#oc: qismehti

[vosh-rakh]

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.

[ansu-gurleht]

llethym is like “god DAMMIT mehti how do you always get more pussy than me??????”

mehti smirks and says “well i can show you my secret ;)”

llethym couldn’t walk for a week after that but instantly fell embarrassingly head-over-heels

[ansu-gurleht]

my plans for this fic are making me realize..........maybe qismehti is bi actually

[ansu-gurleht]

have come up with a sort of “alternate start” for qismehti to enter bloodmoon. might try to write a bit of it today

[ansu-gurleht]

qismehti gra-lubakt: women want her. men need her

[ansu-gurleht]

Under the long shadow of Red Mountain, she tried to escape.

Ku-vastei bolted upright on the makeshift cart, only slightly disturbing her bunkmate, Malcius, who let out a small moan. She swung her swollen, deformed legs over the edge of the cart as it was being pulled by Qismehti’s guar, and jumped off. She didn’t quite stick the landing, her knees buckling and sending her careening sideways into the harsh ash and igneous rock of Molag Amur.

“Hey!” Llethym shouted from the rear of the small convoy.

Qismehti whipped her head around to see what was going on. Quickly she pulled on the guar’s reins and brought the convoy to a stop. She leapt from her saddle and pursued Ku-vastei.

“Ku!” Qismehti shouted as she caught up with the limping Argonian, who hadn’t made it very far. She placed a hand on her shoulder to spin her around -

- and spin around she did, swinging her now-massive, mutated arm at Qismehti. It caught her off-guard, hitting her square in the jaw, and sent her down to the ground.

Qismehti jumped back to her feet, one hand clutching her face, the other reaching for the axe on her hip. But she calmed herself. “What are you doing?” she slurred through her wounded jaw and the hand cradling it. 

“I’m not going to let you kill me!” rumbled back Ku-vastei, before turning away to continue fleeing. 

Qismehti sprang forward and tackled Ku-vastei to the ground, with great effort. “We’re trying to help you!” she mumbled painfully as she wrestled with the Corprus-stricken Argonian. 

Llethym arrived momentarily, and stood helplessly over the two rolling on the ground. After Qismehti managed to shoot him a furious glance, he jumped into the fray to help. The three writhed in a dense mass of limbs, the sane two struggling to hold Ku-vastei down as she punched and kicked and clawed and bit. 

“I won’t let you kill me!” Ku-vastei roared, sounding just like a mad Corprus beast. 

Finally, a grey hand arrived to land on Ku-vastei’s thrashing head, and green light pulsated from between the fingers. “We’re not going to kill you,” said Ashiri. “You’re not going to die.” 

At these words, Ku-vastei slowly calmed until she stopped resisting altogether. 

Llethym and Qismehti, bruised and scratched and bit, helped Ku-vastei to her feet, and Ashiri led her by the hand back to the cart. She made sure her patient was secure, clutching tightly to Malcius, before she returned to Llethym and Qismehti.

Llethym was examining a particularly nasty bite mark on his forearm. “The n’wah better not have given me the blight,” he said, to no one in particular.

“Transmission from wounds is rare,” Ashiri assured. “Most cases like this are caused by particular curses. Like the one Gares laid on our friends here.”

She seemed prepared to elaborate, but she was stopped by an unexpected and strange wail. They turned towards the cart, perhaps expecting another getaway attempt. But all they saw was Ku-vastei, wracked with weeping.

“I’ve never heard her make those noises before,” Llethym remarked.

“Never speak of it,” Qismehti said sternly. “She’s in great pain.”

Haunted by the howls of divine suffering, they carried on to Tel Fyr.

