#ald'ruhn | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vosh-rakh · 4 months ago

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Tear was hot, but at least it wasn’t so dangerous. In Dres country there were always guards and soldiers around, usually to keep the slaves in line, and they scared away any wildlife from attacking the farmers and herders. But here in the West Gash of Vvardenfell, the protection was sparse. Drulene had had to petition the Redoran in Ald’ruhn the first time this happened.

Today she hears that pair of footsteps and it all comes back to her:

She had been eating her midday saltrice porridge amidst her guar by her hut when she heard the skittering of many legs fast approaching. She turned towards the sound to ascertain the threat. Cresting a nearby hill came crawling two large mudcrabs, their pincers snapping hungrily.

Drulene was accustomed to fighting off monsters like rats and foragers, who nibbled at her guar’s ankles like common pests. She went into her hut and fetched her chitin bow and quiver of corkbulb arrows. Once back outside, the mudcrabs were uncomfortably closer.

She took aim and loosed towards the forward crab, but it bounced harmlessly off its rock-hard shell. She attempted a few other shots this way, all to the same effect.

Panicking, she fled to her hut and slammed the door behind her, and sat back against the door, pressing it tightly closed.

The skittering increased until it was terrifyingly close. She heard (and felt, the vibrations carrying through to her back) the mudcrabs clawing at the door for what felt like hours. She prayed to the Tribunal, and to Saint Llothis, for protection. Eventually, the mudcrabs abandoned the door, and she thanked the Crosier with tears streaking down her face.

Then she heard her guar begin to cry. Judging by the high-pitched squealing voice it was her favorite, Demthi. She clutched her mouth with her shaking hands as she wept, while the cries grew louder and louder, and then quieter and quieter, until they croaked out completely. Then the skittering began to retreat, until it disappeared completely.

She waited an hour before daring to move. Then she waited another hour before she opened the door.

Outside the surviving guar were still huddled up against the hut as the sun descended through the evening mist. She squinted, as though seeing the corpse with half-closed eyes would spare her the gruesomeness of it. But all she found was a bloody patch, spotted with viscera, and a bloody trail leading southwest.

The next day Drulene went to Ald’ruhn to inform her friend Neminda, who was a member of House Redoran. Neminda apologized and told her she’d have the mudcrabs taken care of. This excited Drulene more than she thought it would: she wanted vengeance for Demthi.

A few days later a Redguard came and asked about the attack. Hearing her clinking armor approach had sounded almost like many skittering legs, and made Drulene panic, but the Redguard was kind and understanding, and made her feel at ease. Drulene showed her the trail and told her she thought they made for the coast that way. Not a few hours later the Redguard returned, two pairs of severed pincers in hand.

Drulene thanked the Redguard profusely. “But what of Demthi?” she asked.

“Your guar?” the Redguard asked in return. “It’s dead, I’m afraid. They probably killed it here and then dragged it away. I’m sorry.”

Drulene wiped a tear from her eye and nodded solemnly. There was nothing the Redguard could have done.

Now a pair of footsteps approaches again, and Drulene’s bowl of saltrice porridge falls from her hands onto the rough West Gash dirt.

A Breton and Bosmer approach from the east. “Shit,” whispers the Breton just barely loud enough for Drulene to hear, “she’s here.”

“Hail, herder,” the Bosmer says, pushing the Breton aside and smiling wickedly as he draws a short sword. “We’ll be relieving you of your valuables, now.”

But Drulene has finally snapped out of her frozen stupor, and bolts for the door to her hut. Once inside she pushes the shelf in front of the door, sending a pot of saltrice crashing to the floor. With all her might she presses herself against the shelf, but she’s shaking like shivering Sheogorath.

Through the sweaty pounding in her chest she could hear the sound of footsteps in the dirt outside. One of them banged on the door, and she jumped, pressing her back harder into the shelf. “C’mon, lady. Just give us what you got and we won’t even hurt you that much.”

“Gab, shut up and get out of the way.”

There was some shuffling on the other side of the door, and then a great bang, rattling the door and shelf. Drulene screamed.

