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aladaylessecondblog · 4 days ago

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Miraak's Lounge

There was a lull in business at the moment, and Miraak took the chance when he had it. Let the sous chef know he had to make a phone call and headed off to the back office. He dialed his sister's number and waited for her to pick up.

"Miraak?" Sadrith sounded tired. It was mid-day, she'd probably only just woken up. "How're you doing?"

"Well enough," he said, "You don't sound good, are you still working at the club?"

"Yeah, I am," she replied quietly.

"You know you don't have to keep working there, right? I can get you a job at the Akaviri place I manage."

"Miraak, we've talked about this. It'll pay the student loans off faster, I'll be a lot more comfortable without that hanging over my head."

"Yeah..." Miraak paused, and looked at the picture on his desk. The graduation photo she'd taken with him three years ago. Things had been bad then, but not as bad as now. "Listen, are you free Tirdas, say, at eleven in the morning?"

"What for?"

"Granddad's dead. Dead dead, and his lawyer called me the other day to say we've been left something. You and me both."

"Why would he leave us anything?" Sadrith questioned, "When we cut ties with dad, he cut ties with us."

"I don't know, he just says we're in the will, thought I'd let you know. Are you free?"

"Yeah, but can you pick me up? I had to junk my car."

"How've you been--don't tell me you WALK to work!"

"Miraak, don't be silly. I don't walk to work. I walk BACK."

"At FOUR IN THE MORNING? In the neighborhood you live in--" For a few moments Miraak was practically hysterical, before calming down. "Yes. Yes, I'll pick you up."

"Miraak, I'm a Dovah. I have literally nothing to worry about. The crime stats in this neighborhood are incredibly overblown...." There was a pause of her own there. "Dad's going to be there, isn't he?"

"When has dad ever missed the opportunity to reach for some of his father's money?" Miraak gave a rueful laugh. "We should be glad Vile's office is small, he'll be forced into his mer-ish form."

"Good. ...good."

They said their goodbyes and Miraak hung up, heading back into the kitchen when he heard a shout.

-----------------------------------

Sadrith was usually outspoken, but any proximity to Alduin and she clammed right on up, giving answers as short as possible. Miraak figured he'd do the talking - it was how things had always worked when it came to their intimidating father.

It started when they were seated in the office, before Clavicus Vile entered. Their father's mer-ish form was tall, pale-skinned, and covered in several places in the black scales that showed he was only the disguise of the true dragon beneath.

"I suppose," came the glare from those slitted eyes Alduin favored, "That you are still making a spectacle of yourself in front of strangers?"

"That's my job, yes." Sadrith's tone was muted.

"Disgusting. You had many better options and that was--"

"Father," Miraak said in a warning tone. "We have talked this to death."

"The talk did not end when you decided it did."

"The talk is OVER, father." Miraak let an edge slip into his voice. "As I told you four years ago, we aren't fighting with you any longer."

"Weak," Alduin growled, nearly slipping into a Shout. "Nikriinne, ney hin."

(Sadrith, seated on Miraak's other side, had suddenly grabbed at his hand and squeezed. He squeezed back.)

"No, we are simply taking our ball and going home."

"Home to a common slum, no doubt, which is where you belong when you--"

"Ah, my dear dovah family!" The polite tone of Clavicus Vile sounded off then, "Apologies. My expertise was needed on an emergency matter...but here I am. Let us proceed to the reading of the will quickly, and not waste any more time."

The first part of Akatosh's will regarded his donations as expected to the church of the Nine Divines. Miraak could still hear his father's familiar ranting on the upstart Talos, but kept focused on the reading at hand.

The donations to various charities took up the first third of the will, and after a few small bequests to friends it then moved on to family.

"Let me begin by saying it is also part of this contract's terms that any attempt to contest the will, will result in partial forfeiture of ones own share."

"You daedric swine," Alduin growled again, this time at Clavicus Vile.

"And of course," Vile showed no signs of being afraid, "Threatening the lawyer's person will result in a consultation fee's worth of gold being cut from the threatener's share. Are we clear?"

Brimming with anger, Alduin sat back. Showing a bit of his fangs as he spoke, he replied, "We are clear."

Alduin retained a great deal of things. Dovah Manor, a trust fund, an insurance policy, the position in the company he'd filled for the last few decades. Still, it was less than he expected, and he said as much.

Clavicus Vile merely went on with the reading. To the two children of Alduin went a manor house in the upper east side of Solitude, and another in Ald'ruhn. If either of them wished not to occupy these houses, offers were already on hand for their sale. A joint trust fund, and individual sums of money - for the remainder of their student loans, and the Dovah Lounge, an Akaviri restaurant in Vivec City with an incredible reputation.

"Gods, the weight this'll take off my shoulders..." Sadrith breathed a long sigh of relief.

"Had you not insisted on dual-majoring in art, you would already have paid it off," Alduin snarked, "Art is for Dibellans, and you are a Dovah."

"Father," Miraak interjected.

"Alduin, if you don't mind, my paralegal--" Clavicus Vile gestured to a plump and rather nervous looking imperial woman, "Has paperwork for you to sign. If you don't wish to risk a conversation that will result in any losses, I highly recommend you get on that."

Still brimming with anger, Alduin left.

"Always angry, that one," Vile went on. "Now, decisions do not need to be made about the houses now..."

"What do you think?" Miraak asked Sadrith, "You want either of those houses?"

"Wouldn't mind living in Ald'ruhn again," she replied, "I don't imagine you'd care for being a nord in Dunmer territory, though."

"I've been in Ramsay's kitchen, there's nothing they can say that'll faze me," Miraak huffed. "I'd prefer to be close to the Dovah Lounge...that, that's a bit more to my taste than a house in Solitude. Provided you don't mind having your big brother in the same house over your shoulder all the time."

"With dad ready to shout us down at every chance, I WANT you there. He didn't care about us before, he'll 'care' now. I'd...rather have you close."

"Does this mean you'll want to be rid of the house in Solitude?" Vile asked.

Miraak and Sadrith both nodded, and the lawyer drew out another envelope. "A list of contacts for you, then, of those who are interested in its sale. And may I say..."

"If we ever need a contract written, you're available. We know," Sadrith said, "How much did you get out of our grandfather for this will?"

"Enough," Vile said with a smile, "But he knew if he wanted something Alduin couldn't find loopholes in he needed to come to me. I am the best choice for writing ironclad contracts - period."

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It was a breath of fresh (ashy) air, going back to Ald'ruhn. They hadn't been back in years; when they were a lot younger Alduin hadn't much cared for the ash-blasted city of Ald'ruhn. But it felt - right, to Sadrith, it felt like home. The foul weather outside was nice to watch from inside.

Miraak, of course, wore his mask outside, and only lifted it once he'd come inside.

"How you can feel at home here, I don't know," he laughed, "I feel like I've smoked two packs even with the mask on my face...but I guess your mother took you here often enough."

"When dad was...a bit too much. Before she..." There was a pause. "She said here it didn't matter, everything would turn to ash anyway, that it was pretty to watch."

Another pause.

"Do you think you'd want me waiting tables at the lounge?"

"Thought you didn't want to work for me."

"That was before. The loan's paid off. I can actually breathe." Sadrith took a mocking sort of deep breath, and coughed slightly as she inhaled the slightest bit of ash. "I hated stripping but I was making a fortune doing it."

The evening news here seemed to be handled by some dunmer who also wore a mask, and he looked only long enough to see the weather tomorrow was going to be ashy but sunny in both Ald'ruhn and Vivec City.

Good. It would make things a lot easier.

Miraak put a blanket over Sadrith when he realized she'd fallen asleep and then headed to the kitchen to see what was in the fridge.