[ansu-gurleht]

fuck it here goes. so in the game morrowind, mostly due to engine limitations, the "campaign" against dagoth ur's forces on red mountain at the end of the main quest is kind of....underwhelming. it's just something one person does all on their own, and it's not even that hard. i think it should be a way bigger event than that.

in the 3e634 (a.k.a. "archmagister ku") timeline, it is an actual war between dagoth ur's army and the hortator's army, and it lasts over a month, not just a few days. the four main players in this timeline (ku-vastei, qismehti, llethym, and ashiri) all contribute their own forces to the war. roughly, here's what each brings to the table:

ashiri: - a loose coalition of mabrigash and rogue telvanni she was able to bully into supporting the effort, mostly guerilla attacks to support the main forces - a small army of trained kwama warriors (remember, ashiri is a pheromancer)

ku-vastei: - as many telvanni wizards as she could convince to leave their towers and support the campaign; technically led by master aryon - as many mages guild wizards as she could force to contribute; led by skink-in-tree's-shade - a force of reluctant ordinators gifted to her by vivec* - ku-vastei retrieved the profane tools sunder and keening, and took on dagoth ur's citadel, completely on her own.

llethym: - a coalition of hlaalu, zainab, thieves guild, and morag tong scouts, spies, and assassins, acting both as the intelligence arm of the campaign as well as being used to eliminate some critical targets, such as some of the lesser ash vampires and ascended sleepers - some imperial cult priests he was able to persuade to join as healers by reminding them of "brother malcius' valiant sacrifice for the hortator"

qismehti: - a sizeable force of redoran warriors and cavalry recruited from ald'ruhn and maar gan, which served as the bulk of the infantry and cavalry - as many fighters guild mercenaries as she could scrounge up - the combined forces of imperial forts pelagiad, moonmoth, and buckmoth** - a group of buoyant armigers which served as the elite "tip of the spear" of the infantry*** - the bravest warriors of the erabenimsun and urshilaku tribes****

side notes:

-* vivec declined to participate himself, perhaps afraid of another defeat at the hands of his ancient friend -** fort darius either couldn't spare the troops or simply didn't understand the gravity of the situation. the soldiers at ebonheart were left there, to protect the castle, the duke, and the port. the port at ebonheart was expected to be a critical supply line for the campaign, but only the mainland redorans sent anything and it did not arrive at ebonheart. this didn't prove to be too much of an issue, however, as vvardenfell's economy boomed during the war, and there were rarely supply concerns. -*** the buoyant armigers were spread rather thin during the campaign. some formed the "tip of the spear," and some assisted across the entirety of the effort. but many were left behind at ghost gate, prepared for the possibility of the dagoths somehow circumventing the hortator's line and escaping red mountain. another group was also stationed at kogoruhn, since ku-vastei knew that it was an access point into the red mountain region. -**** ahemmusa could not be convinced to contribute. they were kind of dealing with their own issues at the time in ald daedroth.

[vosh-rakh]

Two standing braziers faintly illuminated the tapestries on the walls as Qismehti approached. They were sacred triangles, each corner representing the three holy symbols: Ayem. Seht. Vehk. Above the tri-faced Tribunal shrine was a mural of the three living gods: Vivec’s head aflame and sword in hand; Almalexia in full battle regalia, including her devilish mask; Sotha Sil levitating limbless next to his divine siblings.

Before the pit of ash and bone knelt a hooded stranger, whose head tilted ever so slightly towards Qismehti as she approached, but not enough to reveal their face. But the fabric of their drab cloak shifted enough to reveal the much more exquisite clothes beneath. 

Qismehti approached, her ebony armor clanking, knelt before the Waiting Door next to the stranger, and began to pray. She was Redoran, but her connection to these ancestors was faint. An outlander’s adoption into a House afforded them only scant access to their spirits. But she needed their wisdom today of all days. 

After some time of mostly failed communion, she glanced at her fellow beseecher. Poking out from the hood was a familiar chin, bedecked with a beaded red beard. 

“Grandmaster,” Qismehti said without turning her head fully. 

“Ah, am I that recognizable?” answered Llethym Hlaarothan from beside her, smirking at his clasped hands. 

“Yes,” said Qismehti. “What are you doing here? Wrong canton.”

“Yes, well,” Llethym began. “You know, Mehti. Our temple is still under construction.”

“I didn’t suspect you as the religious type,” Mehti said. 

Llethym lowered his hands and slapped them on his lap. “It’s politically expedient to at least appear the type,” he said. “Indoril’s been pushing our buttons about it recently.”

“Then why the cloak? Not everyone will recognize you as I do.”