The bandit tried to barge down the door for several minutes, but somehow it held firm. “Dammit,” gasped one. “Won’t…budge…”

“Let’s just grab a couple guar and be done with it,” Gab said. “Look healthy enough. Might be worth something down south.”

“Or at least we can feed the bastards to those tomb rats. Maybe then they’ll leave us alone.”

The two bandits laughed, an innocent sound like pranking schoolboys, that nevertheless struck Drulene as completely sinister. It hadn’t been a whole month since the mudcrab incident, and now, as she listened to the bandits lead the beasts away, she was down to just one guar. She somehow couldn’t tear herself away from Tear no matter how hard she tried.

Any other day, she would have chuckled at the accidental pun. But a deep weariness was seeping into her bones, just like the depths of southern Morrowind’s heat drenching one’s entire being.

Drulene waited in her hut an entire day, anxiously still watching the barricaded door, before she developed the nerve to saddle up her last guar and race to Ald’ruhn to beseech Neminda once again.

- - -

This poor guar herder just couldn’t catch a break, Qismehti thought as she followed the road from Ald’ruhn, trying to find her hut again. First mudcrabs, now bandits. Mehti kept an eye out as she approached, making sure neither beast nor guar-thief lingered nearby. It almost unsettled her, that they could be causing havoc so close to the city. But unless there were more than the reported two, they couldn’t possibly be an issue to the might of House Redoran.

There was only one guar left, tied to a post outside, chewing on muck. It regarded Mehti with a strange expression – apprehension, perhaps? The poor beast had been through a lot, as of late. But it returned to its meal after that brief glance, and so Mehti went up to the door and knocked. “Hello?”

There was a long, quiet waiting. Then Mehti heard something shifting inside, and the door opened a crack. “Who are…oh, thank the Three, it’s you. Come on in.” Drulene opened the door all the way and stood aside for Mehti to enter.

Mehti hadn’t been inside Drulene’s hut the first time she came. The interior was somewhat slovenly; just inside the door was a mess of potsherds and loose saltrice. “Qismehti gra-Lubakt, at your service, sera,” she said, stepping over the larger piles as she reintroduced herself with a bow.

“Yes, how could I forget you,” Drulene began, before stopping with a slight twist of her face. “You never told me your last name before. Is that…an Orcish name?”

“Yes,” said Mehti, a bit unsure why it mattered. “My da is an Orc. Ma is a Redguard.”

“Ah,” said Drulene. “Yes, that’s…wonderful, of course. That sort of thing isn’t very common in Vvardenfell, these days. But I guess in Hammerfell–”

“Blacklight,” Mehti interjected. “I grew up in Blacklight.”

“Oh, of course,” Drulene said, now looking away and scratching the back of her head. “You’re Redoran through and through, aren’t you?”

“My parents were just retainers to the House,” Mehti said. “But I’m an Oathman, now.”

“I see, I see,” said Drulene. She seemed to finally realize the state of her home, and covered her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry to invite you in, now. It’s such a mess. A woman of your stature shouldn’t have to bear this.”

“Don’t worry,” said Qismehti, putting on a polite smile not quite visible behind her helmet. “It’s not my job to criticize your living arrangements. I’m here to protect you, and your property.”

“Oh, yes,” Drulene said. Qismehti wondered if she had been intentionally avoiding the relevant subject, what had brought Mehti here in the first place. “Yes,” Drulene said again, “as I’m sure Neminda told you, there’s been another incident.”

“Go on,” Mehti invited after Drulene paused again, the guar herder’s cheek sucked in between her teeth. “Neminda told me some, but not much.”

“Well, two men came the other day, demanding my valuables,” Drulene began, sighing and collapsing onto the edge of her bed. “A Breton, I think. And a Bosmer. As soon as they called out to me, I ran inside and hid, and blocked the door with my shelf there. They couldn’t get in, so they took two of my guar instead.”

“Mhm,” said Mehti, trying to visualize the scene. “Do you have any idea where they might have gone?”

