said to the witch, who stood away outside the circle of flowers. “Show me what your god can do.”

“Very well,” said the cloaked woman, raising her arms towards the nearest slave. “Do not step outside of your circle there. It would be…inadvisable.”

It started with that nearest slave. First an expression of intense exertion entered his face, before contorting into a writhing mass of pain. His flesh pricked and bulged before bursting in so many small pinpricks of blood in bloom. Like poppies, Nilichi thought.

It spread to the others, and they all screamed as so many black insects broke through their skin, tearing their bodies to shreds as they emerged, and took flight. They all gathered over Nilichi’s head in a dark cloud that blotted out Magnus himself, swarming and buzzing above.

Nilichi glanced nervously at the witch, who pressed a finger to her smiling lips. As if Nilichi could have made himself heard at all - the droning of the insects was deafening.

The witch raised her arms over her head, seeming to wrangle with the insects, before they dove into the flowers below, several fighting over each individual bloom in a disconcertingly uncoordinated manner. Then they spread out from the circle, and in their wake they left behind fresh growths, each rapidly emerging from the soil and blooming before Nilichi’s very eyes. They were resplendent, even more beautiful than the ones Nilichi had planted himself, and in a dizzying array of colors and shapes.

Finally, the insects dispersed, seemingly evaporating into thin air. But the buzzing lingered in Nilichi’s ears for the several awed moments that followed.

“This is the power of your god?” Nilichi stammered, stunned.

“Nay,” said the witch, leaning down to pluck a scarlet blossom. “This is my power.”

Nilichi dropped to his knees and prostrated himself before her. “How many more sacrifices will you require?”

The witch blew on the flower, dispersing its petals to the wind. One landed on the shredded remains of a slave’s lips. “As many as you can offer.”

#tes #tesblr #tesfest23 #ayleid #cw: gore #cw: body horror #cw: insects

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vosh-rakh · 9 months

Text

tes summerfest 2023 - august 7th - "teeth"

cw: mild nsfw, some blood and gore

“They’re growing back.”

The room was cast in a thick twilight gloom, the floor strewn with discarded pieces of armor. Trinimac stood mostly naked in front of a mirror, inspecting his mouth, while Boethiah sat on the edge of the massive bed, pulling on his ebon boots. He barely looked up from what he was doing as he asked, “What?”

“My lower teeth.” Trinimac rubbed the supernaturally growing nubs of his lower canines, which were almost long enough to peek over his lips. “I used to file them down. But I haven’t in a while. Should I?”

“Hm,” Boethiah grunted. He finished fastening his boots and stood, approaching the mirror. He looked into it for a moment before turning to look at the man himself. “No. They’re…handsome.”

Trinimac turned his head towards his lover. “You think so? Auri-el said they made me look like a savage beast.”

“Damn what Auri-el thinks!” Boethiah grabbed Trinimac by the jaw, forcing the other god to turn his entire body to face him. “Worry about what I think.”

Despite the black gauntlet wrapped around his mouth, Trinimac managed to garble, “And what do you think?”

“I think,” Boethiah said with a smirk, “that the sun has barely risen. Why should we leave yet?”

Trinimac smiled also, and grabbed Boethiah’s wrist, removing his hand from his jaw. He pushed Boethiah back, sending him tumbling into the bed, which creaked and groaned under the weight of the armor. Trinimac lunged at Boethiah, mounting him in one swift leap, and began to tear away at his armor with animalistic need, clawing at pieces of plate, peeling the dense black mail from Boethiah’s wiry, ashen body. Boethiah grunted, but was not only accustomed to this type of behavior from his lover, but relished watching the noble knight disintegrate into a howling beast.

Boethiah reached up with bare grey hands and pulled Trinimac into a kiss. It only lasted a moment, as Trinimac pulled away and pinned Boethiah’s wrists to the bed. Then he leaned his head back in, and Boethiah, expectant, tilted his head away for access. Trinimac wrapped his teeth around Boethiah’s neck, scraping gently at the skin there in the way he himself enjoyed most.

“No,” Boethiah moaned. “Harder.”

Trinimac obliged, clamping down with his mouth. Sure to leave a bruise, he thought, but that’s the way Boethiah likes it.

“Harder,” Boethiah gasped, squirming underneath Trinimac’s weight.

Trinimac obliged, digging his teeth and growing tusks into the skin, and he tasted blood. Something was coming, he could feel it as he pressed himself against Boethiah’s body. But he had to resist.

“Harder!” Boethiah screamed, his knee rising to rub between Trinimac’s legs.

Trinimac bit at full force, tearing through the skin and muscle, and instinctively he tore his head away, ripping away a mouth-sized chunk of flesh.

“Son of a bitch!” Boethiah shouted, his knee crashing hard between Trinimac’s legs. He tore his wrists from Trinimac’s now loosened grip and shoved him away off the bed before clutching at the bleeding wound on his neck. “What the fuck!”

Trinimac spat out the pulsing chunk of flesh and said, “You said -”

“Fuck what I said! Give it back!”

“What?”

“I want it back! Give it to me!” Boethiah reached out his other hand expectantly.

Trinimac quickly searched the area around the bed, finding the piece of shorn god-meat resting between a bedpost and the nightstand. He grabbed it frantically and handed it to Boethiah.

Boethiah snatched the chunk from Trinimac’s hand and quickly slapped it back on his neck. He held it there for a moment before letting go, satisfied it would reconstitute itself to his body. “Don’t you ever steal from me again,” he admonished, turning away from kneeling Trinimac with crossed arms.

“I’m sorry,” Trinimac stammered. “You said you - I thought - so I - nevermind. I’ll just go.” He swiftly gathered together his armor in his arms without putting it on and left the room.

Boethiah tenderly picked at the disappearing seams of the wound. Regret tried to well up within him, but he pushed it away, and sulked.

#tes #tesblr #trinimac #boethiah #tesfest23 #my writing

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vosh-rakh · 9 months

Text

(a late day 1 for @tes-summer-fest: "arcane")

A cool Grazelands wind weaved its way between the stone towers of Tel Vos, cycling lazily through the courtyard in the center, where two wizards stood apart by several yards, their voices raised slightly as they converse.

“Tell me,” Aryon began, “How do you cast a spell, such as your famous Bound Spear? What is your process?”

Ku-vastei shrugged. “I just visualize the spear coming to my hands, and concentrate, and it does.”

Aryon smiled. “You’re something of a savant, you know? Most people lack the intense imagination required for such intuitive casting, especially for complicated Conjuration spells.”

Ku-vastei scoffed and looked away. “It’s just how I learned it.”

Aryon’s demeanor shifted slightly. Ku-vastei could tell this meant he was about to pontificate. “Most wizards concentrate their focus on preselected symbols and incantations,” he started. “We call these, broadly, ‘arcane anchors.’ These anchors are proven receptacles for, and directors of, magicka for specific purposes.

“For example, how do you go about healing yourself? I’m sure you’re familiar with Restoration as a school.”

“I use the Hearth, usually,” Ku-vastei answered. Without devoting any magicka to the cast, she gestured with her left hand the sign of the Hearth to demonstrate.

“Very good,” Aryon said with the distant smile of a pleased educator. “That’s an efficient and useful spell. But you probably understand the Hearth from the perspective of an old hedge magic remedy, rather than as an official institutionalized spell.”

“I guess?” Ku-vastei offered. “My naheesh taught me a simple variation once, and I learned the Dunmeri style when I came to Vvardenfell.”

“I want you to keep in mind that feeling of ‘pocketing’ magicka into a symbol as we continue,” Aryon said. “It may seem alien to you at first, but you’ll find it radically simplifies the casting of a great deal of complex spells.”

“Okay,” Ku-vastei said, tapping her foot. “When are you going to teach me to teleport?”

“Now, if you’ll be patient,” Aryon said, his smile fading a bit. “The spells ‘Mark’ and ‘Recall’ which I’ll be teaching you have somatic, or gestural, and verbal, or incantational, components, although the verbal component is but a whispered word in both cases. Follow my lead, as I demonstrate the somatic component of ‘Mark.’”

Aryon kicked out a foot and drew a small circle in a dance-like motion, his hands clasped in a specific gesture, and whispered something. As he returned to facing Ku-vastei, he watched as she tried to match the motion somewhat clumsily. “No, no,” he said, watching her hands. “Wrong mudra.”

“‘Mudra?’” Ku-vastei asked.

“The part of the somatic you do with your hands.” He approached and cautiously took Ku-vastei’s hands, manipulating her fingers into position. She barely tolerated the touch. “Now, I’ll have you try again in a moment. But first, let me tell you the verbal component.” He began to lean in towards Ku-vastei’s ear, but she recoiled from the advance. “It’s tradition,” Aryon said with a frown, “for masters to secretly transmit verbal components to their students. The Telvanni hold very fast to this tradition. Please, let me whisper in your ear.”

Ku-vastei hesitated but nodded. Aryon leaned in again, and whispered in her ear a foreign word, clearly enunciating to make sure she understands the pronunciation. “That,” he said after pulling back, “is for ‘Mark.’ Allow me to go ahead and tell you the verbal component of ‘Recall.’”

Aryon did so, but after he finished whispering, there was a small crack, and he disappeared. Ku-vastei looked up to find him back where he set his Mark.

“Now,” Aryon said, smiling at her short-lived confusion. “Cast ‘Mark’ with the somatic and verbal components together, and concentrate a moderate amount of magicka to the anchor.”

Ku-vastei attempted the circular casting again, whispering the word Aryon taught her as he did so; the movement came a little more naturally this time, and she felt some magicka leave her reserves as bidden.

“Now,” Aryon said again, “Come closer and I will teach you the somatic component for ‘Recall.’”

Ku-vastei followed his directions, walking up closer to Aryon and standing before him expectantly.

“‘Recall’ is simple. Whisper the word I taught you and tap your chest in this rhythm.” Aryon tapped his sternum with a simple four-beat rhythm. “Go ahead and try returning to your ‘Mark.’”

Ku-vastei nodded, and, whispering the secret word and allocating some magicka to the anchor, tapped the beat on her chest.

She had teleported before, but doing it yourself was different. It seemed to be more controlled, a simple straight-line through the blackness and you were back in an instant. The mild disorientation the Guild Guides usually gave her was almost completely absent, and she immediately felt as though she was meant to be in her new location.

Aryon looked up at Ku-vastei’s destination and beamed. “Very well done. A lot of students struggle with that spell, but you seem to have caught on instantly. Very well done.”

Ku-vastei grinned and rubbed her hands together. “Alright. What’s next?”

#tes #tesblr #morrowind #my writing #oc: ku-vastei #argonian #dunmer #vvardenfell #tes-summer-fest

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vosh-rakh · 1 year

Note

31 for the numbers post

31. breeze

One thing all Ahemmusa children are taught early is this simple rule: “Don’t follow the breeze.”

The vast grassy landscape of the Grazelands has blades higher than your waist, and sometimes higher in places, so high it’s impossible to see over them, like a forest of grass. But the cool air blows in from the Sea of Ghosts to the north, bending the golden stalks of wickwheat down like supplicants and coating them in sea-salt dew. This is the normal climate of the region; warm and cool at the same time, land and sea at the same time.