#miraak is the best big brother ever #miraak and my ldb are alduins kids #miraak is a chef #skyrim #morrowind #fanfiction #miraak #alduin #tes #tesblr #ldb is into art #dagoth ur

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ego-osbourne · 2 years ago

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A fic to be paired with this post. A bit of a long one, but one that I’m pretty happy about! Got to practice with a lot of new stuff. Hope you enjoy Ego getting their ass kicked… again >:)

The Deep Dive

Word Count: 7885

Status: Complete

TW: Body Horror, Prolonged Asphyxiation, Throat Injury, Violence/Battle, Mental Breaks, Lots of Eyes, Throwing Up, Coughing Blood

Summary: Ego is lured and attacked by Hermaeus Mora, and so has to seek out help while the rest of the Masquerade is unavailable.

———

“Alright, I’m headed out,” Ego said, slinging their bag over their shoulder. “Meet you guys in Winterhold, right?”

“Right, yes,” Erandur sighed. He pushed himself from his chair and stepped over to the Last, putting a comforting hand on their shoulder and he walked them to the door of the lodge. He called over to the opposite end of the room, “Your brother is leaving!”, getting the other three’s attention. Ancano gave his best smile (which was a slanted frown) as he waved them off, Serana gave a wave and told them, “Safe travels,” with a hint of knowing worry, and Miraak stood and meandered over, teasing, “You do know where you’re going, yes?”

“Yes, yes,” Ego waved him off, “Even if I get lost, I have the Rose. I can just summon him.” They referenced Sanguine.

“I really wish he’d walk you,” the priest said. “The Pale is dangerous enough without you traveling alone.”

“He must have big plans,” the First knowingly nudged the Last. Ego nudged him back with a half-frown behind the mask. “Don’t go speculating,” Ego told him.

“Hard not to.” He opened the door for them, chuckling, “Hard…”

“Miraak,” Erandur scolded. Ego shook their head with a grin, telling the First, “You’re terrible.” Erandur stuck by the door of the lodge as the Last stepped onto the porch. “Be safe, son,” the priest told them. Ego waved back as their feet hit the snow, “I will. See you in a day or two!” Erandur and Miraak waved them on, watching them walk out of Dawnstar before settling their worries with sighs and returning to the lodge to pack their things.

The night before, Sam Guevenne had asked Ego to meet him in a “special place” out in the Pale. He had marked Ego’s map, giving hints that there was a shrine to him there, and a warm spot nearby. He was strangely vague about it all and purposely distant, as if drawing Ego out. The group decided to split, agreeing to meet up in Winterhold a few days later and let Ego and Sam have their little date. There were barely any worries; Sam was a well-established member of the Masquerade and Ego was more than capable of traveling alone for a couple of hours.

As they went, Ego speculated what Sam’s little treat would be. There was no holiday as far as they knew. Sanguine’s summoning day was a week and a few days ago, but they figured this didn’t have much to do with it. In fact, they remembered Sam had said he would be busy for a while after his summoning day, cleaning up some messes and making good with some other Princes that may have been caught in the crossfire of his event. Maybe this little outing would mark his official return to the group.

Once out into the wilderness, Ego pulled their map from their bag and found the location. Sam had marked it with a thick black line, near a small wooded area in the Pale, close to the sea. Ego wasn’t sure they’d ever passed by that area before.

Their curious mind kept them entertained as a couple of hours passed. The sun halfway up in the sky and setting, and the usual chill of the Pale was magnified as the cloudy sky darkened. Ego itched to get to the location and be with Sam, who surely had a cozy spot to heat up in.

They spotted stacked rocks among a collection of trees up ahead. They checked their map—yes, this was the spot. They picked up the pace a bit, pushing into the trees and attempting to spot any sort of shrine or other man-made inventions. However, there was nothing other than stale memories of something that might have existed before, now covered by undisturbed snow and shaded in the setting sun’s waning light. Ego stood dumbly, wondering, Is this right? They felt warmth from worry invade their head, and they reached for the map in their bag.

Then, a familiar voice, “Ego?”

The Dragonborn turned to their left, finding Sam Guevenne stepping between the trees. Ego smiled beneath the mask, sighing, “There you are. I was wondering if I was in the right spot.”

“This is it,” he said, keeping his eyes down. Ego noted that he was only in his usual robes, which was far too underdressed for the area they were in. “Aren’t you freezing?” Ego teased.

He hesitated before answering, “I’m a Prince, I don’t worry about the cold.” His speech was slower than before and he seemed nervous. Ego met him with a comforting hand on his arm, asking, “Are you alright?” They knew him well enough to know when he was feeling off and when he was trying to hide it, but even his attempt to cover his emotions felt strange. The Prince in disguise bit his tongue, twisting his heel into the snow. “I’m alright, trust me.” Without making eye-contact, he gestured through the trees, toward the beach. “Should we go to our little spot?”

Ego lowered their brow, worried for their partner. His words felt forced. They slipped their arm under his, wrapping their limb around his back. “Sam, you can talk to me, you know? Not a whole lot scares me.” They tried to keep their tone light.

Sam didn’t answer, or even much look at them. He tried to pull them along, but didn’t put up much of a fight. Ego brought their other hand to his opposite shoulder, turning the Prince to look at them. His half-smile was incredibly forced, and he couldn’t maintain eye-contact. He was stiff, his body tense. A sinking feeling hit Ego’s gut. “You don’t have to talk…” they said lowly, “But you can ask me for help, you know? Do you need anything?”

“What could you do for a Prince?” he asked solemnly.

The phrase seemed familiar to them for some reason, but they couldn’t place it. They ignored it, offering, “Anything. Even just a hug.”

It was then that Sam’s eyes locked onto Ego’s through the mask. His expression flattened before he sighed through his nose and nodded. “Yes.”

Ego noted his speech pattern—it was very un-Sanguine-like. They worried about what might have happened between then and the last time they saw him to make him so distant. They weren’t sure how to get the information out of him—or if they even should—as they pulled Sam into a hug. They leaned into him, accepting his grasp and expecting a gentle squeeze… but his muscles were stiff and his arms were tight around them. Something rang in the back of Ego’s mind, but they ignored it. Ego inhaled, taking in odorless air…

No… That was wrong. Ego furrowed their brow, confused, knowing that they should have smelled vanilla on him. But there was nothing.

And his embrace… was cold. It was as cold as the air around them. There was no warmth or comfort, only stale air, shivering cold, and a dark worry that bled into their mind like ink.

Something inside of Ego told them that this wasn’t like Sam…

No, they thought, This isn’t Sam at all. A subconscious force told them to push him away and run, that they were in the embrace of something dangerous. They didn’t want to believe it, but they couldn’t shake the feeling.

They tried to remain calm, quietly ordering, “Sam, let go,” and hoping that maybe, just maybe, this was still Sanguine. They hoped that the feeling in their head was wrong and that they were worried for nothing.

But Sam’s arms only tightened around them.

“Let go,” Ego panicked, trying to push away from him. Everything about this screamed Not Sam, and the Dragonborn had trouble recognizing anything else other than the figure that held them. The world around was dark and senseless, and this facade of Sam Guevenne was all they could focus on. Ego dug their claws into his shoulders, shoving away, shouting, “Sam!”

The coldness enveloped them. Ego knew this feeling. They were plummeting into a cold ink of Oblivion.

“Get off!” they cried, electricity sparking at their fingers before they knew it. Lightning stabbed through Sam’s skin, electrifying his body and making him spasm. Ego knew that the shock so close to his head would damage him immensely, but their fear overwhelmed whatever benefit of doubt they harbored. Sam’s arms went limp for just a moment, giving Ego enough time to react and shove him away, lighting still springing from their metal claws. They watched him trip and fall onto his back, then lay still in the snow.