“Enough questions,” sighed Llethym. 

“It’s my House’s house. I think I have the right to question an intruder.”

“An intruder?” exclaimed Llethym, turning his head and putting on an expression of faux shock. “You wound me, Mehti.”

Qismehti grunted and said nothing. 

Llethym pulled back his hood and asked, “So what are you doing here, Archmaster?”

It seemed as though she wasn’t going to get any more prayer done today. “What do you think?” she asked. 

“I think,” Llethym began, “you’ve got something heavy on your mind.”

Mehti sighed. “It’s the Archmagister.”

“What of her?” 

“She wants me to declare her Hortator.”

“Ah,” said Llethym, looking away. “I suppose I should have told you. She’s dead-set on finishing this whole ‘Nerevarine’ business. Won’t call it done until Dagoth Ur is dead. Did you know she already has the Ashlander tribes behind her?”

“Yes,” Qismehti said, “she told me.”

“Just give it to her,” advised Llethym. “She’ll do anything to get it. She killed the Duke’s fool brother, and nearly everyone who worked for him, for it.”

Qismehti sighed and stood, wiping scattered ash from her greaves. “There’s only one way for her to become Hortator of the Redoran.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re tough, but she’ll kill you.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“I said don’t be stupid!” Llethym jumped to his feet to face Qismehti. “No ancestors could save you, certainly not any that you can barely claim!”

Qismehti scoffed and casually drew her ebony war axe, tossing the sharply-hooked bladed instrument into the air and catching it effortlessly under the beard, then returning it to the loop on her belt. “I don’t think I’ll need them.”

“She won’t hesitate to use magic,” Llethym reminded. “She’s a Telvanni, b’Vehk. She doesn’t have to abide by your rules.”

“I’ll have some tricks up my sleeve, too,” Qismehti said, smiling at Llethym pointedly. 

“Oh,” he said, “you expect me to intervene? She’s already my Hortator, Mehti. I can’t enchant anything for you to use against her.”

“Just some scrolls is all I’ll need,” she replied. She leaned in to whisper into his ear…

- - - - -

Qismehti and Ku-vastei entered the Vivec Arena simultaneously. Word had spread across the city, across all of Vvardenfell, about this fight. As a result, the upper level was packed with spectators. Redorans cheered for their Archmaster; Telvannis placed bets on their Archmagister. Hlaalu and its Grandmaster watched on anxiously, concerned for any potential shifting of power between the other two houses. Ordinators struggled to keep peace amidst the excitement.

Ku-vastei was clad in gleaming adamantium armor from head to ankle, her digitigrade feet exposed and pressing footprints into the dusty arena floor. Her pensive face was revealed by the visorless helm, perfectly composed and prepared. In her beringed claws was an adamantium spear of some sort, tri-pronged and deadly sharp. Qismehti, familiar with weaponry of all kinds, didn’t recognize the make.

Qismehti wore her usual attire: a suit of gilded ebony armor, complete with matching shield and war axe. On her belt were three scrolls. Ku-vastei couldn’t discern their possible contents from this distance, and could only guess as to their purpose, if they held any at all. The only other thing that differed from when Ku-vastei made the challenge was that Qismehti wore her full ebony helmet, concealing her face completely.

After the announcer introduced them and bid them fight, the two of them circled the arena for some time, waiting for the first strike. 

“We don’t have to do this,” said Ku-vastei, loud enough for Qismehti alone to hear her. “We can both go home, and you can name me Hortator…peacefully.”

Qismehti made no reply, and charged at Ku-vastei. 

Mehti attempted an overhead chop, which Ku caught under the beard with her spear turned horizontal. Ku tugged the spear towards herself, trying to force the axe from Mehti’s hand, but her grip was too strong. All she succeeded in doing was bringing the blade of the axe closer to her cuirass. 

To disengage, Ku twisted the spear, unlocking the axe from it, and jumped backwards. She attempted a quick thrust during the leap, but Mehti brought up her shield, causing the spear’s point to scrape to the side with a screech. Mehti kept up her advance, swiping sideways with her axe, forcing Ku to deflect with a quick spin of her spear. Again the shaft caught underneath the beard of the axe, shifting Mehti’s balance.

