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vosh-rakh · 2 years ago

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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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trickstarbrave · 9 months ago

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i havent proofread this but

here is the first part to 'hortator of the sharmat'

i might go back and fix a lot of stuff but im excited so far bc i love this little messed up idea

The Sixth House broke out of Vvardenfell first, and then escaped out from the mainland, slowly but surely infecting the greater empire. The Tribunal’s power was waning, and the empire had no idea what to do about the strange plague ravaging the lands.

Most of the Sixth House preferred to move in shadows or hiding in plain sight. They had squirmed their way into the heart of the empire and beyond, but they didn’t move without a purpose.

Many, when they didn’t live in old ruins or in the wilds, instead opened up orphanages far and wide. There was always an unfortunate abundance of orphans in the Empire, except in Morrowind where the temple’s charity took care of anyone displaced or abandoned. Churches in Cyrodiil were always flooded with too many mouths to feed, so it was no wonder they readily accepted help from outsiders wearing the robes of the Nine Divines. In fact, many were former priests or nuns who, when exposed to ash statues, suddenly took up an interest in opening their own orphanages with the help of some ‘kind and generous souls’.

Neht was one of the orphans the Sixth House picked up. At first it wasn’t all bad; he was no longer hungry all the time and no longer being kicked around on the street by people who looked at scruffy children like they did diseased rats. He thought that, surely, they must be good people from how kindly they treated the children, despite the strange iconography beneath the surface that didn’t belong to any divines or the way they constantly muttered to themselves and sleepwalked.

And then he became a young adult, and he saw what really happened.

Typically a young Dunmer of his age just started with physical labor. Usually the orphanage would send older kids out to work in fields for a couple of hours a day to help out and even bring back some coin. Neht thought that was why they sent him and a few other kids away by wagon. Only this wasn’t a short excursion; what he thought was only going to be a few hours at most quickly ended well past nightfall. The other kids were confused, talking among themselves.

There was one thing they all had in common, they realized: all of them had been born under the thief sign.

Finally, they were all ushered inside an old ruin, greeted inside by the black and blood red iconography they’d see at the orphanage. Only this time it was everywhere, blood red candles lighting their way.

The Bosmer, two years older than Neht, muttered to his friend wondering if they were daedra worshippers.

From there they were divided up and told why they were there. There were no Nine Divines, at least, not in that they were worthy of worship. Even the living gods of the Tribunal were false gods. No, there was one real god: the god of Morrowind, the Dreamer, Dagoth Ur, and the Good Daedra of Morrowind ruthlessly dethroned. All betrayed and abandoned by their people. All in service of a higher cause.

None of them knew what to think. Neht remembered several didn’t take it seriously. Others planned to escape, not underestimating how difficult it would be.

They were told they met certain conditions to be Dagoth Ur’s champion, Saint Nerevar Moon-and-Star reborn. Lord Dagoth’s greatest strength, and his destined consort. And through various trials, the Nerevarine would be revealed and brought to him to finally cleanse Morrowind and begin his expansion in earnest.

And the first trial was one of the worst: the trial of flesh. To become free from aging and blight. The true start of their trials and cut them off from the rest of the world.

The blight, corprus, the strange new plague that was a huge thorn in the empire’s side. Whatever you called it, the divine disease was the same: many infected became not too dissimilar to zombies, though magic targeting the undead didn’t work on them. They never decayed past a certain point either, and showed no mindless desire to infect others. Instead they seemed to just… Walk. They wandered and moved into the wilderness, wherein they seemed to disappear. Some infected others, but the empire seemed relieved they weren’t overrunning cities at least.

One by one they were all infected with it. None of them could escape, though many tried. If any did so, they were dragged back alive, forced to endure it.

Most of them became the common corprus beast, lumbering around aimlessly, looking decayed. Others lost the color of their skin entirely and became a different kind of mindless creature, looking waxen as a corpse. A few of the unlucky ones had their skulls cave in and growths form out of it, though they were taken away more quickly.

The rest of them waited through pained fevers, nightmares, and pure agony. To Neht it felt like he endured the pain of dying over and over again, only finding relief from physical pain when he closed his eyes. Most of the time he dreamed though it was nightmares: dreams he was being ripped to pieces. Dreams that he was being poisoned. Dreams that he had been betrayed.

A few more of them succumbed to the strange transformations, but weeks after that…

Their fevers instead began breaking. The aches and pains subsided. The nightmares became less and less common. They no longer looked visibly ill. And as they would soon learn: they no longer aged. Luckily they were all physically mature, but there was something somber about how they would remain like this either forever, or until they mentally deteriorated into becoming the ash creatures they saw before.

The other trials were tests of skill. They were trained with various weapons and even magic, before their tutors found their strengths and honed in on them. Neht’s life became getting up, eating, and working his body doing more grueling training than even the arena apprentices were given, and then finally passing out.

Then they were tasked with surviving Ayleid traps. Then killing monsters. Then killing hostages like stray blades agents that learned too much or people who went lurking in homes to find treasure. Then killing each other to narrow it down further.

Neht didn’t even know why he was fighting except to just not die. He was overworked, stressed, and numb. Perhaps death would have been a blessing, but he couldn’t bring himself to overcome his base instinct to survive.