But sometimes a warm wind pulls you in a new direction. Long, long ago, hunters swore by these odd breezes, telling them how to find prey and avoid predators in the thick grass. But the land is a wild land, gone mad with growth, or so they say in the tribes without such dense foliage surrounding their encampments. They say one day Sheogorath descended upon the Grazelands, bringing with him a piece of his Isles, and the land has never been the same since. Now the wandering breeze is an omen, a threat.

The child knew this, or most of it. But the heart of a child is curiosity, and so he heeded it not. His friend, a young girl named Minabibi, was poking at a long-dead shalk shell with one of its old legs. But he wasn’t as interested in the bug.

“Kass,” she said, still kneeling, “What are you looking at?” Minabibi’s eyes followed the trajectory of Kassur’s. The grass seemed to bend away at the edge of the small clearing, like the open flaps of a yurt. Its maw beckoned Kassur to take a step forward.

“Kass,” Minabibi said again. “Where are you going?”

But before she could finish her question, he disappeared into the grass. The breeze seemed to follow, the stalks rising again to close the door.

“Kass!” Minabibi ran into the dense grass, pushing blades aside to dig for Kassur. She followed by the sound of wickwheat under his feet, since they stood straight again after he passed, blocking her sight. His name never left her lips, raising her voice to a strained wail. She was a wise woman in-training; she knew better than to trust a breeze. But she had to follow him.

Finally the grass opened on a new clearing, and there stood Kassur, next to a great beast with a mighty mouth, pale as the lesser moon. Kassur reached out a hand to touch it, and Minabibi screamed, “Stop!”

Kassur’s hand landed on the white guar, and it cooed at him peacefully as he rubbed its flank. He turned his head and said, “It’s okay, Mina. He’s friendly, see?”

“Kass!” Minabibi grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him away, towards the camp. “Don’t you ever do that again! Stick with me when we go out like this!”

Kassur frowned, but nodded silently. Minabibi dragged him all the way back home, unsure if she should tell someone what happened. Probably best not to, she decided; they’d think he’d gone mad. And despite his foolishness, he was her best friend.

#think of this like an intermission to madstone #oc: kassur #tes #tesblr #morrowind #my writing #dunmer #ashlander #ahemmusa #grazelands

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vosh-rakh · 1 year

Text

madstone: chapter 3

- previous part -

Kassur didn’t say goodbye to Gals as he departed the ship, and received no farewell either. He carried his aching body down the road and around the hill to his yurt. He barely remembered to feed Jerky before he threw himself onto the bed and slept. He had barely slept last night at Sadrith Mora, owing to the smell of ozone and the otherwise uneasy feeling of the room - not to mention his mind’s preoccupation with matters other than sleep.

When he woke it was noon the next day. He fed Jerky again and sat on his bed for a long time after feeding himself, trying to keep everything that had happened in the past couple days straight in his head. He was a member of Telvanni now, but couldn’t show his face at the Council House after failing his first chore so miserably. He was broke. The Mage’s Guild - even Minabibi - wouldn’t do anything to help his people. But maybe this Aryon at Tel Vos would.

Kassur still couldn’t believe Minabibi wouldn’t even try to help. That she would even insinuate that it was their fault, or that they deserved it. That wasn’t the Mina he knew as a child, when they would play together climbing up and down the long dead silt strider shell in the camp. That felt like a completely different person from who he’d met just the other day. The House mer and Imperials had really gotten to her.

Kassur wished he still had that amulet. It was warm around his neck, like a hug. And he wouldn’t mind being invisible all the time. Then no one could see him, no one could expect anything from him.

Why did it have to fall on him to save the tribe? Why had the ancestors chosen him? He wasn’t very good at anything except for wishing he was good at something. He never learned to hunt, or fight, or fish, or anything. He wasn’t good at singing or dancing or magic or telling stories. He was a slow learner, taking too long to learn Dunmeris, and neglecting to learn any Cyrodiilic. Why did they choose someone as awful as him?

He had to stop himself from hitting his head again. It was an awful, painful habit when he got upset. He’d really mess up his brain like that eventually. And he needed his brain as intact as possible - if only to be the last sane Ahemmusa.

He stood up and reached for his shoes. They were tight on his feet, but Yakin was right about them. He needed to be as presentable as possible to meet the wizard. Jerky watched curiously as Kassur struggled into the shoes. Kassur wasn’t sure how the House mer laced them up, so he just made sure they were tight enough to stay on but loose enough he could get in and out of them without much bother. Evidently he’d tied them too tightly last time, though. He had to pick at the knot in the laces to loosen them.

Kassur put out the fire, gave Jerky a scratch behind the horns, and headed out. He shielded his eyes from the sun as the yurt’s door-flap fell behind him. He’d slept too long. Hopefully Aryon would still be at Tel Vos.

Kassur began to make his way, somewhat hesitantly, towards Tel Vos. Its stone-brick architecture stood tall, but the corrupting fungal growths stood taller. It was a large compound, growing larger and larger in his sight as he approached, almost bigger than Vos itself. How was he supposed to find one wizard in such a massive place?

The answer seemed simple, actually: find the top of the tower.

Kassur passed under a stonewrought arch as Telvanni banners fluttered in the wind overhead. This place was a mess of Imperial and Telvanni architecture, tangled fungal roots interpenetrating the stone towers. There were a couple of guards with red cephalopod helmets stalking the grounds. Kassur swallowed and approached one.

“Aryon?” Kassur asked, his Dunmeris dry as his throat.

The guard sighed, the sound resonating behind the strange helmet. “There’s a new staircase up to the Master’s abode, if you go up these stairs and keep heading west.”

“Thank you,” Kassur barely remembered to say before following the instructions.

Indeed, there was a fungal helical staircase poking straight up from the ground into the sky, landing at some pod far above. It had no railings to speak of. Kassur cautiously climbed, nearly crawling up each step, trying to keep steady footing on the organic matter. He tried very hard not to look down.

Finally he came to a landing at the top, green and biological. There was a circular double door, like the one to the Sadrith Mora Council House, and Kassur knocked. There seemed to be no response. He tried one of the handles, and found it unlocked. He slowly opened the door, saying in his most polite Dunmeris, “Hello?”

“Come in,” came a man’s voice, different from the one Kassur had expected. It was gruff and Western, Imperial. He seemed to struggle with Dunmeris, as well. “We’ll see what to do with you once I can see you fully.”

Kassur came in, closing the door behind him. There was a heavily armored man across the room, looking Kassur up and down from behind the visor of his helmet. “Hm,” he grunted. “An Ashlander? I suppose we’ve been expecting such a person…”

“Here to see Master Aryon,” Kassur said.

“Coming!” came a more familiar voice from upstairs. His accent was strange, Kassur realized. He didn’t speak Dunmeris like most people on the island. His dialect seemed more…polite? Elaborate? Soft? Kassur couldn’t pinpoint the distinction.

Aryon came shuffling down the stairs, careful to avoid tripping on his robes. “Yes, this is the young man I was expecting, Turedas.”

“Hm. Very well then,” said Turedas, stepping aside.

Aryon stepped forward and offered a gloved hand to Kassur. Kassur took it after some hesitation, still unfamiliar with this practice. Aryon shook Kassur’s hand firmly, firmer than Kassur had expected.

“Let’s meet upstairs,” Aryon said. “We’ve business to discuss, haven’t we?”

Kassur nodded, and the two made their way up the short flight of stairs. When Kassur was through with this place, he didn’t want to climb a single step again for at least a month.

Passing by a large empty dinner table, they entered into another chamber of the mushroom. There was a large seat situated under a red banner, depicting some strange kind of cliff racer. Another Telvanni guard, armored like the ones in the courtyard below, stood silent at the far side.

Aryon took a seat at the chair, crossing a leg over the other, his blue robes pulling up slightly to show his ankles peeking up over the rims of his shoes. Kassur felt a bit awkward; should he bow, or kneel? He didn’t know the proper Telvanni etiquette for an official meeting with a magelord.

Aryon seemed to sense Kassur’s discomfort. “Be at ease, friend,” he said in overly-polite Velothi. “You’re a guest, not a supplicant. Tell me what ails you.”

Kassur was grateful he could speak his native language again. “My tribe needs your help. They’ve gone mad, touched by Sheogorath.”

“Ah,” said Aryon with a smile, “but aren’t we all? You’ll have to be more specific.”

Kassur squirmed. He seemed to have trouble finding the words, even in Velothi. “The ashkhan…well, she’s not the ashkhan, she’s just a wisewoman, we haven’t had an ashkhan in a long time…her name is Sinnammu Mirpal. She believes she’s…well…the Good Daedra.”

Aryon scratched his bare chin and looked up past Kassur. “I see. It is said Talos Stormcrown fell under a similar delusion near the end of his life, believing himself to be the lost god Lorkhan incarnate. Which of the Daedra does she claim to be?”

“All three, sir.”

Aryon’s scarlet eyes sharply returned to Kassur’s. “What?”

Kassur looked away. Why must he repeat himself? “She thinks she’s Azura, Boethiah, and Mephala.”

“Hm,” muttered Aryon. “That is interesting.” He leans forward. “I take it that the tribe believes her?”

“Yes,” said Kassur, nodding. “Like they’re in a trance, they follow her whims. I don’t know what she’s planning, if anything. They say Sheogorath -”

“- doesn’t make plans,” finished Aryon. “Yes, I know the old adage.” He wagged a gloved finger. “But under his influence, she’s volatile. She could do anything.”

Kassur bit his lip. Should he tell him?

“Spit it out, boy,” said Aryon. “I can tell you’ve something to say.”

“I think…” Kassur started softly. “I think she’s arming the Ahemmusa again.”

“Hm.” Aryon shot up from his chair and began to pace. “This doesn’t bode well. An armed Ahemmusa - not seen in many years - and led by a fanatic, no less. That might pose a threat to Vos. My tower will be secure, of course. But the townsfolk will suffer if there is an attack.”

Kassur didn’t know what to say. He pressed his palms into his eyes, hoping to drown out this reality he lived in now.

Aryon stopped pacing right in front of Kassur, forcing him to uncover his eyes. “What caused this? When did it start?”

“She began to claim this about three months ago, after the Nerevarine came. Not long after.”

Aryon leaned in closer. “The Nerevarine?”

“Yes,” said Kassur, leaning away. “Sinnammu gave her the Madstone. Minabibi says we need it to withstand Sheogorath’s influence from Ald Daedroth.”

“Ah,” Aryon said, his shoulders relaxing. “So we just need to return the stone. Simple enough.”

“How? I don’t know where the Nerevarine is.”

“Well,” said Aryon, “I know someone who does. We leave tomorrow for Vivec City, to see the Archmagister.” He looked Kassur up and down. “But you’ll need better clothes. I may have a spare robe or two. You’re about my size, aren’t you?” He lowered a hand from his brow to Kassur’s. “Maybe a little shorter.”

“I guess,” Kassur said, a little confused.

Aryon descended a short flight of stairs past the guard. Kassur could hear him rummaging in dresser drawers down there. “Blue or yellow?” Aryon called.

Kassur was baffled. Did it really matter? “Blue,” he called back.

Aryon came back upstairs, a little winded, carrying ornate blue robes in his hands. He handed them to Kassur, who cautiously accepted. He examined the gilt on the soft silk fabric - it was the fanciest thing he’d ever seen.

“Go ahead,” Aryon said. “Try it on.”

Kassur frowned but did as he was told. He awkwardly pulled the robes over his head and pushed his arms through the sleeves. It didn’t itch as horribly as the other House mer clothes he’d worn. But it hung from his body like a drape.