“I don’t know, I…” Drulene was shivering now, and Mehti felt a pang of guilt for making this woman relive her trauma. “They said…something about tomb rats? There is a tomb not far to the south. The inscription at the door says Telvayn, so I guess it’s the Telvayn ancestral tomb. Maybe they’re holed up in there.”

“Okay,” said Mehti. She slowly reached out a hand towards Drulene, gentle enough not to startle her. The soft padded palm of her gauntlet landed on Drulene’s shoulder, and Drulene’s shivering subsided a bit. “I will go take care of them, and return your guar to you.”

“Thank you, Qismehti, thank you,” Drulene said, her head tilting slightly towards Mehti’s hand as she placed her own over the steel gauntlet. “Be safe, sera.”

Mehti nodded, and took her leave, closing the door softly behind her.

- - -

The arched stone door to the tomb was nestled in a pile of boulders at the base of a hill. A well-weathered three-sided stone post etched with the name “Telvayn” in angular Daedric script stood to the side, its edges chipped and its once-sharp peak worn to a short round nub. This tomb was clearly many generations old. Qismehti didn’t recognize the family, but assumed they were Telvanni – the tell was the “Tel-”. She wondered when Telvanni ever had reach this far west on Vvardenfell.

There was no sign of any stolen guar. Mehti sighed and checked the door. She wasn’t a picklock or mechanist, but she didn’t see any obvious tripwires or other contraptions. She tried the handle and found it unlocked, although it turned roughly from its age. Slowly, she crept in, shutting out the light behind her.

The door opened into a short hall lined with plinths bearing ash-vases and offerings to the dead. As quietly as possible in heavy steel armor, Mehti reverently walked past the plinths. She could hear the faint whisperings of the Telvayn ancestors. That faraway sound still unsettled her somewhat, despite having visited the Gabinna family tomb by Blacklight several times as a child, and prayed to their waiting door thrice a week. Their wailing, chittering voices seemed to grate on the inside of her skull.

Mehti tried to put them out of her mind. Willpower wasn’t her greatest attribute, but she had the strength to endure it. She pressed on by the dim ghostlight clinging to the torches ensconced on the walls.

At the end of the procession of ancestor plinths, the corridor opened into a larger chamber. In the heavy darkness Mehti could barely make out the hairy movements of some thick Vvardenfell rats. She drew her axe from her belt-loop, but they didn’t seem to take notice. She squinted in the dark, trying to see what distracted them. They were eating something, judging by the tugging of their necks and the fleshy sounds their mouths made. Oh no.

They were definitely eating the two guar, slaughtered and offered up whole to the little beasts. Poor Drulene.

“This Hallgerd doesn’t know shit!”

The shout nearly made Qismehti jump out of her greaves. One of the feasting rats even looked up towards its source, a doorway to the left leaking light. Mehti crept up to the side of the entry, out-of-sight, and listened in.

“How do you reckon?”

“What’s wearing armor got to do with killing blokes? Who gives a damn about this stupid old Hlaalu king?”

“Well, I mean…”

“Look. A true ‘greatest warrior’ wouldn’t even need armor. He could go to battle naked, because he’d never get hit, because his enemy would be dead before he could even draw a weapon!”

Qismehti peeked around the door, just enough to see inside but without being seen herself. Two men sat around a small fire inside, a man and a mer, both rather short and loosely armored, . The man, maybe a Breton, was holding a book open with one hand, while the elf gesticulated wildly with a short sword in his hand as he pontificated.

“So speed is all that matters to you?” asked the Breton with the book.

“Don’t be stupid, Gab,” said the elf. “A long weapon is important, too. A spear, or a longsword, or –”

“A bow?” Mehti could barely make out the shadow of a smile on Gab’s face by the firelight.

“Oh, so just because I’m a Bosmer –”

“Look, if you stick an arrow in somebody before they even see you, doesn’t that fit your criteria?”

“No! No, of course not. A warrior doesn’t hide in the shadows –”

“Besides, Glaum, you use a short sword. Where’s your reach advantage?”

“That’s just because it was all I could afford at the time! Just you wait, once we do a few more jobs –”

“Boys,” said Qismehti as she stepped into the light, “I don’t think that will be possible.”