But Mehti let go of the axe. Instead she pulled a scroll from her belt with her now-free hand, and punched Ku’s exposed foot with her shield. Ku instinctively doubled over to clutch at her battered toes, but it gave Mehti an opening. She let the scroll fall open, touched it to Ku’s chest, and shouted:

“THAT WHICH DEFINES YOU WILL PROVE TO BE YOUR UNDOING.”

Dark red light emanated from the Daedric inscribed on the scroll, and Ku froze. All her muscles locked up, and she couldn’t move an inch. In her compromised position, she fell to the floor in exactly the same pose as she had stood.

The crowd fell completely silent.

Qismehti, beneath her ebony visor, smiled. The s’wit’s scroll worked. She leisurely fetched her axe from the floor nearby, and returned to Ku-vastei to finish the job. She knelt before Ku-vastei’s paralyzed body and raised her axe to strike -

But she hesitated.

Ku swung out her leg as soon as she broke free from the scroll’s curse. It caught Mehti in the shoulder, dislocating it and throwing her to her side. Ku jumped to her feet but immediately bent over, coughing up blood. Mehti rolled away just before Ku could crash the speartip down on her in a wild act of vengeance. 

Ku wiped her mouth and glared at the ebony warrior who now stood before her. She spun her spear with a flourish and then pointed it directly at Mehti’s heart before approaching. Mehti grabbed another scroll and frantically read its contents:

“STRENGTH AND HONOR. DEATH TO OUR ENEMIES.”

The words glowed blue, and Mehti felt rejuvenated. Her shoulder locked back into its socket painlessly, and she felt invigorated, her axe-arm growing stronger. Not to mention, the reckless escape had pumped an adrenaline rush into her veins.

Mehti put up her block just as Ku arrived, effortlessly deflecting the spear to the side. She counterattacked, swinging her axe directly at Ku’s helm. It bounced off to the side, but left a nasty dent. Ku backtracked and clutched at her rattled head. Mehti kept up her advance, swinging again for the same spot. But Ku caught the blow with her bracer, bouncing it away. Mehti attempted one more swipe, but Ku had recovered, and deflected it with her spear.

Ku retreated further, and Mehti, her magical and innate advantages running dry, settled on waiting. Ku made a gesture with her spare claw, that of the Hearth, and her body was wreathed with several azure sparks. She rectified her posture from one of near-defeat to one of confidence. She put up another gesture, and mumbled something; her form was covered in a violet shell. Mehti, ill-versed in magic, knew not these signs, but they worried her.

Once ready again, Ku approached, spear leveled towards Mehti. She tried for a stab, which was easily blocked. But she transferred the momentum into a downward sweep, which Mehti failed to jump. She took the blow hard to her ankle, buckling that leg. Instinctively she raised her shield for another strike which she narrowly halted in time. From behind the shield she reached out her axe-arm to strike. Ku didn’t bother to defend; the blade of the axe seemed to be stopped before it reached her cuirass, bouncing off of some invisible force field. A Shield, dammit. 

Ku spun her spear, thwacking Mehti’s overextended wrist, prising the axe’s haft from her grip. Then she gave Mehti’s shield a mighty guar-kick, sending her to the ground. Mehti’s head hit the floor of the arena hard, knocking the ebony helmet from its place there. Ku mounted Mehti, straddling her body as she raised her spear to strike -

There was just enough wiggle room to grab -

Mehti whispered something just before Ku dropped the blade into her exposed throat.  A green light flashed in Ku’s eyes, and she stopped. “What did you say?”

Qismehti shook her head, saying only, “Do it, then.”

Ku-vastei tilted her head. “Why should I, friend?” She looked around at the spectators of the fight, the Telvanni cheering and the Redorans jeering and the Hlaalu silent. “Why should we continue this charade? You were dragged into this prophetic business the same as I was; let me finish it. Call me Hortator.”

Qismehti closed her eyes. Finally she sighed, “You are Hortator.”