“Cinch the sash,” Aryon insisted.

Kassur nodded, and awkwardly fiddled with the silk belt around the waist until Aryon, impatient, reached across to cinch it for him.

“Thank you,” Kassur said, blushing.

“Think nothing of it,” Aryon returned with a smile. “I’ll see you at dawn tomorrow, by the docks.”

“But I still don’t understand,” Kassur said. “How does the Archmagister know the Nerevarine?”

Aryon laughed. “The Archmagister knows the Nerevarine, because they’re the same person.”

- - - - -

Kassur barely awoke in time the next day, being risen by another paralyzing bite from Jerky. He cursed the little scrib, but thanked him silently for getting him up. He hastened into his shirt and robes, yanked on his shoes, and ate an untoasted flatbread before heading out.

He was anxious - when hadn’t he been, in the past few days? - about what was to come. He’d never been to a city as big as he’d heard Vivec was. He’d only just the other day been to a city of any size in Sadrith Mora, but now he was going to the capital of the province itself. At least he’d have Master Aryon to guide him, so he wouldn’t get lost, or swallowed up by bandits, or something.

For a moment, he worried he might meet Vivec hirself. But he’d been told all his life that Vivec was not only a false god, but an absent one as well, secluding hirself in hir palace at all times. Kassur wasn’t sure what he would do if he did meet hir, so he tried not to worry about it. It was enough to concern himself with meeting the Nerevarine, even if he had just met her the other day, under less auspicious circumstances.

Aryon was waiting by the ship, conversing with the shipmaster Sedyni Veran. He turned to greet Kassur as he heard him coming. “You’ve made it, good,” Aryon said in Dunmeris.

Sedyni squinted her eyes at Kassur. “Oh, it’s you, the ashlander. This is your companion, Master?”

“Yes,” Aryon said with a mystical wave of his hand. “We’re going to meet with the Archmagister about business concerning his tribe.”

“Now, since I’ve seen you,” Sedyni said, putting her hands on her hips, “I’ve heard that you’ve built a reputation for being a stowaway, a freeloader.” She turned her head towards Aryon without averting her eyes from Kassur. “Are you certain, my lord, that you want to travel with him?”

“Yes,” Aryon said. “That earlier incident was a misunderstanding, and little more.”

“As you say, Master,” Sedyni said, winking at Kassur. “Well, if you two are ready to depart, go ahead and climb aboard.”

Aryon casually stepped from dock to deck as if he’d done it a thousand times. Kassur tried to emulate his confidence, and mostly succeeded, only wobbling a little as he stood on the ship. Aryon placed a gentle hand on Kassur’s back. “Let’s have a seat,” he said in quiet Velothi, “It’s quite a ways to Sadrith Mora, although I suspect you’re already well aware.”

“Sadrith Mora?” Kassur asked. “I thought we were going to Vivec.”

“In due time, dear boy. In due time.”

- - - - -

Kassur didn’t pay any attention to the sights along the way, this time. Mostly, he was dreading meeting Gals Arethi again.

As he should have. When they came into port at Sadrith Mora, Gals Arethi saw Kassur first and snarled, crossing his arms. “You again,” he said as Kassur and Aryon disembarked.

“Yes,” Aryon interjected, “it’s me again, Muthsera.”

“I meant the Ashlander scamp, Master,” Gals said, with a tone to imply an appended “obviously.”

“We won’t be needing your services this time, Gals. So don’t you worry about it.”

Gals grunted but stood aside for Kassur and Aryon to proceed into town.

The guards at the gate, apparently recognizing Aryon, didn’t ask Kassur for papers as he went through. It was a good thing, too - he’d left them at home.

They followed the ring of the town to the right, towards Wolverine Hall. Kassur frowned and tugged at his collar. “Master Aryon,” he said, “Do we have business there?”

“We’ll be stopping by the Mage’s Guild to teleport to Vivec,” Aryon confirmed.

Kassur sighed and said, “As you wish.” On top of potentially seeing Minabibi again, he had another thing to worry about: teleporting. It was something else he’d never done before. He wasn’t exactly keen on being ripped through Oblivion to Vivec.

Their trip across town and up to the Mage’s Guild was uneventful. Aryon opened the door into the small room the Guild occupied and Kassur held his breath. But Minabibi wasn’t there.

“Iniel,” Aryon said in Dunmeris, addressing a tall, yellow-skinned mer in the front-left corner, “I’d like for you to transport me and my companion here to Vivec.” He offered up a handful of coins.

“Oh, please, Aryon,” the tall mer said in obviously well-practiced Dunmeris. “Such distinguished personages such as yourself need not debase yourself to paying such simple fares. I’ll gladly send you and your friend along at no cost.” The Argonian Kassur had met (and spied on) before, Skink, glanced askew at Iniel, but said nothing.

“Thank you, Iniel,” Aryon said, bowing deep. He patted Kassur on the back. “Step onto the transportation platform,” he instructed in Velothi. “I’d recommend you stay inside its bounds at all times. Would hate to lose you somewhere in Oblivion.”

“What?” Kassur said, his face paling.

Aryon chuckled. “Nothing, nothing. A jest. That barely ever happens anymore.”

Not feeling much assured, Kassur tentatively stepped foot on the platform, with Aryon following suit. Once they were both situated, Iniel began to cast, her arms gesticulating in the air, leaving trails of pink vapors and sparks as she traced their path through Oblivion. Finally, with a tremendous crack, the two were yanked through the void instantaneously to Vivec.

“Bucket, please,” Aryon said to the nearby human woman, who swiftly grabbed the object and handed it to Aryon, who pushed it towards Kassur. But Kassur didn’t take it; he clutched his stomach for a moment, covered his mouth, and then finally exhaled loudly.

“Are you sure this is your first time?” Aryon asked, slowly giving the bucket back to the woman. Kassur nodded but didn’t say anything out loud, still fearful of getting sick.

Aryon turned towards the woman. “Is the Archmage in at the moment?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “She stopped by temporarily, but said she had business with the Hlaalu Grandmaster. You might try his office in the Hlaalu canton, if she’s still there.”

“Thank you,” Aryon said. He led Kassur out of the labyrinthine Mage’s Guild, much more expansive than the single room in Wolverine Hall. They climbed up through the rooms until they reached the canton’s plaza.

Kassur had never seen this many people in one place in his life. The plaza was bustling with activity, merchants shouting at passersby to sell their wares, children running and playing, their parents trying and failing to wrangle them into orderliness. And no two of them were the same - they were tall and short, thin and fat, light- and dark-skinned, mer and men and beast. They seemed to hail from all over the world, a wider world Kassur was only beginning to suspect existed at all.

Aryon pulled Kassur by the wrist through the crowd, heading out of a pair of massive doors that were barely cracked to let people slip through, letting in a sliver of natural light drowned out by the colorful lanterns inside.

Outside the day was strong, the sun beating down on the cantons of Vivec. Kassur pulled away from Aryon to approach the railing at the edge of the walkway. His vision extended for miles from up here, trees and Emperor Parasols and rolling mountains as far as he could see. He’d never seen this part of the island before, this much life outside the dull plains of the Grazelands.

Bordering this view on the left was another canton, this one shorter than the one he was on, topped with a massive dome. It bore banners depicting a merchant’s scales. Aryon noticed Kassur looking at it and said, “That’s where we need to go.”

Kassur made the mistake of looking directly down. He began to feel nauseous, worse than when he was on the ship. On the rolling plains of the Grazelands, he’d never been anywhere near this high up. It turned out that he didn’t like it very much.

“How do we get across?” Kassur asked queasily, noticing the lack of bridges at this level.

“Well,” Aryon said, “we could take the stairs down, cross the bridge to the Redoran canton, then cross another bridge to the Hlaalu canton.” He turned and smiled at Kassur. “But that’s rather dull. Let’s have a little fun.”

Aryon placed a gentle hand on Kassur’s shoulder, and Kassur felt a jolt of magicka surge through him. He recoiled from the sudden feeling, but he noticed he felt lighter somehow. “What was that?” Kassur asked.

“I just built us a bridge,” Aryon answered, briefly illuminating himself in a purple glow which quickly dissipated. “Don’t you see it?”

Kassur looked out over the edge of the railing, confused. “No?”

“Ah, but you must see with more than eyes, dear boy.” Aryon climbed on top of the railing and stood on it.

“Master Aryon!” Kassur shouted. Had he gone mad too?

“Watch, and have faith,” Aryon said. Then he took a step off the edge.

Kassur lurched forward to grab him by his robes, but didn’t make it. He didn’t need to; Aryon fell down a single step, then followed with his other foot, descending the air like stairs. He turned to extend a hand to Kassur, and said, “Have faith, and trust in your footfalls. It’s just like going down stairs.”

Kassur hesitated for a long moment before awkwardly climbing the railing and standing on it. He took Aryon’s hand, hesitated again, then closed his eyes and put his foot in front of him, half-expecting to fall off. But he found a surface to plant his foot on, the air seeming to come together to hold him up.

“Good,” Aryon said, smiling. “Now take a step down. Imagine the step there.”

Kassur, a little more confidently, took another step, this time imagining a descent before him. His foot fell a few inches before landing again on solid air. Aryon said, “Now follow me down to the Hlaalu canton.”

He tried to disengage his hand from Kassur’s, but Kassur held on tight. “Please don’t let go,” Kassur said. He was trying very hard not to look straight down.

Aryon smiled. “Of course.” And they walked, their fingers tangled, all the way down the sky to the Hlaalu canton’s upper level.

“You’ll feel light for a few minutes,” Aryon said as Kassur finally took away his hand, who felt somewhat childish now that he had landed. Aryon winked. “Try not to float away.”

Aryon led Kassur inside the plaza, and through the busy corridors of people. This time it seemed less diverse than the Foreign Quarter, and less friendly, with many Dunmer snarling at Kassur as he passed. They seemed to give about as much respect to Aryon, as well. Kassur heard some recognizable snippets of Dunmeris in the commotion, but many spoke the unfamiliar Cyrodiilic as well. Only Aryon’s gentle voice calling after him in Velothi gave Kassur any assurance.

They came upon a building (within a building, Kassur noted; how strange!) and Aryon beckoned Kassur to enter with him. “This manor used to belong to Crassius Curio, a former councilman of House Hlaalu. Rather heinous man, if I’m honest.” Aryon twisted his face into a grimace. “But thankfully, Curio is no longer an issue. The Hortator killed him to secure her place within House Hlaalu. This manor now belongs to Llethym Hlaarothan, the Grandmaster of the Hlaalu.”

Kassur entered, marveling at the ornate furnishings. “Hortator…” he said. “This is what House mer call the Nerevarine?”

Aryon smiles at one of the manor’s attendants, busy mopping a floor, as he replies. “Yes. She is the wartime leader of both the Ashlander tribes and the Great Houses of Vvardenfell.” He scratches his chin as he begins to descend a flight of stairs, Kassur following. “If she is to remain in power now that the war with Dagoth Ur is over, time will tell.”

At the bottom of the stairs Aryon approaches an open door, outside of which stands an Ordinator, one of the gruff, heavily armored guards of the city. “Halt,” barked the Ordinator. “This is a crime scene.”

“Is self-defense a crime, now?” called a voice from beyond the door. A Dunmer appeared there behind the Ordinator, his red beard tied with glass beads. “Ah. Master…Aryon, is it? And a friend. How lovely. Here to see the Archmagister, no doubt?”