Ego’s senses came back to them all at once. They hadn’t realized they were panting so heavily until that moment. They felt cold sweat beneath their clothes, doubling the effects of the chilly air. A biting wind whipped through the trees, moving leaves and creating a light rustle. The sky had near-completely darkened, save for a royal-blue horizon.

Sam’s body laid motionless. His head was twisted over and facing away from Ego, with strands of hair covering his face. He was strangely pale. Strangely quiet. Strangely motionless…

Ego felt panic flood their entire body. The pit in their stomach twisted, now, making them jerk and scramble. “Sam. Sam,” they repeated, not sure who they were speaking to. They spoke to the body before them, terrified that they might have hurt or killed him—could they even kill a Prince?—but they also spoke to the air, hoping that somewhere out there was the real Sanguine, and that he heard them, and would appear at any minute. “Sam. Sam.”

The body didn’t move.

Ego’s hands began to tremble. They grabbed at the air by their sides, making fists at nothing, and stepping back. That wasn’t Sam, it couldn’t be Sam, and yet there he laid.

The weight of their backpack struck a sudden thought into their mind. “Right,” they hissed under their breath, forcing their eyes away from the body. The Rose, they remembered. The Dragonborn swung their bag from their shoulder and set it at their feet, forcibly pulling the staff from its fastenings. They reached for the rosebud to pluck away a petal and summon Sanguine.

When, suddenly, the staff was ripped out of their hands. The force was so strong that they fell forward as it left, tripping over their bag and landing in the snow. They pushed themself to their hands and knees, looking up to see a tentacle as black as night reaching from a tree as if it were a branch. It held the Rose, bringing it closer to other branches that morphed into tentacles. The ever-moving limbs stained the Rose black before snapping it in half, and then into fourths. Ego shouted, “No!” and jumped to their feet, but the Rose had already withered to a blackened-grey by the time the tentacles dropped its pieces to the ground.

The Dragonborn was struck with fear and dread. Something in their mind told them to look back at the body that they had left in the snow. Without much forethought, they did just that, and their perception of the world collapsed around them. All they recognized was the breton’s body, the woods around them impossible to sense. The body was twisting on itself and things writhed beneath its skin. Bloodless, the skull cracked open with a pop, and from it rose wet, bulbous tentacles. A similar thing happened all across the corpse, ink spilling from the open wounds and barbed tentacles rising from the carcass. “Dragonborn…”

Ego struck their head with the palm of their hand, forcing themself to look away from the Prince. They closed their eyes and the world returned to them, cold and unwelcoming. They scrambled and spun, unhooking their axe from their belt as they wove between the trees. Again, they felt something tell them to turn around, look, look at it, but they vehemently denied the urge. Instead, they Shouted, “Wuld… Nah Kest!” and dashed across the snowy plain. They weren’t sure what to do with the Rose gone and the Masquerade hours away—as well as any sort of civilization. So, they ran, “Wuld… Nah Kest!”, and ran, “Wuld… Nah Kest!”, until…

The Dragonborn was struck across the back, a bludgeoning bruise forming beneath their armor. They tumbled forward and rolled, managing to pick themself up with the momentum surprisingly well. They sensed him immediately behind them, and so barely aimed as they swung their axe back with a yelp. The blade cut into a mass of leathery, wet flesh, blacker than night and more infectious than a disease. The figure consumed their mind as they looked at it, and the ink of his body consumed the head of their axe. Ego found much difficulty while pulling it away, choosing next to throw their casting hand out to strike him with lightning. The towering body flinched and reformed where the lightning struck, and in retaliation he overpowered Ego with barbed tentacles. The Dragonborn was wrapped in boneless limbs, pinning their arms back as they were lifted from the ground and as ink seeped through their clothes. A low bass rumbled through their body, preventing them from hearing anything other than his voice. “How foolish…” Hermaeus Mora taunted.

Ego stared into golden eyes that swam beneath a faux hood, pushing against and misshaping each other as they flowed like a gelatinous paste, disappearing into indecipherable blackness where his form ended. The breton was lifted a dozen feet off the ground, nearly reaching eye-level with the Prince. Air was being squeezed from their lungs, and they knew they had to act quickly. They felt the Voice rise to the back of their throat, and they Shouted into his hooded eyes, “Yol… Toor Shul!”

Hermaeus was quick to shield his head with massive tentacles just before the bulk of the fire hit him. The tentacles burned and bubbled before reaching for Ego’s neck and subsequently revealing the Prince’s face once again. Ego inhaled to Shout once more, but the tentacles tightened themselves around their throat and prevented them from breathing. They tried to bring their hands to their neck to pull the tentacles away, but their limbs were stretched further out by Hermaeus. “Allow me to take care of this issue…” he said, leaning in closer as another tentacle rose to their face. Ego could barely twist their head away as the limb wormed underneath their mask, spreading cold ink over their chin and lips before forcing its way between their teeth. Ego felt extreme violation at this, finding it impossible to breathe as the wet mass snaked down their throat. He was preventing them from Shouting, they knew, but he did it in the most personal way possible. They clamped down on the tentacle, gagging already from the intrusion and the stale taste, but now was disgusted threefold as their teeth sliced through the sensation of leather and sponge. The chew wasn’t smooth, and the force of their jaw wasn’t enough to cut through a thick middle-piece of the tentacle. Their stomach flipped as the limb danced in their throat, and a terrible, expanding pain emanated in their chest as they breathed in ink.

Hermaeus wrapped a tentacle around their head, squeezing their jaw and causing them to bite through the tentacle, which severed it and allowed it to slide down their throat. He released their head and neck, letting the tendrils that held the breton fall to the ground and having Ego crash into the snow. They inhaled and exhaled sharply without pattern, drawing in the slightest of breaths—wet, stale, and infected. It hurt to breathe, and they could feel the tendril writhing like a fat worm in their throat, returning to the back of their mouth before divine down into their chest, then back up and down again. Their mask sat crooked on their face, and their armor bent with the tentacles that grabbed them. The Voice called for action, but Ego could barely find the air to stay conscious, let alone to Shout.

Hermaeus Mora moved through the snow, leaving a trail of disrupted black wherever he moved. Ego was being dragged along behind him, and they clawed at the ground with their free hand, though it did nothing to slow him down. Ego desperately tried to cough up the tentacle, but each inhale was ladened with ink and only pushed the tendril further down.

“Your incompetence amuses me, Dragonborn,” he said, his voice ringing out from every part of him. “Perhaps taking you as a Champion would be worth little beyond embarrassment.”

They thrashed and writhed, coughing up black mucus as snow and ink caked into the crevices in their hands. Their body was twisting at a painful angle, no comfort granted to them. Ego knew they’d never be able to escape on their own, and they couldn’t Shout for help, but another thought came to their mind: they could conjure something. Or rather, someone. Sanguine was out of the realm of options, the Rose still withered and broken far away in the snow, but Ego knew the summoning spell of a certain Dagon warrior…

Hoping Hermaeus wouldn’t negate the spell, and hoping that this wouldn’t backfire in more ways than one, they held their breath to focus, struggling to use their non-casting hand to remember the incantation. They drew half in the air, half in the snow; dark purple clouds emanated from their claws, sparking and crackling, appearing to succeed…

And then, the magic turned back on them, the summon failing. They gasped in surprise—which made them swallow down the tendril in their throat and blocked off all air—as sparking purple clouds climbed up their arm with immense speed and burned them through their clothes. They seized up and winced with great pain, cursing the conjuration burn, not knowing if it failed because of the Prince that held them or because of their own incompetence. Either way, the pain reminded them of just how bad this idea could turn out. Ego remembered the terrifying fight was that they had so long ago with the dremora, and the terrible night they instigated. They agreed to never be alone together again, but the situation was dire. Ego needed that daedra.