Ku-vastei smiled her wide smile and stood, offering a hand to help Qismehti stand. The two of them stumbled to the center of the arena, hand-in-hand, as the crowd watched on in silence. Together, with their hands clasped, they raised their arms. “Hortator!” cried Qismehti for all to hear. There was a deafening roar from the audience, as all jumped to their feet, clapping and hollering - even the reticent Hlaalu. 

Llethym was the only in his retinue to remain silent, but he smiled. An unstoppable force, he thought, and an immovable object - and yet both still stand. He offered a genuine prayer to Azura, for the first time in years.

[vosh-rakh]

The air in the Temple was thick and sweet with camphor, leaving behind a grey haze over everything - and everyone. There were several people - mostly priests - waiting for Qismehti, many faces she didn’t recognize. But she recognized Athyn Sarethi’s, who smiled warmly at her. He wore a heavy kresh robe, his tough body lost in its folds. 

She also saw Varvur Sarethi, Athyn’s son. His thin body - one she was all too familiar with - was also lost in a thick robe. He smiled sheepishly at Qismehti, his hands clasped behind him.

“You’re here,” Athyn said. “Good. We have business to attend to.”

“What business?” Qismehti asked. 

“If you want to challenge Bolvyn for the title of Archmaster, you need to be fully inducted into Great House Redoran. I’m adopting you into the Sarethi family.”

Qismehti, somewhat bewildered, blinked rapidly. But all she said was, “Very well.”

“Come,” said Athyn. He, alongside Qismehti, Varvur, and the priests, sat down on cushions surrounding the Waiting Door, a wide pit of ash and bone fragments in the center of the chamber. 

What followed was a strange candlelit ritual, one Qismehti did not understand (as the words the priests spoke was entirely in Velothi, the language of the Ashlanders), but got the gist of. They were beseeching the Redoran ancestors, specifically those of the Sarethi family, to consider and accept this young outlander into the clan and House. There were certain procedures and actions which Athyn prompted her to perform at various moments throughout the ceremony, which she carried out dutifully. 

Nearing the end of the ritual, the lead priest asked a question of Qismehti in Velothi. Athyn translated: “Now you must choose your cardehn. Who do you declare?”

Qismehti knew what a cardehn was: an ancestor bound to a person, usually upon their birth, to serve as their guide and protector in life. She’d had childhood friends growing up near Blacklight on the mainland who had had their cardehns chosen for them when they were born, usually from a list of honored ancestors from their line. She had only ever been in temporary and conditional service to House Redoran, and was born to a Redguard and an Orc; she had never been granted a cardehn. She wasn’t a history buff, either. She knew precious little about the ancestors of the Sarethi family.

“I don’t know,” she said, matter-of-factly.

The priests muttered to themselves for a moment, before one produced a gilded redware bowl, filled to the brim with a thick red liquid. It was carefully transferred down the circle until Athyn handed it to Qismehti. “Drink,” he commanded. 

Qismehti took the bowl and peered cautiously into the drink. “What is it?”

“Shein,” Athyn said. 

Qismehti smiled, unsure if Athyn was joking. “Why is it so thick?”

“Probably the ectoplasm,” Athyn said, his expression blank. “Although the gall could contribute.”

“Gall?” asked Qismehti, her face paling. 

“Not that kind. It’s corkbulb myrrh. Just drink.”

Qismehti looked around at the priests, who were staring intently at her. She closed her eyes, raised the bowl to her lips - with this proximity she could smell the myrrh intensely - and drank deep. The wine was bitter and viscous, and it didn’t go down easily. But she choked it down with all her strength. 

A few seconds after imbibing, Mehti suddenly felt a pounding in her temples. Her hands began to shake, and invisible hands snatched the bowl from her before she spilled any of the ghost-spiked shein. The blackness behind her eyelids grew deeper and she felt herself fall backwards. Her head seemed to land on something soft, which she visualized as a lap, before she fell unconscious. 

- - - - -

When she awoke Qismehti was standing in the ash outside the temple of Ald’ruhn. But there was no temple, nothing but a mound of rock and ash. She turned around and -

A gigantic beast was staring at her. Its massive claws seemed to wring the sky and its many legs suffocated the ground. Its enormous stalked eyes were lowered, almost level with Qismehti’s face, dripping blood. 