“Of course, Grandmaster Llethym,” said Aryon.

“She’s a bit…indisposed,” Llethym said, his words all a rush. “We had an incident in my office, you see. No, she’s fine, don’t look so worried. Just a lunatic tried to assassinate us, but she fought them off. To the death, you see. She killed him.”

“Ah,” Aryon said, looking relieved. “May we see her?” He glanced at the Ordinator, who shrugged.

“Of course,” Llethym answered. “Right inside here.”

The Ordinator stepped aside and allowed Aryon and Kassur entry.

Inside sat the Archmagister, Nerevarine, and Hortator, all in a single person, in a single seat.

#tes #tesblr #my writing #oc: kassur #dunmer #ashlander #argonian #tel vos #vivec #vvardenfell #morrowind #master aryon #oc: hlaalu llethym hlaarothan #oc: ku-vastei

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vosh-rakh · 1 year

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madstone: chapter 2

- previous part -

Kassur at least made it out of the city before he fell apart.

Just outside the gates, he finally collapsed to his knees, and wept, and beat his head with his fists. He sat like that for what felt like hours, letting his rage run through him like a kagouti.

Eventually, he started to recover himself. In the Mephalan tradition, he began to plot. Plots required steps. So he began to figure out his next steps.

First, he needed to stop hitting himself. Then, he needed to stop weeping. Then he needed to stand up. Then he needed to turn around. Then he needed to head back into the city.

Then he needed to join House Telvanni.

- - - - -

Kassur crossed the large fungal-root bridge leading to the Telvanni Council House, passed through a circular root gate like the one at the entrance to Vos, and went inside the large mushroom building.

A Dunmer woman stood in the foyer, leaning against the opposite wall. She glanced up from a book at Kassur as he entered. She looked back down to continue reading as she asked, “What do you want?”

Kassur swallowed heavily before speaking. “Work,” he said.

The woman swore under her breath. “Gotta be Telvanni to get work, ashlander.”

Kassur ignored the intended insult and persisted. “I’ll join.”

The woman lowered the book to evaluate Kassur completely. “And why would we take you?”

Kassur didn’t know. He thought for a minute before snapping a small flame onto his fingertips.

“Parlor trick,” the woman scoffed. “Anyone can light a small fire.”

“I can learn,” said Kassur, desperate.

“Whatever. Your funeral. Go in and talk to one of the Mouths.”

Kassur walked past the woman, making sure to keep a wide berth around her, and went through the next circular door.

The ensuing chamber was massive, and interpenetrated with giant, azure-violet crystal growths. Seven raised platforms ringed around a larger central crystal, smoking from within its fungal sconce. Some of the platforms were empty, but mer stood on the central five.

Kassur took the steps down to the walkable platform around the central crystal, by which one could access the people on the platforms. He started on his right and addressed the first mer he came across, the only one in mostly plain dress rather than elaborate robes. “Hello.”

The mer seemed distracted by the wisps of smoke hissing from the central crystal. He looked down at Kassur and said, “Hello. Archmagister’s Mouth, Edd Theman, at your service. How can I help you?”

Kassur tried to twist the Dunmeris from his dry tongue, but to little avail. So all he said, again, was, “Join Telvanni.”

“Ah,” Edd said. “That can be arranged.” He pulled out a small book from a back pocket and flipped through it. “I hope I don’t need to give you the whole spiel about rules.” Kassur looked blankly up at him; he was speaking too fast, and he barely could make out what Edd was saying.

“Ah, here,” Edd said, pulling a pen from another pocket. “Your name, son?”

“Kassur,” Kassur answered.

“Uhhhhh-huh.” Edd started writing some sloppy Daedric, and then showed it to Kassur. “Did I spell it right?”

From what Kassur could tell - it was very sloppy Daedric, and he struggled enough to read proper Daedric - Edd had written “Casser.” Kassur closed his eyes and nodded. Maybe the curse he was bringing upon himself by joining this House wouldn’t take effect if they got his name wrong.

“Alright,” Edd said, putting away the pen and book. “You’re now a hireling of House Telvanni.”

“Work?” Kassur said.

“Ah, you require a chore,” Edd said. He pulled out another book from another pocket and started flipping through it. “Well, there is something I need somebody to do. I was going to get somebody higher-ranked to do it, but you seem capable enough. Plus I’m running out of time.” From yet another pocket he pulled out some kind of amulet. “In an hour or so on the east end of town, down the road past the cornerclub, there’s going to be a little meeting between a couple of important people. I want you to wear this, hide nearby, and report back to me on what they talk about. Understood?”

Kassur took the amulet from Edd’s hands. It had an ordinary leather strap but a rather enormous sapphire embedded in the six-pointed talisman. He wrapped it around his throat and clasped it behind his neck. It felt warm to the touch as it activated.

“Well then! Where’d Casser go?” Edd said. “Haha! I know you’re still there. It’s quite an exceptional necklace, so do bring it back. Archmagister’s property.”

Kassur looked at his hands and could barely see them. All that remained of his body was a faint shimmer, like a mirage on a hot ashland day. He took off the amulet, and his form returned to normal. He put it in his pocket, waved Edd goodbye, and left to cross town again.

- - - - -

The sun was hanging low when Kassur hid behind a rock, put on the necklace, and waited. This side of the island was devoid of civilization, besides an abandoned ancient Daedric ruin like the one Kassur had passed on the ship. The boulder he chose to hide behind was large and mossy and covered in racer droppings.

Eventually, two people did show up. One was Helende, the enormous mer from the cornerclub, armored with netch leather. The other was the Mage’s Guild Argonian, Skink, who wore commoners clothing, but had a glass dagger on his belt. Kassur leaned in slightly to listen to what was said.

They were speaking Cyrodiilic.

Kassur pressed his palms into his eyes and suppressed a sigh. This obviously wasn’t going to work. He waited for the two to leave before he removed the amulet.

What was he going to do? He had nothing to report to Edd, because he didn’t understand a word that was said. He needed to get the hell out of this town.

But right now, he was exhausted and needed a bed to sleep in. He pulled out his coinpurse and counted out his seven coins. Suddenly, he remembered the small book in his other pocket, the one Yakin had given him, and he had an idea.

Kassur crossed the town again and made for the market. There was the strange short mer from earlier, seemingly closing up shop. Kassur approached, but the mer saw and shook his head. “Closed for the day,” he said in shaky Dunmeris.

“Just want to sell something,” Kassur said.

“Too bad. Wait until morning.” The little mer finished packing up his goods and left for his home.

Kassur sighed. He decided to make his way to the inn where he’d purchased his Hospitality Papers, and hoped he could beg his way into getting a room for the night.

He went up the spiral stairs to reach the front door of the inn and went inside. There he saw the Prefect again, dozing at his desk. “Hello,” Kassur said, carefully shaking the Prefect from his tenuous slumber.

The Prefect straightened his back and looked up at Kassur. “Ah, need Papers?…Oh, of course not. What can I do for you?”

“Bed?” Kassur asked.

“Ah,” the Prefect said. “Talk to the publican, Ery, two stories up. She can get you signed in.” He waved Kassur off, presumably so he could resume his half-sleep at his desk uninterrupted.

Kassur went up the spiral stairs, first passing a floor with a couple of empty but candlelit tables, then up another flight to a bar. At the center was a dark-skinned woman in a brownish-green robe. “Ery?” Kassur asked tentatively.

“The one and only,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

“Bed?”

“Ah. That’ll be ten gold.”

Kassur frowned and held out his hand, filled with his last seven coins. “Enough?”

Ery took the coins and counted them out. “No, not enough. It’s ten gold.”

Kassur rubbed his forehead. She was really going to make him do it, huh…He pulled his book from his pocket and handed it over as well. “Enough?”

Ery took the book and flipped through it. “I don’t buy books, sera.”

“Please,” Kassur said.

“Don’t look so desperate, sera,” Ery said. “I’ll take it, and your coin. I happen to like books like these. But you’re getting the shit room, just to let you know.”

She took down his name in a logbook and gave him directions to his room, and he followed them. He probably could have gotten more for the book than three drakes at an actual bookshop, but he didn’t have the luxury of selling it at one at the moment. He closed the door to his room behind him, and, having nothing to put away, he simply threw himself on the bed, and tried not to fall apart again. He was completely out of gold, stuck in a foreign town, with no way home. And this room reeked, like the smell of burning shock magic. It gave him a very uneasy feeling. He didn’t know how he was ever going to sleep here. Much less how he was ever going to get home, and even much less how he was going to save his tribe.

As he stared at the high ceiling, tied up with fungal roots, he was unable to close his eyes for sleep. But suddenly, he had an idea.

Tomorrow morning, he was going to go back to the docks.

- - - - -

Kassur made sure Gals Arethi wasn’t around before he carefully stepped onto the boat, warmly magical amulet around his neck. He made an effort to do it more gracefully than he had yesterday. Crouched low, he nearly crawled upon the planks, trying to be both steady and unseen. Of course, with this necklace, no one was going to see him, anyway.

Thankfully, the hatch to below the deck was propped open. Kassur approached and was just about to make his way down when Gals Arethi’s head poked out of the trapdoor and looked around. Kassur crouched even lower, sitting perfectly still.

But Gals didn’t seem to see him. He went back down the stairs into the ship.

Kassur waited for a moment before following him down. This level of the boat was stocked with barrels and crates and chests and sacks. He decided to take a spot behind the stairs to hide, and hoped Gals had no reason to come down there to that particular place. Anxiously he waited for Gals to go back up the stairs and close the hatch behind him before he began to relax.

Eventually Kassur heard some creaking of the deck above him - had Gals heard that when Kassur boarded? - and soon felt that uneasy feeling of movement through the water. Gals should be busy above-deck until they arrive in Vos, and then Kassur could sneak back out when they get there.

Suddenly, the trap door opened again, and Kassur saw two furry feet descending the stairs. It was one of the cat-men, which he’d never seen before. He took a look around, and, seeing something nearby Kassur, his feline eyes lit up. He came behind the stairs - Kassur held his breath and stayed perfectly still - and picked up a lute leaning against the hull of the ship. He gave it a strum, adjusted the pegs on the head of the instrument, and took a seat on a nearby stool.

He was just about to start playing when he said, in strangely-accented Dunmeris, “Do you have any requests, invisible man?”

Kassur’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. He held up a finger to his lips and shook his head.

“Ah,” the cat-man said, “S’Bakha sees. Or, doesn’t see. Maybe you will like this song, anyways.”

Then he began to play. He didn’t strum the entire collection of strings, but instead plucked them in a style of claw-picking Kassur had never seen or heard before. The instrument, although somewhat ill-tempered by the salty sea-air, still produced a beautiful sound with every note, playing a foreign song. Eventually S’Bakha began to sing, which wasn’t as good as the lute-playing, and Kassur didn’t understand the words. But Kassur relaxed as he listened. It helped to keep his mind off of things, such as his people’s plight, and more presently, the rocking of the ship.

It barely registered to him that the amulet was growing colder and colder.

- - - - -

They finally arrived, but seemingly much too soon. Did Gals take a shorter route? Or did the cat-man’s music just make the time seem to go by faster? S’Bakha set down the lute and rose to make for the deck. Kassur quietly followed after a moment or two.