“I have searched for a long time for my artifacts. I believe I found one of them,” Hermaeus said, switching his grasp on the breton. “Do you remember what you did with it?” The question was rhetorical. He was bringing them closer to the ocean.

Ego didn’t quite register his words, already trying again to cast the summon. They could feel the flesh on their arm wrinkling and tearing from the conjuration burn, but they persisted. They weren’t sure if the dark spots they saw in their eyes were from Hermaeus’ influence or from their body giving up. With their last ounce of energy from a shallow breath, they tugged their casting arm free and used both hands to finish the incantation. Just as they completed the spell, they were yanked from the ground and forced to face the myriad of golden eyes; they never saw if the spell succeeded.

Hermaeus’ gaze trapped Ego’s, darkening the rest of the world so all they saw was black and gold. “You let it sink,” Hermaeus told them, his tone low with malice.

The tendril in Ego’s throat stilled, pushing open the tube to allow them to breathe. Ego gasped and coughed, enjoying the least bit of kindness that the Prince gave them. They had no strength to Shout or speak, however. The tentacles turned Ego’s gaze away from the daedra and toward the Sea of Ghosts; with their gaze off of Hermaeus, the breton could perceive the rest of the world, now. A night sky accentuated the thick darkness of a rainstorm some distance away from the beach. The waves were deep and black, moving with the wind, but Ego noticed a particular spot out in the waters that was completely still. That spot filled them with paranoia and called to them. It was then that Ego realized what Hermaeus was talking about.

The Masquerade had collected the Black Books, so very long ago, and upon realizing just how dangerous it was to keep them, they disposed of them in a number of different ways. Ego remembered one of the ways, when they and Miraak rode dragons and tossed a Book into the ocean while soaring overhead.

This part of the Ghost Sea was suddenly much more familiar. Though Ego had never set foot on this part of the beach before, they’d flown over it. And that still spot in the water signaled where a Black Book rested, calling from the depths.

Ego began to thrash, creating guttural noises of protest as the tendril squirmed in their throat again. “You let it sink…” Hermaeus repeated. “You should sink, now, and fetch it for me.”

Ego was turned back toward the Prince, weakening their will. “Resisting my call will only lead you to drown.” The tentacles squeezed tighter around them, bracing. “So, save yourself the trouble of death, and reach the bottom.” With that, the Daedric Prince swung his limbs and tossed Ego out into the sea. The Dragonborn flew through the air without control, the cold world returning to their senses, but in the worst way possible. They gasped to Shout but only choked, and in a moment their body was enveloped in blistering cold waters.

Freezing wetness flooded their armor and mask, blocking all sense of comfort. They inhaled but took in liquid, fighting against the water as they sank and reached for the dwindling light above. Their armor weighed them down, down, down, and their waning strength failed them. The Dragonborn sank, numbness corrupting their head, and blackness blanketing them.

They felt their consciousness begin to slip. Their heart pulsed in their chest, drumming against their ribs, as if begging for escape from the watery death that surrounded them. They had no strength left to fight the impossibly strong pull of the water.

…And then, another heartbeat. It pulsed all around them, slower and stronger than their own. It was warm and addictive, familiar and foreboding, pulling Ego down. The Dragonborn didn’t fight against it, wanting to be closer to this last sense of twisted comfort before death consumed them. Through the thickness of the water, a noise vibrated their chest, sounding like twisting, scraping metal and stone, or like a magical charm laying over the sky. An impossible noise found common in Apocrypha. An impossible noise produced by Black Books.

Ego’s body came to a stop upon reaching the sea floor. Their legs were in muck and sand, but their upper body rested on something more solid. A hum rang out from the object they rested on, and something in their mind told them to open their eyes. Look. Look.

Ego inhaled, taking in a breath of air. The tendril within opened their throat to breathe, and a bubble of air surrounded their body on the seafloor. Consciousness returned to them, and with it came awareness. They realized they were laying atop a Black Book, the twisted pull all-too familiar and extremely worrying. They could feel its pages, knowing it was open before them. They knew that if they opened their eyes, they would see its contents, and if they did that, they’d be captured and taken to Apocrypha.

They tightened their already-shut eyes, breathing through ink and strange air, fighting against the silent call to open your eyes, look, read the words. It was a snare, a siren’s call, and Ego had to battle with their own will to keep their eyes closed.

But the book was comforting. It was warm and dry, and the heartbeat pulse that it produced squeezed them like a hug. Surely, then accepting its call would promise even more comfort? The Dragonborn shoved those thoughts away, but they kept returning. It will be alright, they told themself, You made it this far. Just open your eyes. It is not a difficult task to do.

Ego tried to pull their hands away from the pages, but found it to be impossible. Their claws gripped the sides of the open Book, unable to be pried off. They felt tightness in their body and sweat began to form across their head and back, mixing with the wetness of the sea water and ink that soaked their clothes. They panted aloud, hissing through their teeth and clamping their eyes shut. “No, no…” they muttered, unable to defy Hermaeus Mora’s influence any other way.

Their lungs burned with pain, a similar feeling to when Ego was sick in the chest back in Solstheim. They searched for the call of the Voice, but there was no strength in their lungs. They began to pant, nervousness taxing the energy in their body. They had to get away from the Book, even if it meant returning to the icy waters. They couldn’t keep their eyes shut for much longer. But their hands were stuck, stuck, attached and wanting. Open your eyes, Dragonborn. Open your eyes.

Ego groaned aloud as they forced their body up and off of the Book. As they went, they lifted their arm, their hand still gripping the Book but lifting it a small bit from the muck of the sea floor. Ego fell back with weakness, but was struck with determination. They couldn’t let go of the Book, but they could manipulate it and move it—they could shut it. Open them, open them. Your eyes, open them.

Ego fought the call, but they could feel the muscles in their face weakening. The want to open their eyes and lay into the warmth of the book was tearing down their psyche. With every last ounce of their energy, they battled against the pull and shoved against the artifact to sit up. Their head hung low as they used the weight of their body to pull on their left arm, taking the Book with them. The Book itself felt no heavier than it had before, but it was as if they were fighting against something that pulled it the opposite way. The tendril in their throat balled up and blocked all air, discouraging Ego from continuing, but they fought anyway. The Black Book hummed a low note that vibrated their body, soothing and weakening them, before the vibrations turned to pins and needles all over their skin. The Dragonborn coughed and groaned, turning their head away from the Book as they finally opened their eyes. The cover of the Book passed the peak of its arch and fell shut, creating a small tremor in the air around them. Ego watched the dome of oxygen collapse; the water of the ocean slammed into them.

There was no warmth, no comfort, and no hope. Pressure strangled them and made their head ring. Air was completely unavailable. They still gripped the Black Book.

And then, tightness around their torso. Darkness swallowed their vision, and they weren’t able to see what had ahold of them, but they could guess by the impossible size and terrible chill that this was one of Hermaeus’ tentacles, grabbing them and dragging them quickly through the water. Liquid rushed by their ears like wind, and they could feel their senses being lost by the second. They weren’t sure if they were passing out or simply being influenced by the Prince. The only given grace was the waning pressure, the water feeling lighter around them as they were yanked back to shore. They subconsciously hugged the Book.

Through their lack of senses, they could still hear one thing: his voice. “Insolent mortal!” Their head broke the surface of the water as they were dragged through the sandy shore. They caught a glimpse of their surroundings: Hermaeus was a tall tower among a sea of writhing tendrils, growing ever-further outward like a hungry fire. They infected the snow and the sea, blackening all they touched. “Open the Book!”

Ego couldn’t grasp the thought of letting the Book go. Sand and muck caked into the layers of their armor. The tentacle removed itself and left them in the shallow water, waves pushing up over their head in pulses. The Prince slowly made his way towards them. He spoke, but the breton didn’t register his words. They were out of air.