“Don’t worry,” said a strange voice, “it’s dead.”

Suddenly a mer leapt from the top of the beast and landed on one knee. He stood and spun his chitin spear, ebony-tipped and adorned with racer plumes, with a decorative flourish. His armor was rudimentary chitin in a style Qismehti didn’t recognize, but she could tell from the quality of the plates and the way they locked together that it was of high quality. 

“Hail, Qismehti,” said the mer, his golden skin glistening in the clear midday light. Qismehti recognized why his voice was strange: he wasn’t speaking Cyrodiilic, or even Dunmeris, which she was also familiar with. He spoke Velothi, the language of the Ashlanders. Not only this, but an old form, barely recognizable to her ears as Velothi at all. But somehow she understood his meaning, despite the language barrier. 

“Hail,” Qismehti responded softly. In the haze of this place her voice barely seemed her own. “How do you know my name?”

“I’ve been watching you, ever since you came into contact with my descendants. You do great honor to them.”

“I’m sorry…who are you?”

The mer smirked and planted his spear into the blood-soaked ash. “Does this not give it away? This spear, this scene?”

Qismehti apologized again, saying, “I don’t know the history of Ald’ruhn.”

“It was once the meeting place for we Velothi. I established it when I killed this great beast, Skar, with my spear Calderas. Your House mer have long since lived here, though, and call it the seat of their political power. Which is something you seem to desire.”

Qismehti’s face hardened. “Bolvyn is a dishonorable man. He does not deserve his title.”

“You need not defend yourself to me, Qismehti. The only one you should defend yourself to is your own spirit, your ambition.”

Qismehti fell silent, lost in contemplation. Finally she asked again, “Who are you, that you know so much about me?”

“I am Dranoth Hleran,” the mer said, crossing his arms.

Qismehti frowned. “There must be some mistake. I don’t have any Altmer ancestors.”

Dranoth burst into laughter. “You call me Altmer? How insulting. I am Chimer, proud to go different, and in thunder.”

“I don’t have any Chimer ancestors, either.”

“It is not your ancestors you need lay claim to,” said Dranoth, his face suddenly grave. 

“But this family is Sarethi, not Hleran.”

“Ah, but they carry my blood just the same. What’s in a name? It is a dead thing, just as dead as I.”

“But I carry not the blood of Sarethi, either.”

“Will is stronger than blood - all the wise men proclaim it. And it is will that brought you here to me, even if you do not know me.” “But -”

“Stop questioning destiny. It’s unbecoming of a ruling king. You shall face the coming challenges with me at your side.”

Qismehti was silent for a moment, then clarified: “I will not be a king. I will be something lesser, and therefore greater.”

Dranoth smiled. “That you will. Now go. Execute your will.”

- - - - -

Qismehti suddenly woke up, and opened her eyes to see Varvur Sarethi staring down at her. The lap she had fallen into was his, and he cradled her head in his hands. He smiled and whispered, “Rise and shine.”

Qismehti reached up to grab his hand. “Don’t be sentimental,” she whispered back. 

Qismehti sat up and said, “I have chosen.” She looked around at the priests, and at Athyn, and said, “My cardehn is Dranoth Hleran.”

The priests murmured loudly to each other at this. The lead priest shushed them and said, in Dunmeris, “You have been chosen. Welcome to Great House Redoran.”

[ansu-gurleht]

finally got a decent change of clothes for qismehti while playing her for the first time in a long time! gave her a good redoran skirt. i think a lot of redoran warriors wear these kinds of skirts over their greaves that are kind of split down the middle, so you get the look without compromising mobility

[vosh-rakh]

There is a body in a coffin, but unlike in the dreams, it is not hers. This gives her no relief. It is a blessing that the coffin remains closed, but a necessary one. His body is too horrific for any of them to stomach.

They hired the Imperial priest Aunius Autrus from Wolverine Hall to give Malcius his last rites, in the Cyrodiilic tradition. Also present was Nibani Maesa, who quietly invoked the names of Daedra he didn’t worship. But her presence gives Ku-vastei small comfort, and she is clinging to any comfort she can find.