The morning mist had mostly cleared, and the sun hung high in the sky. Crouched low on the deck, Kassur saw Gals conversing with his legitimate passengers. To Kassur’s surprise, it was the Argonian from Sadrith Mora’s market the day before, and one of their earlier compatriots, a Dunmer man. S’Bakha went to join them, which caused Gals to turn his head.

He saw Kassur.

“You!” he said, marching up towards Kassur, who stood up straight, knowing there was no escape now. “Ashlander! What are you doing on my ship?”

Kassur was too paralyzed to speak.

“What’s going on here?” asked the imposing Argonian.

“It seems to me,” Gals said, “that this low-life has stowed away on my ship without paying fare!”

“Gals,” the robed Dunmer next to the Argonian said, “if that is the worst thing that happens to you today, consider yourself very lucky. Young man,” he said, addressing Kassur now, “Where were you hoping to go?”

“V-Vos,” Kassur managed through trembling lips.

“The poor chap didn’t even get where he wanted to go. Shame.” The Dunmer turned back to Gals. “Let him go. See if he finds Tel Aruhn any better a place than Sadrith Mora.”

“Wait,” the Argonian said, sauntering up to Kassur. They took hold of the amulet around his neck and plucked it off forcefully. “This is mine. How did you get it?”

“Edd gave it to me,” Kassur croaked. “For a chore.”

“Typical,” the Argonian said, pocketing the amulet. “And you’ve drained it, too.”

“Wait,” Kassur said, realizing. “You’re the Archmagister? He said it was hers.”

“Yes, despite all challenges,” she said.

“I need your aid,” Kassur said. “Ahemmusa needs your aid.”

“Again?” the Archmagister laughed. “Do they need me to clear out another shrine?”

“No,” Kassur said. “They’ve gone mad. They need help.”

“Aryon’s jurisdiction,” she said, glancing at the Dunmer at her side. “And we’re both busy at the moment.”

“Meet me at Tel Vos tomorrow,” Aryon said with a polite smile. “We’ll see what can be done.”

“I can’t get there,” Kassur said. “No money.”

The cat-man, S’Bakha, stepped in. “Gracious Archmagister, S’Bakha believes there is the small matter of payment for his humble aid in your recent quest?”

“Hmph,” said the Archmagister. She fumbled around in a pocket of her robes - which Kassur just now noticed had a great gash in it, which hadn’t been present yesterday, revealing her armor underneath - and handed S’Bakha a bag full of coins. “Not sure how much that is. But you can have it.”

The cat-man, shrewd as Kassur had heard his kind to be, opened the bag and started counting. “Most gracious Archmagister,” he exclaimed, “this is nearly a thousand drakes! Are you sure?”

“Take it,” the Archmagister said with a nod. “You’ve earned it.”

“Well,” S’Bakha said, turning to Gals, “How much fare for a mer to get to Vos?”

Gals grumbled. “Fifty septims.”

S’Bakha casually grabbed a hearty handful of coins and handed them to Gals. “That should be enough, plus a tip, for you being such a compassionate man. Take this young man home.”

Kassur stared at S’Bakha, wide-eyed. “But…I barely know you.”

“You were a good sport, listening to S’Bakha play and sing,” S’Bakha said. “A good audience, even when you were invisible. Usually the performer is paid by the audience, but, well. The performer has suddenly encountered a great windfall.”

“Thank you,” said Kassur.

“Archmagister,” Aryon said, placing a gentle gloved hand on her armored shoulder, “We have our…bloody business to attend to.”

“Yes,” she said, and the three turned to depart the ship, leaving behind Gals and Kassur.

“You’re lucky the Archmagister’s pet intervened,” Gals said. “Now get below deck. I don’t want to see you until we get to Vos, or I’ll throw you overboard.”

Kassur smiled and nodded. He was just glad to go home.

#tes #tesblr #my writing #morrowind #oc: kassur #oc: ku-vastei #telvanni #sadrith mora #tel aruhn #vos #tel vos #dunmer #argonian #khajiit #ashlander

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vosh-rakh · 1 year

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madstone: chapter 1

- previous part -

Yakin finished today’s shortened tutelage by handing Kassur a small book. “Here,” he said. “This will be the rest of your lesson. Study it at home, or on the way to Sadrith Mora.”

Kassur took the tome, squinting to read the Daedric script on the cover. “The…Four…”

“Suitors,” translated Yakin.

“...of…” Kassur squinted harder. “What’s this last word?”

“Benitah,” Yakin explained. “It’s a name.”

“What’s this book about?”

Yakin smiled. “What the title says. Keep an eye out for me. I’m in this book.”

Kassur scrunched up his face. “Are you seeking this Benitah’s hand?”

“No. Just read it.”

“Yes, kena,” said Kassur. Yakin seemed a bit too proud to feature in a work of fiction, Kassur thought. He stood to ready himself to leave.

“And Kassur?” Yakin called.

“Yes, kena?”

“Wear some shoes next time, please.”

Kassur suppressed a frown and nodded solemnly. If he insists.

After leaving, it was almost seven o’clock, the sun still struggling to rise. Kassur left the walled portion of Vos and headed for the docks.

He was admittedly worried about this trip. Not just because of his purpose, either - he’d also never been on a boat before. The Ahemmusa usually fished from the shores, or from water-walking spells provided by the wise women. He was uncertain as to how his stomach would hold up.

He walked past Varo’s Tradehouse - where he’d bought his House mer clothes by bartering ashyams - and came upon the shipmaster. She was a simply dressed woman, but with an elaborate bun tying up her hair. She was busy picking at her fingernails.

“Hello,” Kassur said in Dunmeris.

Without looking up, the shipmaster said, “Yes? What can I do for you?”

“I would like to travel to…Saddith Mora,” Kassur said, trying to remember what Yakin had told him the name was.

The shipmaster finally looked up. “Sadrith Mora,” she said, then asked, “You’re that new ashlander, aren’t you?”

Kassur wasn’t sure how to respond, so he just nodded. Was it that obvious? He’d worn the right clothes, and he didn’t think his accent was that bad. Maybe Yakin was right to insist he wore shoes; maybe that tipped her off. Not discouraged, however, he tried again. “Can you take me to Sadrith Mora?”

“Yes,” the woman said, expressionless. “For a price. Fifty drakes.”

Kassur frowned. That was much more than he’d expected the fare to be. He pulled out his makeshift coinpurse and started counting out septims. He only found eighty-two. How was he going to get back to Vos?

No matter. He needed to go to Sadrith Mora. He’d figure out a way back somehow. He handed over fifty coins to the shipmaster.

Finally she smiled. “Very good,” she said. “The name’s Sedyni Veran. I’ll be your captain for this voyage.” She chuckled at herself. “What’s your name, ashlander?”

“Kassur,” he said, blushing.

“Just Kassur?” Sedyni asked as she put the coins away in a nearby lockbox.

“Just Kassur,” he affirmed. He’d once had a family name, but he didn’t want anything to do with it anymore.

“Very well. Climb aboard, ‘Just Kassur.’” She hopped onto the ship from the dock, and beckoned him to follow.

Nervously, Kassur took a tentative step onto the boat. Immediately he could feel the wobble of the water, and being half on land and half at sea made him feel ill at ease. He quickly put his other foot forward, planting them both firmly on the deck. He took another step forward toward the mast, but almost tripped as the boat lurched casually, doubling over to catch himself.

“No sea legs, eh?” Sedyni asked as she began to tend to the rigging. “You’ll get used to it. Just head below deck and have a seat. Try not to throw up on my ship.”

- - - - -

The voyage was miserable and exciting all at once. Kassur refused to head below deck, so that he could see the world around him as they passed it by. They sailed between the Grazelands and some islands, past Tel Mora first. He’d heard of the place - it was a place of only women. He liked the idea.

Next they passed an evil looking place on the following island. It reminded him of the ruins of Kushtashpi, west of the old Ahemmusa camp. He asked Sedyni about it.

“They call it Esutanamus,” she answered. “They say Molag Bal is worshiped there, Vivec curse his name.”

After Esutanamus, on the west coast this time, they spotted a great fortress. Sedyni, expecting Kassur’s curiosity, explained. “That’s Indoranyon. Old Dunmeri stronghold from the days of Resdayn. You know, when Nerevar led your people and mine together against the Nords and Dwemer.” She sighed. “In better days, at least. Now it’s home to Daedra worshipers. Bad Daedra, that is,” she corrected quickly.

After Indoranyon, they headed southeast away from the mainland of Vvardenfell, passing through some small islands. “We’re almost there,” Sedyni said.

Thank Boethiah, thought Kassur. He stood from where he had sat, head against the mast, and leaned against the railing. He could see the mushroom towers now, standing tall over the rocks.

Finally they arrived at the docks, which were made of fungal roots, rather than wood, like the one at Vos. Sedyni handed Kassur off to the local shipmaster, who she introduced as Gals Arethi.

“Go easy on him,” she whispered to Gals, but Kassur could still hear. “He’s some sort of exile, I think. Not used to the world.” Gals nodded, but his face frightened Kassur. He looked so stern and irascible.

“New to Sadrith Mora?” Gals asked, speaking the kind of quick Dunmeris Kassur hated. “What would you like to know?” He had to repeat himself several times before Kassur could make out what he was asking.

“Wolf…a ring, hall, please,” Kassur murmured, unsure of the words. They were Cyrodiilic, and he knew no Cyrodiilic.

“Sorry?” Gals asked. “Speak up, boy.”

“Wolf-a-ring-hall,” Kassur said, speaking quickly to hide his lack of confidence.

“Wolverine Hall, you mean?” Gals pointed southeast. “Opposite side of town. Good luck.”

Kassur wondered what Gals meant by “good luck,” but didn’t ask. He walked on the spongy fungal floor until he reached real solid ground. Oh, he could just fall down and kiss it! But he decided it wouldn’t raise Gals’ already poor estimation of him, so didn’t.

Kassur approached the giant round gate of Sadrith Mora, the coarse stone beneath him rough on his bare feet. He made to go through the gate, but two armored guards with squid-like helmets crossed their spears before it.

“Papers?” one of them asked, his coarse Vvardenfell accent coarser than most’s.

Kassur shook his head. Papers? What did he mean by that?

“No entry,” the other guard said. “Or go see the Prefect upstairs.”

“Okay,” said Kassur. He stepped back from the gate and looked up. There were two arms of spiraling stairs reaching a door at the top, directly above the gate. The entire structure was one enormous mushroom. Kassur ascended the left side and opened the door.

Inside a mer sat at a desk to the right; to the left was another spiral staircase up. The Dunmer didn’t look up from whatever he was doing. “Yes?”

Kassur cleared his throat and asked, “Papers?”

The seated Dunmer looked up, a wicked smile on his face. “Ah, so you’ve come to the Prefect of Hospitality for your Hospitality Papers, eh?”

Kassur scratched the back of his neck. “Yes.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” the Prefect said. He lifted a sheet of paper from his desk. “I just finished making this copy.” He extended an empty hand towards Kassur. Kassur just stared at it. “It’s not free, you know,” the Prefect said. “Twenty-five septims.”

Kassur frowned and rubbed his forehead. “Need to go back home, too,” he said.

“Well, you should have planned ahead,” the Prefect tutted. “Have you the gold?”

Kassur reluctantly took out his coinpurse and counted out twenty-five coins. He only had seven left - not enough to make it back to Vos, for sure.