Hermaeus Mora felt them slip and had the tendril in their throat open their lungs to take in more air. They were of no use to him if not conscious. Ego’s mind was quickly re-awakening itself as Hermaeus inserted tentacles between them and the Black Book. He curled the pages to open them, beckoning, “Wake, Dragonborn. Wake—”

Ego’s axe flew through the air and struck the Prince in the side of his perceived head, causing his form to spasm and jerk before the weapon was pushed away and fell into swimming ink. Hermaeus drew his attention away from Ego—who was slowly coming back into consciousness—and toward the direction from where the axe came from. At the edge of the mass of tendrils and ink was a dremora in personalized Dagon armor, having just thrown the axe. He sighed off the edge that made his body tingle with excitement, reaching over his shoulder to unfasten his warhammer from his back. “There, you oblivious fucker! Was wondering when you’d pay me any sort of attention!”

The Dragonborn, with a slightly clearer head, heard his voice. They lifted themself onto their knees with consciousness and looked to find the source. A short walk away stood Rakell—the summon they attempted earlier had succeeded. Ego wanted to laugh but felt the tendril be swallowed down again, and they struggled to even function much.

Hermaeus felt a tightening rage upon looking at the intrusion. The dremora was nothing more than a distraction to him, and one that would be taken care of shortly. Ego’s attempt at rescue would fail.

With an uncaring nature, Hermaeus turned back to the Dragonborn while sending barbed tentacles upon the dremora warrior. Rakell lifted his warhammer in a blocking position, knowing it wouldn’t do much, but having a trick up his sleeve. Fire sparked up his arms and shot from his fingers, mixing with a ward he casted to create a shield of fire. Hermaeus’ tentacles slammed into this ward, bubbling and boiling as Rakell was left untouched. The Prince was suddenly very aware of the dremora and reassessed how to deal with him.

Rakell gave him no time, however. The dremora spotted a grouping of tentacles going to grab onto Ego and acted. He threw his hand out and sent a fireball between Hermaeus and Ego, severing the majority of the tentacles and causing the Prince’s stature to deform. Before he could react, though, Rakell pulled the flames back and created a wall of fire. Smoke shielded the daedras’ views of each other, and the hungry flames ate away at the Prince’s flesh. Rakell stepped into the muck of ink, only to be near-tripped by small but strong tentacles grabbing onto his feet. They quickly worked their way into the cracks of his armor, sharpening themselves and attempting to stab through his layer of chain mail. Some of them succeeded, and Rakell quickly attempted to escape the terrain of tendrils. There was no way to get to Ego while they rested in Hermaeus’ grasp.

But he could bring them to him.

Ego knew Rakell was damned good at magicka, but they hadn’t seen a wild display from him like this. They knew they had to get to him, and so tried to fight against the inky limbs that surrounded them, but they were only tripped and pulled time and time again. The fire that burned between them and the Prince was dangerously close, and on the other side of the heat they could hear Hermaeus’ call. “Dragonborn!”

The tendril in their throat writhed as if it were panicking, cutting off most air from reaching their lungs. They clawed at their throat with one hand—as if it would do anything—while the other hand remained occupied with the Book, subconsciously keeping it under their arm. They scrambled to escape, heading for the edge of the area of tentacles in an effort to be free of their grasp, but it was no use. They could feel Hermaeus closing in around them.

And then, suddenly, they were being ripped away from him. They weren’t being pulled by a tentacle—in fact, nothing outwardly had ahold of them. They felt like their bones were being grabbed onto, and the power of the pull was enough to make their whole body tumble across the field of ink.

Rakell, at the edge of that field, had tucked his warhammer beneath his arm in order to use both hands to cast a powerful telekinesis spell. He remembered that Ego’s skeleton was made of metal—a perfect material to use the spell on. He targeted them and dragged them to him, expending lots of energy into doing so, but happy with his success. Tentacles attempted and failed to grab Ego as they were pulled along, and quickly enough Ego had tumbled right by Rakell’s feet. The dremora huffed a fatigued sigh as he recovered, reaching down to Ego. “Alright, alright,” he said, mostly to himself, harshly grabbing them by the arm.

Right as he did though, a particularly quick tentacle emerged from the growing flames that made up Hermaeus’ body. It slammed down onto Ego’s legs, wrapped around their waist, and barbed itself as it dragged them away. Hermaeus’ form had grown above the flames and was twice as incomprehensible as before. The tentacle in Ego’s throat suddenly took on a similar quality to the one around their legs—it became barbed, and it pierced the skin within their throat. Immense pain paired with a mix of blood and ink to create a horrible panic within Ego. They wanted to scream but couldn’t, and so desperately grabbed for Rakell.

The dremora did his best to hold onto their arm, uncaring about the damage it could do to them as he fought against the Prince’s strength. He knew he was no match for Hermaeus, though, and with quick hands he let go of Ego, took his warhammer, and chased them into the field of ink while swinging the weapon down over them. The head of the hammer narrowly missed their leg and bludgeoned the tentacle, severing it. Rakell launched another fireball at Hermaeus, making the field of tentacles around them flinch and coil in on themselves. The dremora grabbed the back of the Dragonborn’s armor and dragged them along as he lunged out of the mass of tentacles and onto white snow. Ego tumbled and choked.

Rakell tried to get Ego up on their feet, but their weak body didn’t allow them to run on their own. They tried to get his attention, hoping that he somehow knew that they couldn’t breathe, but Rakell was none the wiser. He swore aloud, sometimes cursing Ego’s name as he struggled to pull them along. He glanced back, seeing that they might have been just far enough to execute his next step, but he’d have to be quick. “Hold onto me, don’t fucking let go,” he barked at the Dragonborn, releasing his grasp to free a hand for an incantation.

Ego dropped nearly immediately, their legs trembling too much to allow them to stand on their own. They heard Rakell, though, and heeded his words, wrapping an arm around his leg and leaning against him. They did their best to cough or even get themselves to vomit in order to expel the tentacle, but nothing was working. Little slips of air every few seconds was all the grace that they were given.

Ego looked over their shoulder to where they left Hermaeus. His lanky form slowly reformed and each one of his golden eyes locked onto the two of them. The breton felt immense panic swell in their chest as he shot forward with a vigor. Ego hit the armored leg that they held, beckoning him to hurry, hurry.

Rakell was drawing an incantation in the air, and cursed at them when they hit him. “Stay still! Hold on!” Just as he finished speaking, he completed the spell and a portal opened in front of them. The dremora grabbed Ego by the back of their armor and threw them ahead of him. Rakell hopped through the gate just before a series of tentacles attempted to slam him into the ground. He threw his arm back and shut the portal, which caught an unlucky tendril in its wake and sliced clean through it, leaving a dead and writhing limb on the ground.

Ego was attempting to recover without air. The tentacle in their throat ceased to move and smoothed over, no longer barbed but still very stuck. When they were thrown, they lost their grip on the Black Book, and their body was sprawled across a hard, hot, rocky surface. They waved at Rakell, turning over to lay on their side as they pulled the mask off—they didn’t care who saw, they needed to cough this thing up.

The dremora caught their wave and looked down at their face, which was pale and desaturated. “Fucking gods,” he swore, leaning down and putting his hands over them. He was about to cast a healing spell when he realized they were choking and so lifted them up. There was no way his arms could push hard enough against their armor to help them, and he was afraid that there was too little time to pull off their chest piece, and so improvised. He supported most of their weight, holding them in place as he brought his knee up and struck them just below the sternum. Ego’s body jolted, their lungs pushing air up through their throat, but not enough to dislodge the tentacle. Again, Rakell forcibly kneed their midsection, stunning them and leaving a massive bruise just beneath their chest. Still, it wasn’t enough, and Ego felt as if they’d hack up their whole stomach at this point. The force of the pain scared them to Oblivion and back, and their mind was giving up on them. Rakell swore, annoyed, and slammed his knee into them again.