They had decided to bury him in the northern Ashlands, far from civilization, to avoid anyone digging him up and spreading the divine disease. Aunius complained about the trek from Sadrith Mora to this isolated yurt the entire way, but has settled into his duties as officiant of this funeral. 

Llethym had complained, too. He had walked alongside Qismehti on her guar to ensure that the coffin-laden wagon arrived in one piece. But now he is quiet, free from the curse of his quick wit. Qismehti is, as ever, inscrutable, solemn and slow to speak. Her face is the same stolid mask.

Aside from the priest and wise woman, only Ashiri-khaan speaks, and, having known Malcius the least - and also owing to her nature - she is irreverent and restless. This agitates Ku-vastei the most. Doesn’t she realize what had been lost? Doesn’t she feel it as the others did?

Of course not. She wasn’t roped into this silly charade of incarnation, this game of the gods. Ku-vastei can’t bring herself to resent her, though. Instead she aims higher, and points the blame at Caius, then higher, laying it at Azura’s feet. She feels agitated that Nibani dares invoke her name here, over this corpse.

But as much as she wants to cling to it, anger becomes a slippery thing. She can’t even be bothered to direct her wrath towards Dagoth Gares, or Dagoth Ur. All she feels is the hollow in her chest, burning like a lung without air. 

Do they know? she thinks. Do they know he’s really gone, for good? She has no faith in any afterlife. She has tried, several times, to muster it. But every time she comes up short. Now she must contend with a life without him, her comrade, confidant, best friend. It’s a miserable life, and she can’t fathom living it. 

Just as she’s about to collapse into her bones, just as the floodgates threaten to burst -

She doesn’t notice Ashiri approaching until she’s standing right in front of her, her breath tantalizing Ku’s scales. “Ku-vastei?”

Ku is too tired to be startled. She looks around: Aunius and Nibani are busy comparing religions, but Llethym and Qismehti glance their way. Llethym whispers something in Mehti’s ear and chuckles emptily, but Mehti socks him on the shoulder for it and admonishes him. 

She rubs her eyes and answers, “Yes?”

“Come with me. Let’s get out of this dreary place for a moment.”

Before Ku has time to answer, Ashiri has grabbed her by the wrists and is pulling her outside the yurt.

The night is moonless and dark, the outside of the yurt lit only by two standing torches by the flap, rolled open to admit the breeze. Ashiri drags Ku as far away in these dangerous Ashlands as she dares, and at last they come upon a cairn, a stack of stones marking some important place. 

“What is this?” Ku-vastei asks. She’s seen cairns like this one before; they are often markers on paths to important places.

“Be careful, dear,” Ashiri says, pulling Ku back. “Don’t fall in.”

Ku-vastei tilts her head and obeys. Then, curious, she casts a night eye spell.

There’s a six foot long and six foot deep rectangular hole in the ground here in front of the cairn. As Ku raises her head and looks around, she sees more cairns - hundreds of them.

“It’s a graveyard,” Ku-vastei notes, somewhat shocked at the number of burial plots.

“Yes,” Ashiri sighs, “where else would we hold a funeral?” She kicks the cairn at the head of a nearby plot; it stays perfectly put. “And it’s not just any graveyard. It’s mine.”

“Yours?”

“My clan is buried here,” Ashiri says plainly, without emotion. “I buried them here. Each and every one, nearly one thousand years ago.”

“Oh,” Ku-vastei says, unsure if she should offer condolences.

Ashiri laughs, noticing. “It was a thousand years ago. And they were s’wits, one and all. The only ones who didn’t deserve it were the children.” She waves Ku over to the cairn she kicked, and kneels next to it. Ku follows suit. “See the etching here? Old Velothi writing. Well, ‘writing’ might be overgenerous.”

Ku-vastei sees three small markings underneath a name carved in an angular Daedric script, faded to near-illegibility by time and ashstorms. “Three years old?”

“The small ones mean months.” Pivoting quickly, Ashiri rises and approaches another cairn, beckoning Ku to follow. This one has another name Ku can barely make out, and a series of markings underneath.