Gab and Glaum jumped to their feet and readied their weapons: Glaum his iron short sword, and Gab a fistful of fire. “And who in Oblivion are you?” hissed Glaum.

“Why don’t we put it to the test?” Mehti asked, ignoring Glaum’s question. “Who’s the greatest warrior in this room?” She clanged her axe against her shield, a smile tucked away behind her helmet. “House Redoran sends its regards.”

Qismehti charged Gab headlong, turtling her entire body behind her shield. A burst of heat blasted her defense, tongues of flame reaching around to lick Mehti, but she kept up the kagouti-rush. The spells stopped right when she slammed into their caster, knocking him from his feet and laying him out on his back, breathless.

A shout from behind – what was this, amateur hour? – alerted her to an attack from Glaum. She spun out of her forward momentum axe-first, knocking aside the sword swinging at her. She finished her rotation just in time to block Glaum’s counterthrust with her shield. Glaum leapt backwards over the fire, separating the two.

They circled the fire opposite from each other for a moment, their weapons out of reach without a risky lunge. Dammit, Mehti realized. He’s stalling. Gab’s about to –

Just as she made the connection, a fireball slapped her in the back. The impact hurt, but the flame couldn’t reach her through her steel cuirass – yet. Too many more of those and she’d start feeling the heat on her back. She took some quick steps back from the fire and turned to face Gab.

The Breton had retreated up several steps to a higher platform in the chamber, and he was preparing another fireball. She hated to turn her back to Glaum, but the mage was the more dangerous foe. She took the stairs two at a time, shield raised to swat away another fireball as she approached. He can’t keep casting forever…

Sure enough, his magicka ran dry after the next deflected fireball. As soon as he realized, he fumbled for a potion on his belt, but Mehti was faster. His last defense was to feebly raise his arms over his face. She took a bite out of his side with a swift chop, then, after he lowered his guard to grasp at the wound, she swung for his neck.

“Bastard!” The shout came at the same time as the pain in her shoulder. The s’wit had found a chink in her armor, in between the cuirass and pauldron. Thankfully, it wasn’t her axe-arm. She swung back around and caught him in the side of the head, albeit with an off-edge strike. The rush of pain added to the strength of the blow, knocking him sideways onto one knee. Making sure her axeblade was aligned, Mehti chopped straight down his tilted neck, mangling deep into his shoulder. She had to plant a foot on his corpse to wrench the axe out with a wild spurt of blood.

Certain they were dead, Mehti quickly turned her attention to her wound. Hurt like hell, but it wasn’t dire; her left shoulder would be tight for a while, but nothing she couldn’t heal with the spell the priest in Ald’ruhn had taught her. She chugged a healing potion she snagged from the bandits just in case.

As she rested by the fire, covered in blood and viscera, one of the rats from the adjacent room poked its nose in. It proceeded to saunter up to Qismehti. She almost reached for her axe, but all the beast did was start licking a smattering of flesh from her boot. She sighed, gave the rat a little kick to get its attention, and pointed at the corpse of Glaum nearby. Dutifully, the rat left to eat fresh mer-flesh.

- - -

Drulene worked up the courage to peek outside after she heard her last guar baying at something. It was usually a rather tame beast, so she was afraid of whatever was making it wail so. But it was the Redguard Qismehti returning, her armor red in the dying light of day. But as she came closer, Drulene realized the redness was actually blood.

“Qismehti!” Drulene gasped as she stepped outside. “Are you okay? All that blood…Is it yours?”

“Some of it,” said Qismehti as she doffed her helmet. Her face was taut and grim, an expression Drulene had come to expect from the Redoran. Her short, curly hair sprung outwards after being held under tension from the helmet’s weight, but she ran a gauntlet through it to lay down some of the stragglers. Drulene hadn’t seen her face before; she’d never taken the helmet off the first time she saw her.

“By the Three, come inside. I’ll see to your wounds and clean your armor. Can’t have you returning to Ald’ruhn looking like that.” Her sudden shock at the sight of so much blood evaporated, and she remembered where Qismehti had gone in the first place. “Those bandits…are they…?”