That time, it worked. The wounded muscles in Ego’s throat spasmed and forced the tendril up and out. The wet piece of meat fell from their lips and onto the ground, and the painful luxury of breath was given back to them. They couldn’t control the tremors in their voice, trailing their exhales with pained sounds akin to a dying animal. Rakell felt relief, then, as he pulled their back against him so they could support themself. Ego was barely strong enough to stand, and so relied entirely on Rakell to keep upright.

The Dragonborn’s throat was full of ink and blood. They brought a hand to their neck, attempting to spark a restoration spell, but the tight, magically-burned skin from their earlier-acquired conjuration burn seized in pain, preventing them from casting. They forced out, “Cut…”

Rakell heard them. “Where?”

They grabbed at their neck, blood bubbling up at the back of their throat as they breathed. The dremora could smell the blood on them, and reached his hands to their neck. Ego only slightly feared that his clawed gauntlets would strangle them, but Rakell refrained, casting a restoration spell. He wasn’t sure exactly where they were cut, and so offered a weak but broad healing incantation. Ego felt sharp pains as it worked into their throat, slowly closing the piercing wounds that caused them to bleed. They winced and flinched at each pang of healing, but finally began to relax. They assessed their surroundings.

Wherever they were, it definitely wasn’t Nirn. As pain influenced their mind less and less, they were able to sense the area around them; this was Oblivion, wrought with the deep bellow of a daedric realm. This wasn’t a realm that Ego had ever been to before, though. It was unlike the Myriad, which was cozy and whimsical, and it was unlike Apocrypha, which was damp and haunting. This realm was intensely hot and covered in a hue of fiery reds and oranges, and stark blacks. They were positioned on a flattened collection of rock faces, and surrounding them was dirt and grass that looked bleak and grey in the lighting. The entire sky was blanketed in dark, rolling clouds, illuminated with flashing red and golden lights that appeared like lightning. To their left was solid ground, cracked and traveled on, leading to a skinny path that trailed into a far-off area of lifted rocks and scattered collections of trees. Ahead of them was a drop with brooding golden light shining from far below, heat waves accompanying it. Far into the distance, Ego could spot a foggy silhouette of more mountainous rocks, though they appeared to be unnaturally placed, as if they’d been forcefully pulled from the ground.

These were the Deadlands.

Rakell felt a headache begin to form from his extreme overuse of magic in such a short amount of time. He dispelled the restoration and pushed Ego out in front of him, though held onto their shoulders. “Can you stand?”

Ego’s legs trembled and buckled, and they were led to the ground slowly. They sat on the dirt and rock, attempting to breathe through their nose, but needing more air than that. However, each inhale made them feel sick in the chest, and they coughed ink and blood into their hands. Rakell grimaced at the sound of their coughing, looking around to assess the area. As he did, he spotted the strange book that Ego had brought through the portal with them. He stepped over to it while strapping his warhammer to his back. “Do you need this thing?”

Ego finished a coughing fit before turning to look over their shoulder. Their eyes automatically landed on the Black Book, and a mixture of dread and wanting filled their being. “Get… Get rid of it…” they said quietly, wetness in their voice.

“Get rid of it?” Rakell echoed, “Destroy it?”

The Dragonborn turned their body, filled with sudden, wild energy. They tried to push themself up to stand, but their legs failed them, and they tripped forward and hit their chin on the rocks. Their weak body was being pulled toward the Book, but their mind was strong enough to resist. They barked in a garbled manner, “Get rid of it!”

Rakell frowned at their display, lifting the Book into his hands. Immediately, he felt a terribly cold force emanating from it; the magic that would have made him inclined to open it was dead in this realm, but he could sense how hungry this thing was. Ego cried, “Don’t open it!”

“I won’t, save your breath,” Rakell hissed, casually stepping past them with the artifact. He walked to the ledge ahead, gave the Black Book one last look, and tossed it over. It fell into a grand lava pit below, striking with much more gravity than it appeared to have. It tumbled over a hard surface, sprawling open, and immediately catching alight. The pages blackened and burned in a matter of seconds, and the cover curled in on itself as it was destroyed.

Ego felt a pull leave them, and they were free of a strange tightness in their chest. Relief flooded their mind, and they felt as if they could relax… at least somewhat, anyway. This realm of Oblivion wasn’t exactly comforting.

Rakell turned back to them, frowning beneath his helmet. He wanted to know what exactly he had just saved them from, and why they were in that situation at all. “What the fuck were you doing?”

Ego coughed again, laying on their back and leaving their arms sprawled on the ground. “Fucking… dying…” they begrudgingly answered, making the dremora huff.

“Where’s your party?”

“Winter—” they coughed, “…Winterhold.”

“Your Prince?” He stepped towards them.

The Dragonborn waved at him, as if to tell him to buzz off. They had another coughing fit, and struggled through their next words, “I can’t exactly— talk well.”

Rakell stood over them, thinking about how to handle their next steps. He looked up to the path, across the horizon, and back down at them. “Winterhold, you said?” He knelt down, picked up their mask, and put it in their hand. “I’m sure there’s a gate that will get us close.” He pulled on the front of their armor, making them sit up. “Put your mask on. Don’t speak to anyone.”

“What?”

Rakell lifted them into his arms, beginning forward. Ego didn’t very much like the position they were in, but there wasn’t a lot to do in protest. “There are other Kyn here,” he said. “To see something like you being here will piss them off.”

“Shit, are we going to— have to fight?”

“Hopefully not,” Rakell answered. “They should see my armor and fuck off. But there’s always a chance.” He glanced down at them, and they saw a glint of light hit his eyes as he did. “Stay out of any fighting. You’ll only get yourself more hurt like this.”

Ego sighed, uncomfortably shifting their weight in his grasp. They didn’t like being so close to him anymore, but they didn’t have much of a choice.

“I’m not going to do anything to you,” Rakell told them, annoyance in his tone.

“How— long until we’re there?”

“Depending on if the right gates are open, maybe a couple of hours. Maybe all day. Maybe three.”

“Gods…”

“I’ll make sure you don’t die. And I’ll see if there’s any… half-decent healers about. You’re sick with something I can’t fix.”

Ego rolled their eyes, “Shit, might as well take me to Dagon while you’re at it.”

“You’re already getting me in deep enough shit as it is,” Rakell growled, “I don’t need your comments.”

Ego was quiet after that, apart from the coughing fits. They tried a few times to walk, but to little avail at the start. Eventually, just before they reached a well-traveled path, Ego was able to find their footing and walk carefully alongside Rakell, holding onto his arm in the process. He gladly took the break from holding them, both to rest his arms and ease the tension between them. They weren’t exactly on trustworthy terms.

Ego thought about the earlier events. They weren’t sure how long Hermaeus had been masquerading like that for… To take on the visage of Sam Guevenne; how many times had he done that before? How often did Ego speak to Hermaeus when they thought they were speaking to Sanguine? How often did the Masquerade do the same? Further thoughts plagued their psyche. Was Sanguine alright? Was Hermaeus just donning a disguise, or had he forcibly taken Sanguine’s visage? Ego feared that the Prince of Fate may have seriously debilitated—or even killed—the Prince of Debauchery. But then they remembered the Rose. Hermaeus had snapped it before they could use it. They first thought of the action as a pure insult, but then they theorized that it could have been done with more of a purpose: if Sanguine truly was dead, then why would Hermaeus Mora have prevented Ego from using the Rose? It wouldn’t have mattered if they used it, in that case, and yet Mora was keen on ripping it away before they could use it to summon their Prince. It wasn’t much evidence to go off of, but it was better than letting themself mourn over a friend whose fate they didn’t know.