“Is this like the Cyrodiilic numeral system?” Ku-vastei asks. 

“Close,” says Ashiri, smiling. “The iya represents one month. The jeb represents one year, the cess represent three years, the ekem represents thirty. The oht represents one-hundred. So this gentleman, our last ashkhan’s father, was -” Ashiri paused to allow Ku to scrutinize the markings.

“...Three-hundred and forty-seven,” Ku-vastei says, “and five months.”

“Right,” Ashiri says. “He was the oldest mer in the clan.”

“Was,” Ku-vastei says, glumly.

“You obtain a certain measure of perspective, living as long as I have,” Ashiri says, placing a soft hand on Ku’s shoulder. “I have no doubt that you’ll live just as long as me, if not longer, with your new…advantages.”

“But what great cost for these ‘advantages.’”

“I know,” says Ashiri.

Suddenly Ku-vastei embraces Ashiri. “I’d rather not have paid it,” she whispers into her neck.

“I know,” says Ashiri.

After a long, silent - but not still, as Ku-vastei is wracked by quiet sobs - moment, they disengage from each other. 

“Ku-vastei,” Ashiri says, offering something to Ku in the palm of her hand. Ku takes it; it’s a small chisel. “I thought you might want to do the engraving on the cairn.” She turns her head away to look over the field of graves. “I think you’re the only one who knew how old he was, anyway.”

Ku-vastei closes her eyes and reflects. Then she nods, rising to approach Malcius’ cairn again.

Carefully, carefully, she inscribes the only thing she can think of.

“MALCIUS MARALIUS

 48

 THE MAN WHO DESERVED TO LIVE FOREVER”

[ansu-gurleht]

qismehti more like kiss mehti

…oh. she punched you in the throat so hard you died. whoops

[ansu-gurleht]

i was thinking about this last night:

i don’t think hla-eix had a bad childhood per se but her parents were really not suited for being parents. ashiri has wine aunt energy and ku has weird uncle energy. they were not really the kind of people who had any business having a child together. but they had help from aryon, who is surprisingly a good paternal figure, a vivec, who is also a weird uncle but in a slightly more paternal way. also the duke vedam helped a bit since hla-eix was friends with his adopted daughter (technically great niece? i think? his brother’s son’s daughter) derelayn. ilmeni was probably around sometimes too and she is okay with kids. qismehti visited occasionally but she is really awkward with kids. llethym is TERRIBLE with kids so ku kept him away for the most part

[ansu-gurleht]

4, 7, 11 for the Morrowind group :)

4. Do they know/feel that the Empire is using them as a pawn? What do they do about it?

i think i've talked about this forever ago! the only two who really get it and think about it much are qismehti and ku-vastei. qismehti is deeply bothered by it and expects ku to be as well but is surprised to find that ku hates the dunmer enough that she's happily willing to go along with the empire's bidding so long as it means disestablishing the status quo in morrowind

7. Who do they think killed Nerevar?

this is not really something any of them seriously consider. they generally accept that it was probably dagoth ur. although for ku, the only one who actually met vivec, the thought that maybe the tribunal did it lingers.

11. If they travel to Mournhold, do they side with Almalexia and the temple or Helseth? Why?

so this is something i have put little thought into! ku's (along with her wife ashiri) the only one who goes to mournhold. i think she joins up with the temple mostly because helseth tried to have her assassinated. but part of her probably gets swept up in the whole "this was a past life's wife" thing, probably to ashiri's chagrin

[ansu-gurleht]

the thing you have to understand with qismehti is she’s generally like the most self-serious person you ever met, like takes everything super seriously, never jokes around. but then out of nowhere she’ll catch you off guard and say the absolute funniest shit you’ve ever heard in your life and you’re like “is this even the same fucking person”

[ansu-gurleht]

this is a little nsfw but basically qismehti is straight but hardly ever “bottoms” for men. she almost exclusively pegs men. i think at some point she does get married and have kids, which of course means she surely “bottomed” at some point, but idk if it’s a thing of “only with the right person” or if it was done just to have kids and she went straight back to her pegging ways afterwards