He dropped the coins in the Prefect’s waiting hand, which quickly closed around them. The Prefect made a show of counting them out, then put them in the pocket of his robes. He handed Kassur the Hospitality Papers, which Kassur couldn’t really read. “There you go, young man. Enjoy your stay in Sadrith Mora.”

Kassur grunted and went back outside, descended the stairs, and approached the gate again. He held up his newly-acquired papers for the guards. One of them bent forward a bit to loosely examine it, but not for very long.

“Looks good to me,” he grunted. The two guards uncrossed their spears and began to open the strange circular gate. It was hinged in the middle, spinning on a central axis. Kassur walked through it on the left side, squeezing past the guard who refused to budge from his post.

Yakin had told Kassur about Sadrith Mora before, the capital of Telvanni power on the island. It was, as its name suggested, a forest of mushrooms. As far as Kassur could tell, there wasn’t a single normal building here; they were all made of giant mushrooms.

It wasn’t midday yet; Kassur had about an hour to kill. He’d planned it out this way - he wanted to roam the circular streets of Sadrith Mora and take in the city before his lunchtime appointment.

After he was free of the structure containing the gate, he was face to face with an enormous mushroom tower, climbing high above the city in its center. Its bulbs and horns and stalks were interwoven into a complex building - which seemed to lack stairs entirely. Were they inside? How did you get to the top?

After his awe at the massive building subsided, he hung a left and began to circumnavigate it. The first thing of note he found was a covered marketplace, with several merchant stalls serving a sizable crowd of people. Kassur had to avert his gaze from the items on display; he didn’t have any money to buy anything, so why get excited?

Adjoining the marketplace was a raised trio of fungal pod-cages. In his best Dunmeris Kassur asked a nearby guard about them.

“Old slave market,” the gravelly voice behind the helmet said. “Closed down about a month ago by the new Archmagister.”

A slave market, Kassur thought. Ahemmusa hadn’t kept slaves for generations. The concept of it made him feel sick. He was glad for the Archmagister’s decision, whoever they were.

He was pulled from his thoughts by some shouting in the market. He saw a Dunmer arguing with one of the merchants, who was short and brown-skinned. Kassur wasn’t sure what kind of mer he was. The argument was in Cyrodiilic, so Kassur couldn’t tell what it was over.

Suddenly, the Dunmer reached up to hit the smaller mer. But someone from behind caught his arm.

In elaborate robes and with a massive metal gauntlet on one hand was the first Argonian Kassur had ever seen. They were tall and lean, their nearly golden scales glistening in the morning sun, save for a black mark on their throat. In their offhand they leaned on a fully metal spear with more spikes than Kassur had ever seen. Something about them, perhaps just the alien nature of their race, struck Kassur, gluing his feet to the spot, and his eyes on them.

Kassur couldn’t make out whatever the Argonian said to the Dunmer - it was in Cyrodiilic again, no doubt - but whatever was said, the situation was resolved. The Dunmer seemed to apologize to the Argonian and to the smaller mer before heading towards the giant central tower of the city. Kassur’s eyes followed the Argonian and their two Dunmer companions as they left the city.

Kassur stood there, lost in some kind of awe before a guard bumped into him, tearing him from it. He scurried along around the city.

On his left he came across a tall building. It wasn’t tall like that central tower - this one was built on fungal stilts, with a long spiral staircase rising up to meet it. It gave Kassur a dark feeling, so he hurried past it.

Kassur circled around the back of the great central tower. There weren’t any homes in this eastern half of the city - just a street between the tower’s ditch on the right and a large hill closing in on the left. He carried on southwards, a mostly straight-shot to Wolverine Hall.

The fort was enormous. It was made in the same style of hewn stone as the lower half of Tel Vos, but without all the fungal growths piercing through it. Kassur passed by a strange wooden building on his left and crossed the bridge into the fort proper.

This was about as far as he could manage on his own. He knew he was looking for the Mage’s Guild, and that was it. Inside the fort was all the same grey stone walls, large courtyards with no doors in sight. Kassur slowly started to feel his way through them.

Rounding a corner to the left he found another courtyard, with a stone staircase to his right, and a fire surrounded by a couple of Imperial guards to his left. One of the guards squatted near the fire, tending to a pot hanging over it, while the other worked a sword on an anvil, periodically checking its straightness. Kassur tentatively approached, and asked in Dunmeris, “Where is Mage’s Guild?”

The guard tending the pot looked up at Kassur, then glanced at his companion. “Dunmeris,” the squatting guard said. The anvil guard nodded and approached Kassur, sword in hand. Kassur took a step back, intimidated. But the guard smiled and said, in Dunmeris more broken than Kassur’s, “Up stairs. Through chapel. Up stairs. First door.”

Kassur nodded slowly, and said, “Thank you.” He backed away and then turned to hurry up the steps. At the top he finally found a door, and went inside.

Inside stood a man bent over a table laden with alchemical ingredients and apparatus. He turned, mortar and pestle in hand, and smiled at Kassur. “Greetings,” he said in suitable Dunmeris. “How may I help you?”

“Mage’s Guild?” Kassur asked, pulling the collar of his shirt from his neck anxiously.

“Ah,” said the man, frowning as he pointed at a nearby door. “Go into the stairwell there and head upstairs. Should be the first door you come across.”

“Thank you,” Kassur said. These directions made more sense to him. He waved farewell as he went through the indicated door. He went upstairs and into the next room.

It was a relatively small room, but full with people - Kassur guessed eight. There were men, tall golden-skinned mer, a couple of Dunmer, and even an Argonian, which excited him again for some reason.

But it was the Dunmer woman behind the desk in the back that Kassur had come to see. He quietly asked a nearby woman in Dunmeris if he could speak with her. She didn’t seem to understand. Exasperated and embarrassed, Kassur simply called out, “Minabibi!”

The entire room, which had been abuzz with quiet conversation, fell silent, and everyone looked at Kassur.

The woman behind the desk looked up at the newcomer in horror. She tilted her head at first, then frowned, nearly knocking a candlestick off the desk as she swept around it. “Kassur!” she whispered in Velothi. “Please. No shouting in the Guild. This isn’t the Fighter’s Guild.”

Kassur apologized, and raised an eyebrow. “There’s a Fighter’s Guild too?”

“These Imperials and House mer have many Guilds,” Minabibi said, shaking her head. She grabbed Kassur by the arm and turned towards the Argonian, saying something to him in Cyrodiilic. He smiled and nodded, waving the two of them away. Then Minabibi led Kassur out of the room, back down the stairs and outside.

“Who is he?” Kassur asked. He was relieved to be able to speak Velothi again.

“Skink?” Minabibi asked. “He’s the head of the chapter here. He’s the one who invited me to study at the Guild. Although sometimes I think he intends to study me more than the other way around.” She led Kassur out of the fort and to the strange wooden building Kassur had passed before. “Let’s grab lunch,” she said, taking Kassur inside.

The door opened onto a hallway, but Minabibi quickly turned left and took Kassur up the stairs. At the top was a massive woman, tall and well-built.

“Hello, Helende,” Minabibi said. The woman grunted but smiled. Kassur kept close to Minabibi as they passed by her.

To the right at the end of another hall was a bar. The bartender smiled widely and said, in Dunmeris, “Mina! The usual, today?” She glanced at Kassur. “For two, maybe?”

“No, Muriel,” Minabibi said, smiling back. “We’ll split a racer egg and a bottle of shein.”

“You’re lucky,” Muriel said as she reached under the counter and prepared to cook. “I was saving this last egg for somebody else. But I think I can make an exception for you two. He won’t be happy, though.” She made some kind of rude gesture. “But fetch ‘im! He can deal with it.”

“Thank you,” Minabibi said. She took a seat at a table in the corner, and Kassur followed suit. “What’s brought you here, Kassur?” she asked as she poured shein into Kassur’s cup.

“I’m not with the tribe anymore,” said Kassur.

“Ah,” Minabibi said. “Well, I’m not really either. I haven’t spoken with anyone from home in months. You’re the first in that much time.”

“There’s a reason,” Kassur said.

“Oh?” She leaned forward after filling her own cup.

“They’ve all gone mad.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Minabibi said before taking a long draught from her cup.

“No,” Kassur said. “You don’t understand. They’re lost to Sheogorath.”

“Lower your damn voice,” Minabibi said, looking around. “But explain. Quietly.”

“You know how the Nerevarine cleared out the old shrine?”

“Yes, I heard about that. That was after I left, though.”

“Well, a few weeks afterwards everybody moved there permanently.” Kassur slowly took a sip of his cup, but twisted his face at the taste. “Tastes like guarpiss,” he said - quietly, this time.

“Yeah,” Minabibi agreed. “But why would they fall to Sheogorath? They have the Madstone.”

“Some s’wit gave it to the Nerevarine as a ‘token,’ or something.”

Minabibi nearly spat out her drink. “They moved into the shrine without the Madstone?”

“I don’t know who made the decision. Sinnammu, maybe. Or maybe Urshamusa had a vision - sent by Sheogorath, no doubt.”

“Well,” Minabibi said. “There’s no saving them, then.”

“Of course there is!” Kassur said, raising his voice. “There must be!”

“Sheogorath is a tricky Prince. Hard to come back from madness.”

“But it must be possible!” Kassur nearly shouted. He lowered his voice, looking down. “It must be.” He looked back up and planted an angry, shaking finger on the table. “I left them behind. I cobbled together Imperial coin for this trip, to come see you, to get help. And all you can say is ‘There’s no saving them’?”

“You’d need a lot more help than I can give, Kassur.” She sighed. “Even the Guild likely couldn’t do it.” She shook her head. “Assuming they’d even want to.”

“Oh,” Kassur said. “So they get their wise woman and now they’re happy to let the rest kill each other?”

“It’s…it’s not all bad,” Minabibi said after a pause. “It’s better, living this way, I think. They couldn’t accept it. So maybe…”

“So you think it’s okay, too,” Kassur said. “They don’t deserve to live, because they live differently.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Minabibi said.

“Weren’t you, though?”

“One racer egg, coming up!” Muriel approached the table and placed a platter down with a massive yellowish hard-boiled egg on it, drizzled with some dark sauce.

“She’ll eat it herself,” Kassur said. He stood and left the cornerclub.

#tes #tesblr #my writing #oc: kassur #oc: ku-vastei #morrowind #sadrith mora #vos #dunmer #argonian #velothi #sheogorath #ahemmusa

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vosh-rakh · 1 year

Text

madstone: prologue

author’s note: the style here is a bit different from what i usually write. i’m experimenting! anyways, i’ll give this a better title than “chapter 1″ once i think of one. i foresee expanding this into something bigger! let me know if you like this new character, kassur. i have.......vague plans for him. also i know this is short, but, anyways, here we go:

- - - - -

The scrib sauntered up to the bed, and its master’s hanging hand. It opened its mouth wide, and - CHOMP.

Kassur woke, but he was paralyzed temporarily even by the playful bite. Once his muscles were his to command, he groaned and ripped his hand away before his pet could nibble again. He sat up and rubbed his eyes before fixing them on the scrib. The creature spun a slow circle and then clambered up the side of the bed, resting its chitinous head on Kassur’s lap.

Kassur smiled, scratched behind its horns, and said, “One of these days, you’re going to be scrib jerky.” He’d never named the critter, which he’d found wandering the Grazelands months ago and taken a liking to. He’d wanted to wait until he learned enough Dunmeris to give it a meaningful name, but maybe he’d just name it “Jerky.”