And what of the others? They worried about if Hermaeus had done anything to the rest of the Masquerade. They found it to be somewhat unlikely, given that the Prince seemed to single the Dragonborn out. Still, the possibility remained.

And Rakell… he must have been very confused, and maybe a bit shaken up. Truth be told, he was, but he didn’t show it. Ego could guess that summoning him to face a Daedric Prince on his own wasn’t exactly a challenge that he wanted. A Prince was just about one of the only things that could fully destroy a dremora. One wrong step, and Rakell’s six millennia would be put to a stark end.

And he did save them. He could have just warped back, Ego realized, but he didn’t. And, despite their worries, he was doing as much as he could to help now, it seemed.

“Thank you,” Ego finally said, tugging at his arm.

Rakell glanced back at them, then turned his head forward again. After this long without words, he didn’t expect the Dragonborn to say much of anything, let alone something that praised him. “Yeah,” was all he could muster at the moment. There were a few seconds of quiet before he echoed the same sentiment, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For trusting me enough to summon me again. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you after our… freak-out.”

Ego chuffed a laugh out of nervousness, which was followed by a coughing fit. Rakell slowed down for them to recover.

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tastesoftamriel · 7 years ago

Text

The tip of Morrowind (a long tale by Talviel)

Middas, 20th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 207. I was in Dragonstar, Hammerfell, after spending months in Elsweyr, and was researching recipes. I had also just celebrated my 24th birthday quietly. Well, almost quietly. On the 17th itself, a courier came bounding into the inn I was staying at, and dumped half a satchel of letters in front of me while I was in the middle of grating zucchini in the kitchen. “I’ve been looking for you. Got something I’m supposed to deliver, your hands only. Got lots of messages for you!” He announced cheerily. “I’ll leave you to your zucchini. Well that’s it, got to go!” I stared at the pile of letters that I only ever got in this quantity once a year, then ignored them in favour of the zucchini. The letters could wait- zucchini balls with tzatziki could not.

When I’d finally finished cooking, eating, and helping the innkeep clean up, I took the armful of letters to my room to peruse. Most were from friends and acquaintances I had made in Cyrodiil, wishing me a happy birthday and a prosperous year. A smaller pile came from across Skyrim, and I found one from my Dunmer friend Lisandre. I set it aside, looking expectantly at the last few letters from Riften. There were three. One was from my parents, another from Keerava, and the last one was from Brynjolf. While we’d written to each other over the years I’d been on the road, our messages became shorter, less cordial, and more sporadic. He mainly talked about how breaking Nocturnal’s curse had made the Guild flourish again and how they were beginning to branch out across Tamriel. I broke the seal of his letter, expecting more of that. The familiar smell of cinnamon and cloves greeted me as I unfolded the parchment.

“Lass, happy birthday. I don’t know where in Tamriel you are, but I trust that the courier will get this to you safely. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to see you off on your last visit, but I enjoyed the time we did spend together. The Guild sends their best wishes, and we all miss you. Delvin and Vex are plotting the best way to get you to come back to us, but I know your heart is set on your career, and as I’ve always said, I’m happy for you, lass. Hope you can come back and visit us poor folk in Riften again soon, liven up the place a bit. Eyes open, and walk with the shadows. Yours, Brynjolf.”

I smiled sadly, my heart racing. Unrequited love was more of a pain than a mountain lion on skooma. I tucked his letter into the envelope I used to store all of his previous ones, that I always read whenever I missed him. Sniffling and wiping at my eyes, I turned my attention at last to Lisandre’s letter.

“Greetings, Talviel! Word on the street is that it’s your birthday, so happy birthday and big hugs from Gat and I (even though you’ve never met him)! Anyway, just writing because I’m a little bored. Back home now at Lakeview, which is nice and all but my hammer needs some blood. Feel bad about doing any adventuring around now because Gat could use the company, but I’ve been thinking of finally going to Morrowind after the new year. Slightly embarrassing, a Dunmer of my age never having been back to her own place of origin. Don’t know where you’ll be around then, but you’ve spent a lot of time there so I was hoping we could meet up. No pressure, let me know what you think. Anyway, wherever in Tamriel you are, happy birthday. Thinking of you and sending good thoughts your way. ~Lisandre”

I pondered Lisandre’s message. I was setting out the next day to Evermor, which was just across the border into High Rock, and I was planning on spending a month or so going through the region. I had also been offered good coin to cook a banquet at both Castle Wayrest the Sentinel Palace whenever I was there next, so I decided to take them up on the offer. It would take me another month to get to Windhelm, where the ship to Solstheim sailed from, so the timing would be perfect as I hadn’t been to Morrowind in some time. I wrote a letter to warn Wayrest and Sentinel ahead of time and to prepare the ingredients I’d need, then dipped my quill into my inkpot again to pen a message back to Lisandre.

“Hi Lis, thanks for the birthday greetings, and I hope you and Gat are well. Would love to take you over to Morrowind, but I’m only really familiar with Solstheim and Blacklight since the rest of the country is really just ash and small settlements since The Red Year and never really recovered from what I’ve heard, even despite the Great Restoration. I don’t think I’ll have time to explore the rest as I’ve made up my mind to head west early next year, so I probably won’t accompany you through the rest of the country. Once we’re done, I’m sure you’ll have found your feet enough to make the rest of the journey on your own! Let’s meet in Windhelm on the second week of Morning Star, and we catch the ship to Soltsheim from there. Let me know if this is agreeable to you or if you have any change in plans. Hugs, Talviel.”

I sealed the letter with wax and went to find a courier heading to Skyrim before checking on Roach and making sure my bags were packed for the morning. At first light, we trotted into Hammerfell to wait out the month. The time flew by as I cooked and learned and taught. The banquets went flawlessly and my coin pouch was close to splitting. I sketched the scenery, wandered the wilderness, and occasionally woke up naked next to someone. As Evening Star came to a close, I got on my horse and made the long trip to Windhelm. I contemplated stopping by Riften, but the thought of seeing Brynjolf again and knowing he didn’t love me made my heart break. I just couldn’t face him, as much as I wanted to.

I stayed at Candlehearth Hall, and was chatting to a Redguard at the bar when the door swung open, Lisandre tromping the snow off her boots and blowing her hands to shake off the cold. She looked through the crowd and waved excitedly when she saw me. “Hello love, give us a hug! How are you?” She called out, making her way towards me. “Hi Lisandre, long time no see! Can I get you a drink?” “Damn right you can. It’s freezing out there, I’ve always hated this city. One mulled wine please!” She called to the bartender, who brought over a steaming tankard. We toasted to friendship and talked about what we’d been doing in the past few months. As the evening wore on, she began to draw into herself, which was unusual. “Everything alright, Lis?” I asked, signalling for another cup of warm cider. “Well…not really. I should go to the Grey Quarter, see my family and whatnot. Tell them I’m going to the motherland, that should make their bitter asses happy. I don’t really want to go, but…I probably should.” I took a gulp of cider, nodding my head. “Do what you need to do. Just come back here if things don’t work out and you need a place to sleep. If not, the boat leaves at 7am sharp tomorrow so I’ll see you at the docks by 7.45 at latest.” Lisandre smiled wanly and slid her tankard across the bar. “Nah, should be fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, kid. Have a good night with that Redguard woman, she’s making eyes at you.”