“Yes, they’re dead,” said Qismehti as she stopped in front of Drulene. “But so are your guar. I’m sorry.”

Drulene bit her lip, almost hard enough to draw blood. Of course things would turn out this way. What a foolish girl I was, to think…she pushed the thought away and resigned herself to helping Qismehti. “Come in. I’ll help you get your armor off.”

Drulene closed the door behind them and had Qismehti sit on the edge of the bed. Drulene’s father had been a Dres cavalrymer, and she knew at least how Dunmeri armor tended to fit together. The latches and belts on this western steel armor were a little different, but similar enough to work with. Qismehti pulled off her own gauntlets as Drulene fiddled with the belt for the pauldron wrapped under her arm. Qismehti hissed and reached around, blindly grasping at Drulene’s hand. “Careful. That’s where he got me.”

Frozen by the sudden touch, Drulene slowed down as Qismehti awkwardly unfastened the strap herself. Drulene proceeded to undo the latches on the sides of Qismehti’s cuirass. Now she could see the blood-blackened tear in her shirt where the sword had passed. “I’ll have to take off your shirt, okay?”

Qismehti grunted but said nothing; Drulene figured that was a “yes.” She reached under the back hem of Qismehti’s shirt and began to pull up, revealing inch by inch the dark skin – and rippling muscles – beneath. Qismehti helped, pulling up on the front of the shirt as well. She wasn’t wearing any underclothes to cover her breasts, it seemed, and Drulene blushed.

Drulene placed her hand on the broad musculature of Qismehti’s back, her touch gentle. Her fingers ran spider-like over to the blood-caked wound. It seemed mostly healed now – she must have used some spell or potion – but it wasn’t cleanly done, and would leave a small scar. But it was in good company; her body seemed littered with old injuries, a warrior’s long history of combat.

“Let me wash the blood off,” Drulene said, her voice a little weak. She grabbed a rag from nearby, poured some water on it from a jug, and softly rubbed around the scar, scraping away the hard blood there. Every time she neared the edges of the wound, the muscles under Qismehti’s shoulder tensed, hard as steel under the skin. Drulene palmed her other hand against the small of Qismehti’s back, a gesture of both support and curiosity for the feeling of her spine’s ridges.

After she was satisfied the area was clean, she said, “I’ll disinfect with some hackle-lo.” Qismehti turned her head to watch as Drulene took a couple of leaves and put them in her own mouth to chew into a simple poultice. She spat the resultant pulp into her hand. “This might burn,” she said before she began to softly rub it into the wound. Qismehti’s entire body tensed up as she watched Drulene spread the salve. Drulene tried to focus on her work, but kept getting distracted by a muscle stretching Qismehti’s jaw taut.

Qismehti turned then, revealing the gentle slope of her breasts in profile. But it was her eyes that arrested Drulene: light brown, the folds of her irises like soft rivulets in fertile mud. At the intense centers were the black storms of her pupils, drawing Drulene deeper and deeper into their maelstrom.

She couldn’t take it anymore. Hand still slathered in hackle-lo saliva, she reached up, grabbed the side of Qismehti’s face, and kissed her. Qismehti grabbed her wrist and pulled it from her face, but didn’t pull away, kissing back harder. Using that wrist, she dragged Drulene down onto the bed. Drulene yelped, but giggled as Qismehti reached back down to kiss her again.

It was going to be a long night.

- - -

Qismehti lay on her side next to supine Drulene, running her fingers along the ridges of her ribs, and idly tapping on her sternum gently like a guarskin drum. Dunmer skin always delighted Mehti: a little coarser than the skin of men, like it was perpetually coated in ash. She rubbed Drulene’s chest above her breasts, closing her eyes to focus on the feeling, and the sound of Drulene’s long breaths.

Mehti peeked her eyes open again to look at Drulene. Her hands were clasped over her navel, and eyes fixed on the ceiling of the hut, peering past it, beyond even the stars. Qismehti smiled and waved her hand in front of Drulene’s face, her palm briefly brushing against Drulene’s lips, slightly parted. “Are you an astrologer as well as a herder?” Qismehti jested.