He raised his arms to stretch them and his back. He still wasn’t used to how soft a real bed was - he was more accustomed to sleeping in a bedroll on the floor. He almost resented the scrib for waking him so early. But it was a good thing - he had lessons to attend.

Kassur shooed Jerky off the bed and stood. He lit the fire in the center of the yurt with a quick spell. It often wasn’t until he did this that he remembered precisely where he was. He’d stolen this yurt, disassembled, from the Ahemmusa camp before he left in the middle of the night, sneaking away right under the night sentinels’ noses. It took several trips to carry everything, and he still had to find some of his own materials (mostly to patch up holes in the rarely-used guarskin canvas), but it was worth it to start out fresh with a sheltered place to sleep.

Kassur’s stomach rumbled. He reached into the sack of ashyams by the bed - no luck, all empty. Damn. He’d taken that sack when it was taut full with them. He couldn’t risk going back; even though they’d abandoned the old camp north of Vos, they’d no doubt have people coming by periodically to make sure the supplies they left behind were unmolested. They’d have his hands for sure if he was caught.

Kassur sighed and opened his basket of wickwheat flatbreads and threw one on the grill over the fire. He also dropped a trama nub into the pot of water he’d gathered last night and hung it over the flames.

Kassur sat on the floor of the yurt and soaked in the heat. He leaned his head back on the bed and started to doze…

He snatched his hand away before Jerky could bite it again. He quickly grabbed the hot flatbread from the grill before it burned, but the grill marks were very dark. He sighed and poured himself a cup of over-steeped trama tea as he took a bite of the bland bread. He took a sip and relished the warmth and lifting feeling of the drink, seeming to elevate his mind and wake him up.

Once he finished eating and drinking, he grabbed his shirt and pulled it on. It was a terribly itchy garment, of House mer make, and he hated wearing it. But he needed to make an effort to blend in, and what he’d rather wear would make him stand out more than he already does.

Kassur glanced at the shoes in the corner. He shook his head and walked out of the yurt without them. The soft Grazelands earth was soft beneath his bare feet.

Kassur had set up his yurt very close to Vos, just around a small hill. He could look northwest and see Tel Vos towering in the distance. He spat in its direction and made for Vos.

Vos was a tangle of squat adobe buildings and giant fungal roots. It reminded Kassur of a trama shrub deprived of its thorns.

The thorns are the people, Kassur thought cynically. But he cleared his mind of the idea as he stepped through the gate, a ring of fungal mass attached to the rest of the tendrils. There was a saccharine kind of pleasantness the House mer put on constantly, and he tried to emulate it. It seemed pointless to him, to wear a disguise like that. But he needed to get used to their ways. He was stuck with them, now.

He tried to cheer himself up by pretending he was Mephala wearing one of her many masks. That made sense to him; keep a hand behind your back when near your enemies. But these House mer didn’t even worship Mephala, so he didn’t understand where they got it from.

Kassur approached the Chapel’s doors and hesitated, as he always did. Was he really ready for such a leap? To abandon his ancestors and throw in his lot with the three impostors?

He shook his head pointedly, although no one saw him. He didn’t have to make that decision yet; he was just learning Dunmeris right now. He opened the door and strode in confidently.

Yakin Bael was sitting across the room, holding a small prayerbook in one hand and studying it. At Kassur’s entrance he looked up past his small spectacles.

(Spectacles. What a strange invention of the House mer and outlanders! Magic could just as easily repair poor eyesight. Why rely on thin circles of glass to do the same, such easily shattered things?)

Yakin was an old mer - almost preternaturally so, given that he was probably Telvanni. Despite this, his hair was dark reddish-brown, with scarcely a gray hair in sight. His longevity, he would say, was owed not to any magical prolonging, but to simple good health. Kassur knew, however, that he was a master of the art of Restoration, and was likely lying.

“Welcome, Kassur,” Yakin said, in Dunmeris, putting down his prayerbook. “Shall we get straight to your lessons?”

Kassur knew enough Dunmeris to be slightly dangerous. So long as someone spoke slowly - as Yakin did by his very nature - he could make out the gist of what they were saying. He struggled, however, with producing some of the strange sounds the language relied on. He was also being taught to read and write, and while he could almost reliably do the former, his hand shook too much for the latter; he could never get the grip on the pen or brush right.

Thankfully, Yakin was not only a patient teacher, but a native speaker of Velothi, too. This helped immensely to help translate certain nigh-untranslatable things, as well as in giving Kassur an out when he was too tired to speak Dunmeris.

As he was now. He needed to save his energy for later today. “Can we keep this lesson short, kena?” Kassur asked in Velothi. “I am expected in…Mushroom Forest later today.”

“Sadrith Mora,” Yakin corrected, still speaking Dunmeris. “And yes, that is amenable.” He gestured towards one of the walls, upon which was a mural of the three impostors.

“Azura’s starry tits,” whispered Kassur before raising his voice to reply, “Not there.”

Apparently Yakin heard the expletive. “You should say something like, ‘Seht’s shiny beard’ instead. Or even ‘b’Vehk.’” He seemed to blush as he caught himself. “But I shouldn’t be encouraging you to say profanities.”

“Sorry, kena,” said Kassur, emphasizing by speaking polite Dunmeris. “Can we study over there, please?” He pointed at the wall of the chapel with the mural of Veloth leading his people to Morrowind.

Yakin nodded, the two sat next to the mural, and began their lesson.

#tes #tesblr #oc: kassur #morrowind #dunmer #dark elf #ashlander #veloth #velothi

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vosh-rakh · 1 year

Text

The air in the Temple was thick and sweet with camphor, leaving behind a grey haze over everything - and everyone. There were several people - mostly priests - waiting for Qismehti, many faces she didn’t recognize. But she recognized Athyn Sarethi’s, who smiled warmly at her. He wore a heavy kresh robe, his tough body lost in its folds.

She also saw Varvur Sarethi, Athyn’s son. His thin body - one she was all too familiar with - was also lost in a thick robe. He smiled sheepishly at Qismehti, his hands clasped behind him.

“You’re here,” Athyn said. “Good. We have business to attend to.”

“What business?” Qismehti asked.

“If you want to challenge Bolvyn for the title of Archmaster, you need to be fully inducted into Great House Redoran. I’m adopting you into the Sarethi family.”

Qismehti, somewhat bewildered, blinked rapidly. But all she said was, “Very well.”

“Come,” said Athyn. He, alongside Qismehti, Varvur, and the priests, sat down on cushions surrounding the Waiting Door, a wide pit of ash and bone fragments in the center of the chamber.

What followed was a strange candlelit ritual, one Qismehti did not understand (as the words the priests spoke was entirely in Velothi, the language of the Ashlanders), but got the gist of. They were beseeching the Redoran ancestors, specifically those of the Sarethi family, to consider and accept this young outlander into the clan and House. There were certain procedures and actions which Athyn prompted her to perform at various moments throughout the ceremony, which she carried out dutifully.

Nearing the end of the ritual, the lead priest asked a question of Qismehti in Velothi. Athyn translated: “Now you must choose your cardehn. Who do you declare?”

Qismehti knew what a cardehn was: an ancestor bound to a person, usually upon their birth, to serve as their guide and protector in life. She’d had childhood friends growing up near Blacklight on the mainland who had had their cardehns chosen for them when they were born, usually from a list of honored ancestors from their line. She had only ever been in temporary and conditional service to House Redoran, and was born to a Redguard and an Orc; she had never been granted a cardehn. She wasn’t a history buff, either. She knew precious little about the ancestors of the Sarethi family.

“I don’t know,” she said, matter-of-factly.

The priests muttered to themselves for a moment, before one produced a gilded redware bowl, filled to the brim with a thick red liquid. It was carefully transferred down the circle until Athyn handed it to Qismehti. “Drink,” he commanded.

Qismehti took the bowl and peered cautiously into the drink. “What is it?”

“Shein,” Athyn said.

Qismehti smiled, unsure if Athyn was joking. “Why is it so thick?”

“Probably the ectoplasm,” Athyn said, his expression blank. “Although the gall could contribute.”

“Gall?” asked Qismehti, her face paling.

“Not that kind. It’s corkbulb myrrh. Just drink.”

Qismehti looked around at the priests, who were staring intently at her. She closed her eyes, raised the bowl to her lips - with this proximity she could smell the myrrh intensely - and drank deep. The wine was bitter and viscous, and it didn’t go down easily. But she choked it down with all her strength.

A few seconds after imbibing, Mehti suddenly felt a pounding in her temples. Her hands began to shake, and invisible hands snatched the bowl from her before she spilled any of the ghost-spiked shein. The blackness behind her eyelids grew deeper and she felt herself fall backwards. Her head seemed to land on something soft, which she visualized as a lap, before she fell unconscious.

- - - - -

When she awoke Qismehti was standing in the ash outside the temple of Ald’ruhn. But there was no temple, nothing but a mound of rock and ash. She turned around and -

A gigantic beast was staring at her. Its massive claws seemed to wring the sky and its many legs suffocated the ground. Its enormous stalked eyes were lowered, almost level with Qismehti’s face, dripping blood.

“Don’t worry,” said a strange voice, “it’s dead.”

Suddenly a mer leapt from the top of the beast and landed on one knee. He stood and spun his chitin spear, ebony-tipped and adorned with racer plumes, with a decorative flourish. His armor was rudimentary chitin in a style Qismehti didn’t recognize, but she could tell from the quality of the plates and the way they locked together that it was of high quality.

“Hail, Qismehti,” said the mer, his golden skin glistening in the clear midday light. Qismehti recognized why his voice was strange: he wasn’t speaking Cyrodiilic, or even Dunmeris, which she was also familiar with. He spoke Velothi, the language of the Ashlanders. Not only this, but an old form, barely recognizable to her ears as Velothi at all. But somehow she understood his meaning, despite the language barrier.

“Hail,” Qismehti responded softly. In the haze of this place her voice barely seemed her own. “How do you know my name?”

“I’ve been watching you, ever since you came into contact with my descendants. You do great honor to them.”

“I’m sorry…who are you?”

The mer smirked and planted his spear into the blood-soaked ash. “Does this not give it away? This spear, this scene?”

Qismehti apologized again, saying, “I don’t know the history of Ald’ruhn.”

“It was once the meeting place for we Velothi. I established it when I killed this great beast, Skar, with my spear Calderas. Your House mer have long since lived here, though, and call it the seat of their political power. Which is something you seem to desire.”

Qismehti’s face hardened. “Bolvyn is a dishonorable man. He does not deserve his title.”

“You need not defend yourself to me, Qismehti. The only one you should defend yourself to is your own spirit, your ambition.”

Qismehti fell silent, lost in contemplation. Finally she asked again, “Who are you, that you know so much about me?”

“I am Dranoth Hleran,” the mer said, crossing his arms.

Qismehti frowned. “There must be some mistake. I don’t have any Altmer ancestors.”

Dranoth burst into laughter. “You call me Altmer? How insulting. I am Chimer, proud to go different, and in thunder.”

“I don’t have any Chimer ancestors, either.”

“It is not your ancestors you need lay claim to,” said Dranoth, his face suddenly grave.

“But this family is Sarethi, not Hleran.”

“Ah, but they carry my blood just the same. What’s in a name? It is a dead thing, just as dead as I.”

“But I carry not the blood of Sarethi, either.”