I snuck out of bed the next morning, the Redguard woman still fast asleep. Yawning while drinking from a bottle of potion of stamina, I made my way down to the docks and waited for Lisandre in the snow. She turned up just before seven, walking as if her satchel and warhammer weighed a tonne. “How’d last night go?” She grunted at me in reply then skulked onto the boat, sitting down and looking grumpy. “I’ll take that as ‘not so great’. I’ve brought us some breakfast.” I smiled, trying to lighten the mood and offering her some bread with cheese and salmon. “Lay off, Talviel. Really not in the mood right now.” She sighed, pulling her hood over her head and falling asleep. She slept all the way until we hit the port in Raven Rock, and she looked around groggily, rubbing her eyes. “Welcome to Solstheim, Lis.” I said, helping her to her feet as she yawned and stretched. Glover Mallory, the brother of Delvin in Riften, waved to me from the bellows as I walked past his forge. I promised I’d come by later to chat. I led her to my house, Severin Manor, which was dusty and cold. I made a mental note to hire a housekeeper, and showed Lisandre down to the spare bedroom, which I also used to store random armour, weapons, and knick knacks that might come in handy.

“If you’re still tired, have a little nap and we can explore the island later.” I said to Lisandre. “Are you kidding me? I saw a potion seller on the way here. Gonna get me a few of those stamina ones and we can start.” She removed her valuables and any unnecessary items from her person, hefted her hammer, and slapped her face to wake herself up. We made our way outside and she went to buy herself some potions and food while I caught up with Glover and got him to sharpen my sword. We met at the centre of the square, now busy with miners and a fair few more merchants than I’d previously seen, while she ate hungrily from a large kebab filled with ash yam falafel. “These fings are weally good!” She giggled between a mouthful of food, and I was relieved to see her in better spirits.

We left the town, meandering north along the coast. I pointed out the ruins of the monuments Miraak had left behind during our battle while I was taking a ‘break’ from chasing after Alduin. A few miles along, we spotted a group of hunters, shooting at a netch family. Lisandre gawped in wonder. “Are those…netches?” She asked, drawing her warhammer and clearly eager to join in the fight. “Yes, they are, but I wouldn’t recommend running in swinging that hammer. Those tentacles lash out fast with huge force, and send out a nice shock at the same time. Gonna shoot them with arrows like those hunters, and I’ll let you do the final honours with your hammer once they’re down.” I explained, stringing an arrow. We ran towards the netches as the hunters shot bravely, though one of their men was down. I whistled a call of greeting and they whistled back. I began shooting at the bull netch as they attacked the betty and calf, and I yelled for Lisandre to quickly finish them off when they splashed into the water. She nimbly leapt to action, smashing in the brains of the calf before jumping onto the back of the betty without missing a beat. Her acrobatics went unnoticed though, as the hunters had gathered around me as we made our final attack on the bull. As it groaned and fell into the water, Lisandre leapt up and smashed it several times over the head for good measure. The hunters clapped and whooped, and we all divided the netch jelly between us. “This stuff stinks.” Lis complained, jamming her share into an empty potion bottle.

Over the next four days, we made our gentle meandering way through the island, as I explained the lay of the land and my history with it. Lisandre was intrigued by Hermaeus Mora. I strongly opposed her, shaking my head. “Never, ever in my life do I want to have anything to do with that particular Daedric Prince ever again.” I shuddered, as we climbed our way north towards the Skaal village. Along the way, we plundered some Riekling camps and caves for the fun of it, happily pocketing our loot. Frea, the shaman and head of the Skaal happily accommodated us for a night, before we made our way to the giant mushroom lair of Neloth, the powerful and eccentric Telvanni mage. Before I went in to say hello and hoping that he was in a good enough mood to enchant some items for me, we stared with awe at the giant mushrooms. “That, Talviel, has got to be the weirdest thing I have ever seen.” Lisandre said, scratching her head. “Just wait til you see who’s inside, and you’ll probably change your mind.” I sighed, as we ascended the steps.

Several hours later, we found ourselves back at Raven Rock after being berated, belittled, and almost conned into being test subjects for another of Neloth’s new experimental spells (I had to drag Lisandre out through the lift portal before she could gleefully agree). We spent the night back at Severin Manor, and the next day we were ready to face Blacklight. The boat trip over took only half an hour, and Lisandre fiddled nervously with her scarf. “So, the city of my people, at last. I wish I could have seen Vvardenfell before the Red Year, behold the glory of the Dunmer before we were literally reduced to ash.” “As far as I know, time-turning spells have all ended in disaster, so this is what we’ve got now. Don’t look so glum, you’re finally on the way to the capital of Morrowind!” I punched her arm gently. We stepped off the boat, shouldering our satchels, and made our way into the city. The towering Rootspire, the seat of the Grand Council, dominated Blacklight from its centre. Dome-shaped houses like those in Raven Rock were dotted around in neat clusters. The Redoran Guard patrolled the city, which was by all means one of the most orderly places I’d ever been to in all of Tamriel, due to it having been put together as the seat of the Dunmer after the Red Year. I suggested we make our way to a cornerclub to settle in first, and Lis agreed.

We spent the rest of the day wandering the city. Commerce was good as the markets were bustling and shops of all kinds were open for business. “I’ve…I’ve never seen so many Dunmer anywhere in my entire life!” Lisandre exclaimed, looking giddy as we made our way through the busy central streets and past the Temple of Azura. “So, what do you think?” I asked. “Well…it’s a bit small. A lot smaller than I expected, really. But…this is what’s left of us, and so be it. I just hope those people in Rootspire know what they’re doing.” She said resolutely. “I know I’ll probably never see it in my lifetime, but maybe one day Vvardenfell will stand as tall and proud as it was.” “Your lifetime? You’re an elf, you’ll probably live to a thousand if you look after yourself. Morrowind will be back on its feet in no time in comparison. And for your sake, I really hope so. Anyway, now we’ve seen everything, let’s go get some sujamma.” I said, clapping her on the back. She grabbed my hand before I could turn back in the direction of the inn. “Talviel, I know I can just take Dunmeth Pass to get back to Windhelm, but…I’m not done. I know you’ve got work to do, but after tomorrow, we part ways. I know that Vvardenfell is still just ashes and settlements, but I want to see it with my own eyes. See where my people came from. Gnisis, Balmora, Mournhold.” “I get that. There’s always hope with what they’ve started in Vvardenfell probably, since they started on the Great Reconstruction, but I don’t know about the outlying parts of the region. Be careful.” I said, and we linked arms, strolling back to the cornerclub.

The next day, I woke up with a pounding head, and I knocked on Lisandre’s room door to see if she was up. “Come in!” She yelled. I stumbled into her room in my dressing robe, rubbing my eyes. She was sitting in bed, looking a little rough around the edges and sipping from a potion of restore stamina. She looked up at me blearily, before bursting out into an outrageous cackle. “What?” I asked, confused. “Oh by Vivec’s floating balls, I’m never going to pick a room next to yours ever again. Woman, you are loud!” Flashbacks of the night before came back to me, and I groaned. Something to do with a red-headed Dunmer and a lot of sujamma. Lisandre mimicked me, moaning. “Oh, yes, Daddy, Brynjolf, please, oh, fuck me, oh Brynjolf…” I covered my face, blushing so hard I thought I was going to burn the room down. “Nooo, Lisandre, stop, not funny!” “Are you kidding me? That was the best entertainment since I punched Rolff Stone-Fist in the face!” “Lis, I know he was an asshole but why on earth…never mind, it’s too early for this.” “Nope, not letting you off the hook. Brynjolf is definitely not a Dunmer name. The man you dragged into your room was definitely a Dunmer. When we first met, you said you didn’t have a beau. So, who’s the mystery Nord?” She grinned, passing me a stamina potion. I took a large swig and winced, beginning my long and embarrassing story. “Okay, so…”

#morrowind #dunmer #4e #skyrim #blacklight #vvardenfell #the elder scrolls #tes #tes blogging #fanfic #fanfiction #geek #nerd #games #gamer #gaming #chapter 10 #Solstheim #Raven rock

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