The other ‘potential incarnates’ as they were called, took different perspects. Many became, as you’d expect, enraged and planned to kill their way out of there one day or succumbed to despair. However what was more surprising was that the majority didn’t fall into one of those categories, but instead a different kind: those that wanted so desperately to be Nerevar Reborn. Those that started saying they knew they were his incarnation and often fought with each other about who was truly Nerevar. They became ruthless, killing each other in jealousy and to prove they were the ones who were ‘truly’ Nerevar.

But without fail, there was one thing that they all stumbled over: the trial of the moon and star. The moon and star ring was a relic of the good daedra—the definitive proof of Nerevar’s identity. The dwarven brass ring was enchanted to kill all those except for Nerevar and Nerevar alone.

After a certain point of accessing their skills, the higher ups of the Sixth house would have a ceremony under the watchful eyes of the statue of Azura, and were told to put it on.

And one after the other, they all died. Blood leaked from their eyes, their noses, their mouths, before they even burst into flames choking on their own blood.

Some were still cocky thinking they were the real Nerevarine. Others would scream and try to fight away from the leaders to avoid wearing the ring. But Neht knew both camps were foolish. Begging and pleading or trying to escape wouldn’t stop them and none of them were Nerevar reborn. But it seemed delusion and fear clouded their senses.

If there was a way out, Neht would have found it by now. But instead it seemed it was ‘his’ turn; his time was up so some god in a volcano could foolishly search for his ‘destined’ bride or groom, no matter how many had to die. Maybe the blood and fire would be better than succumbing to the madness late and becoming an ash ghoul after all like the Altmer around his age did two years ago.

They woke him at dawn, taking him to bathe. Only this time the maids scrubbed him town; something they usually only got on the 25th of evening star, Nerevar’s birthday and this their new collective birthday whether it was the same or not. It was to cleanse them for prayer, their bodies being washed with a specialty ash soap imported from Vvardenfell. The scent always made Neht a little nostalgic; it was perfumed with a blend he’d never smelled anywhere else before, but it overwhelmed him every time. When he closed his eyes he felt like he was somewhere far away, familiar and alien all at once. Perhaps that was the intended use of the soap—to make his mind go hazy, almost covered in a fog as the stress melted off his muscles.

Then he was dressed in black and red robes. They were soft and luxurious, though only two thin layers. They were costly and most of them died, after all.

From there they styled his hair, brushing it back into a large braid. The older woman covered in scars braiding his hair back always muttered to herself as though in a trance, but this time Neht could understand a few of her words.

“… Perhaps we got it right… Perhaps this time I can style St Nerevar’s hair properly rather than cut the braid of a false incarnate…”

All of their braids were kept, bound tightly, revered by the sixth house. Even though they were false incarnates, they were ‘blessed’ supposedly by Dagoth Ur and Azura and would be at peace in Moonshadow for all eternity.

Neht sighed, a red tie being used to secure the braid, before he was moved to the final room.

He hesitated slightly, before he continued walking, numb now as he knew he marched to his death. Panic would only make it worse, he imagined, and wouldn’t save him regardless.

The highest member of the cult smiled at him, her grin almost unnerving. She was a middle aged woman who always put him on edge; one moment she was smiling brightly at them, but the moment one of them died her eyes became cold and uncaring, her expression only one of mild disgust and disappointment. The only reason she regarded any of them positively was because they might be the Nerevarine. Likely none of them were, but there was a possibility.

“Come forth, incarnate. It is time for your next trial.” Her voice echoed across the room. Others couldn’t see, but they could all hear in these ruins when voices echoed so freely.

Neht stepped forward as the woman beckoned for his hand. He hesitated once more, before sighing and handing it to her.

He breathed in the perfume still clinging to his skin, trying to seek one last reprieve of comfort before his senses were swallowed up by blood and fire. Metal touched his skin as the ring slipped on, and Neht shut his eyes tightly, waiting for the agony.

Seconds slipped by, unable to breathe as he braced himself for pain, but… It hadn’t come. He wondered how long he’d have to wait, before he heard whispers and he looked down at his hand. No bruising was visible like on the other false incarnates. He reached up, touching his face, not feeling any blood.

Panic finally ran through him as the realization crashed over him, now wishing more than anything that he’d been killed.

“Ah,” the head priest looked at him with pure glee in her eyes, “I’ve finally done it… I found the Nerevarine.”

“I—“ Neht’s breathing was quick now. “What if this is a fake ring?” Something else inside him however, denied it the moment it left his mouth. No, the ring felt too familiar on his hand. It felt too right, like he’d worn it for centuries.

“It is no fake,” She laughed a bit too loudly. “I check it personally for the enchantment the moment before I put it on an incarnate…” Her eyes were still staring at him half crazed. “It’s really you, St Nerevar.”

“I-I’m…” His voice trembled as he backed away, before the head priest clapped her hands.

“Prepare Saint Nerevar properly.” She ordered, as maids and guards surrounded him. “He must be groomed and dressed appropriately. Then we prepare to travel to Vvardenfell him to Lord Dagoth.”

It couldn’t be true.

He couldn’t be Nerevar.

Neht punched the nearest guard, before the others quickly subdued him with magic. All the while the maids cooed over him, stroking his hair and singing hymns, delighted it was ‘Nerevar in the flesh’.

Neht didn’t know what happened to the rest of the incarnates. He never saw them after that.

#nerevoryn #indoril nerevar #nerevarine #dagoth ur #voryn dagoth #my writing #hortator of the sharmat

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