“Will is stronger than blood - all the wise men proclaim it. And it is will that brought you here to me, even if you do not know me.” “But -”

“Stop questioning destiny. It’s unbecoming of a ruling king. You shall face the coming challenges with me at your side.”

Qismehti was silent for a moment, then clarified: “I will not be a king. I will be something lesser, and therefore greater.”

Dranoth smiled. “That you will. Now go. Execute your will.”

- - - - -

Qismehti suddenly woke up, and opened her eyes to see Varvur Sarethi staring down at her. The lap she had fallen into was his, and he cradled her head in his hands. He smiled and whispered, “Rise and shine.”

Qismehti reached up to grab his hand. “Don’t be sentimental,” she whispered back.

Qismehti sat up and said, “I have chosen.” She looked around at the priests, and at Athyn, and said, “My cardehn is Dranoth Hleran.”

The priests murmured loudly to each other at this. The lead priest shushed them and said, in Dunmeris, “You have been chosen. Welcome to Great House Redoran.”

#tes #tesblr #my writing #oc: qismehti gra-lubakt #great house redoran #redoran #redguard #orc #dunmer #ald'ruhn

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vosh-rakh · 1 year

Text

Two standing braziers faintly illuminated the tapestries on the walls as Qismehti approached. They were sacred triangles, each corner representing the three holy symbols: Ayem. Seht. Vehk. Above the tri-faced Tribunal shrine was a mural of the three living gods: Vivec’s head aflame and sword in hand; Almalexia in full battle regalia, including her devilish mask; Sotha Sil levitating limbless next to his divine siblings.

Before the pit of ash and bone knelt a hooded stranger, whose head tilted ever so slightly towards Qismehti as she approached, but not enough to reveal their face. But the fabric of their drab cloak shifted enough to reveal the much more exquisite clothes beneath.

Qismehti approached, her ebony armor clanking, knelt before the Waiting Door next to the stranger, and began to pray. She was Redoran, but her connection to these ancestors was faint. An outlander’s adoption into a House afforded them only scant access to their spirits. But she needed their wisdom today of all days.

After some time of mostly failed communion, she glanced at her fellow beseecher. Poking out from the hood was a familiar chin, bedecked with a beaded red beard.

“Grandmaster,” Qismehti said without turning her head fully.

“Ah, am I that recognizable?” answered Llethym Hlaarothan from beside her, smirking at his clasped hands.

“Yes,” said Qismehti. “What are you doing here? Wrong canton.”

“Yes, well,” Llethym began. “You know, Mehti. Our temple is still under construction.”

“I didn’t suspect you as the religious type,” Mehti said.

Llethym lowered his hands and slapped them on his lap. “It’s politically expedient to at least appear the type,” he said. “Indoril’s been pushing our buttons about it recently.”

“Then why the cloak? Not everyone will recognize you as I do.”

“Enough questions,” sighed Llethym.

“It’s my House’s house. I think I have the right to question an intruder.”

“An intruder?” exclaimed Llethym, turning his head and putting on an expression of faux shock. “You wound me, Mehti.”

Qismehti grunted and said nothing.

Llethym pulled back his hood and asked, “So what are you doing here, Archmaster?”

It seemed as though she wasn’t going to get any more prayer done today. “What do you think?” she asked.

“I think,” Llethym began, “you’ve got something heavy on your mind.”

Mehti sighed. “It’s the Archmagister.”

“What of her?”

“She wants me to declare her Hortator.”

“Ah,” said Llethym, looking away. “I suppose I should have told you. She’s dead-set on finishing this whole ‘Nerevarine’ business. Won’t call it done until Dagoth Ur is dead. Did you know she already has the Ashlander tribes behind her?”

“Yes,” Qismehti said, “she told me.”

“Just give it to her,” advised Llethym. “She’ll do anything to get it. She killed the Duke’s fool brother, and nearly everyone who worked for him, for it.”

Qismehti sighed and stood, wiping scattered ash from her greaves. “There’s only one way for her to become Hortator of the Redoran.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re tough, but she’ll kill you.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“I said don’t be stupid!” Llethym jumped to his feet to face Qismehti. “No ancestors could save you, certainly not any that you can barely claim!”

Qismehti scoffed and casually drew her ebony war axe, tossing the sharply-hooked bladed instrument into the air and catching it effortlessly under the beard, then returning it to the loop on her belt. “I don’t think I’ll need them.”

“She won’t hesitate to use magic,” Llethym reminded. “She’s a Telvanni, b’Vehk. She doesn’t have to abide by your rules.”

“I’ll have some tricks up my sleeve, too,” Qismehti said, smiling at Llethym pointedly.

“Oh,” he said, “you expect me to intervene? She’s already my Hortator, Mehti. I can’t enchant anything for you to use against her.”

“Just some scrolls is all I’ll need,” she replied. She leaned in to whisper into his ear…

- - - - -

Qismehti and Ku-vastei entered the Vivec Arena simultaneously. Word had spread across the city, across all of Vvardenfell, about this fight. As a result, the upper level was packed with spectators. Redorans cheered for their Archmaster; Telvannis placed bets on their Archmagister. Hlaalu and its Grandmaster watched on anxiously, concerned for any potential shifting of power between the other two houses. Ordinators struggled to keep peace amidst the excitement.

Ku-vastei was clad in gleaming adamantium armor from head to ankle, her digitigrade feet exposed and pressing footprints into the dusty arena floor. Her pensive face was revealed by the visorless helm, perfectly composed and prepared. In her beringed claws was an adamantium spear of some sort, tri-pronged and deadly sharp. Qismehti, familiar with weaponry of all kinds, didn’t recognize the make.

Qismehti wore her usual attire: a suit of gilded ebony armor, complete with matching shield and war axe. On her belt were three scrolls. Ku-vastei couldn’t discern their possible contents from this distance, and could only guess as to their purpose, if they held any at all. The only other thing that differed from when Ku-vastei made the challenge was that Qismehti wore her full ebony helmet, concealing her face completely.

After the announcer introduced them and bid them fight, the two of them circled the arena for some time, waiting for the first strike.

“We don’t have to do this,” said Ku-vastei, loud enough for Qismehti alone to hear her. “We can both go home, and you can name me Hortator…peacefully.”

Qismehti made no reply, and charged at Ku-vastei.

Mehti attempted an overhead chop, which Ku caught under the beard with her spear turned horizontal. Ku tugged the spear towards herself, trying to force the axe from Mehti’s hand, but her grip was too strong. All she succeeded in doing was bringing the blade of the axe closer to her cuirass.

To disengage, Ku twisted the spear, unlocking the axe from it, and jumped backwards. She attempted a quick thrust during the leap, but Mehti brought up her shield, causing the spear’s point to scrape to the side with a screech. Mehti kept up her advance, swiping sideways with her axe, forcing Ku to deflect with a quick spin of her spear. Again the shaft caught underneath the beard of the axe, shifting Mehti’s balance.

But Mehti let go of the axe. Instead she pulled a scroll from her belt with her now-free hand, and punched Ku’s exposed foot with her shield. Ku instinctively doubled over to clutch at her battered toes, but it gave Mehti an opening. She let the scroll fall open, touched it to Ku’s chest, and shouted:

“THAT WHICH DEFINES YOU WILL PROVE TO BE YOUR UNDOING.”

Dark red light emanated from the Daedric inscribed on the scroll, and Ku froze. All her muscles locked up, and she couldn’t move an inch. In her compromised position, she fell to the floor in exactly the same pose as she had stood.

The crowd fell completely silent.

Qismehti, beneath her ebony visor, smiled. The s’wit’s scroll worked. She leisurely fetched her axe from the floor nearby, and returned to Ku-vastei to finish the job. She knelt before Ku-vastei’s paralyzed body and raised her axe to strike -

But she hesitated.

Ku swung out her leg as soon as she broke free from the scroll’s curse. It caught Mehti in the shoulder, dislocating it and throwing her to her side. Ku jumped to her feet but immediately bent over, coughing up blood. Mehti rolled away just before Ku could crash the speartip down on her in a wild act of vengeance.

Ku wiped her mouth and glared at the ebony warrior who now stood before her. She spun her spear with a flourish and then pointed it directly at Mehti’s heart before approaching. Mehti grabbed another scroll and frantically read its contents:

“STRENGTH AND HONOR. DEATH TO OUR ENEMIES.”

The words glowed blue, and Mehti felt rejuvenated. Her shoulder locked back into its socket painlessly, and she felt invigorated, her axe-arm growing stronger. Not to mention, the reckless escape had pumped an adrenaline rush into her veins.

Mehti put up her block just as Ku arrived, effortlessly deflecting the spear to the side. She counterattacked, swinging her axe directly at Ku’s helm. It bounced off to the side, but left a nasty dent. Ku backtracked and clutched at her rattled head. Mehti kept up her advance, swinging again for the same spot. But Ku caught the blow with her bracer, bouncing it away. Mehti attempted one more swipe, but Ku had recovered, and deflected it with her spear.

Ku retreated further, and Mehti, her magical and innate advantages running dry, settled on waiting. Ku made a gesture with her spare claw, that of the Hearth, and her body was wreathed with several azure sparks. She rectified her posture from one of near-defeat to one of confidence. She put up another gesture, and mumbled something; her form was covered in a violet shell. Mehti, ill-versed in magic, knew not these signs, but they worried her.

Once ready again, Ku approached, spear leveled towards Mehti. She tried for a stab, which was easily blocked. But she transferred the momentum into a downward sweep, which Mehti failed to jump. She took the blow hard to her ankle, buckling that leg. Instinctively she raised her shield for another strike which she narrowly halted in time. From behind the shield she reached out her axe-arm to strike. Ku didn’t bother to defend; the blade of the axe seemed to be stopped before it reached her cuirass, bouncing off of some invisible force field. A Shield, dammit.

Ku spun her spear, thwacking Mehti’s overextended wrist, prising the axe’s haft from her grip. Then she gave Mehti’s shield a mighty guar-kick, sending her to the ground. Mehti’s head hit the floor of the arena hard, knocking the ebony helmet from its place there. Ku mounted Mehti, straddling her body as she raised her spear to strike -

There was just enough wiggle room to grab -

Mehti whispered something just before Ku dropped the blade into her exposed throat. A green light flashed in Ku’s eyes, and she stopped. “What did you say?”

Qismehti shook her head, saying only, “Do it, then.”

Ku-vastei tilted her head. “Why should I, friend?” She looked around at the spectators of the fight, the Telvanni cheering and the Redorans jeering and the Hlaalu silent. “Why should we continue this charade? You were dragged into this prophetic business the same as I was; let me finish it. Call me Hortator.”

Qismehti closed her eyes. Finally she sighed, “You are Hortator.”

Ku-vastei smiled her wide smile and stood, offering a hand to help Qismehti stand. The two of them stumbled to the center of the arena, hand-in-hand, as the crowd watched on in silence. Together, with their hands clasped, they raised their arms. “Hortator!” cried Qismehti for all to hear. There was a deafening roar from the audience, as all jumped to their feet, clapping and hollering - even the reticent Hlaalu.

Llethym was the only in his retinue to remain silent, but he smiled. An unstoppable force, he thought, and an immovable object - and yet both still stand. He offered a genuine prayer to Azura, for the first time in years.

#tes #tesblr #morrowind #oc: ku-vastei #oc: qismehti gra-lubakt #oc: hlaalu llethym hlaarothan #telvanni #redoran #hlaalu #hortator #argonian #redguard #orc #dunmer #dark elf

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