“What?” Drulene said, startled from her staring.

“And can you see through ceilings?”

“Oh,” Drulene said with a smiling sigh. “You’re a joker, Qismehti.” She reached up to flick Qismehti on the chin.

“Mehti,” said Mehti. “I think you’ve earned the privilege to call me that.”

“Well, Mehti,” Drulene said, her flick transferring into a gentle grip on Mehti’s chin, “I can see through you well enough. Another round?”

“No,” Mehti said, laughing and shaking her head. “I meant, you seem awful lost in thought. What are you thinking about?”

“Oh.” Drulene’s smile and hold on Mehti’s chin evaporated, her hand falling back to her navel. She was silent for a moment, but closed the gap with another sigh. “I can’t stay.”

“That’s okay,” Qismehti said. “This doesn’t have to be anything more than you want it to be.”

“I mean, I can’t stay in Vvardenfell.” Drulene covered her face with her hands, muffling her voice. “Those guar were all I had. I scraped together everything in Tear to buy them here. I can’t afford to stay.”

Mehti said nothing, her fingers returning to Drulene’s chest pensively. After much thought, she said, “I’m sorry.”

Drulene removed her hands from her face but turned her head away from Mehti. “It’s not your fault.” She turned back to Mehti with damp eyes, looking for the storm in Mehti’s pupils again. Then she rolled out of bed and began to dress herself. “Get dressed,” she said. “I have something to show you.”

Mehti propped herself up on her elbow, wincing a bit at the lingering stiffness in her shoulder. “More than you’ve already shown me?” she asked, smirking.

Drulene threw Mehti’s pants at her, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be a s’wit. Get dressed.”

After they were clothed, they went outside. Qismehti was glad they’d gotten dressed. Not because anyone would see them – there wasn’t another soul for miles – but because up here in the West Gash the nights were chilly. “What is it?” Mehti asked, rubbing her arms for warmth.

Drulene woke the last guar hitched to its post in the yard and bade it stand. “I’m giving you Ildy. A knight such as yourself needs a steed, and –”

“Ildy?” Mehti asked. Her eyes saw past Drulene and the guar, and at the girl she knew as a child. The dead girl. “Is it short for Ildeth?”

Drulene looked up from saddling the guar with a curious expression. “Hm? No, for Ildami. Why do you ask?”

“Oh,” said Mehti, not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. “Nothing. Just curious.” She shook the vision from her head. “Drulene, I can’t take your last guar. You could sell it to make things easier in Tear.”

“Don’t try to turn this down,” Drulene said, frowning. “To tell you the truth, I’m sick and tired of guar. They stink and hardly ever listen to you. Except for Ildy. She’s very well-trained, you’ll get along great.”

“So you’ll try something else when you get back to Tear?”

“Sure. I’ll find something. Maybe I’ll become a kwama miner. Or a netchiman. Not much good for anything beyond working with animals, I’m afraid. But don’t worry about me. I’ve figured out worse situations.”

Qismehti frowned but said, “Okay.” She gave Drulene her second-to-last kiss. “Take care of yourself, muthsera.”

Drulene giggled. “Don’t you ‘muthsera’ me after all that. You can’t try to trick me that your mouth isn’t filthy.” She wrapped her arms around Qismehti tight, and Mehti suddenly remembered she probably lifted guar regularly. “Thank you for everything. And be safe, Mehti, you hear? This is a dangerous land. I’m sure you already know that, but don’t ever forget it. The next I hear from you better not be your obituary.”

“Fine,” Qismehti said with a smile and wink. “Why don’t you go inside and clean my armor like you said? Give me some time to bond with Ildy before sunrise.”

“Sure,” Drulene said, letting go. “I’d say don’t get used to me being your maid, but, well…I suppose just the one time won’t hurt.”

After Drulene shut the door behind her, Qismehti placed a gentle hand on Ildy’s flank. The beast made a purring noise at the touch, its eye staring straight into Mehti’s.

“It’s good to see you again, Ildeth,” Mehti whispered as she rubbed its scales. Ildy lowed quietly. For the first time since coming to Vvardenfell, Mehti felt at home.

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