I've been playing Morrowind for almost three years now and the game has managed to hook me every time. As a tribute to its vivid, almost living universe, I've started writing a series of stories, taking place in my game world. Enjoy!


Memories of Resdayn


One – As the Book of Memories Opens



Stand back, Shurr!

Bewildered, the Orc stared at his friend, as if he had never seen her before. Rhen’s skin had changed color, from a healthy light blue to a deathly grey, like the cold slab stone of a grave. Her usually inscrutable eyes were now animated by flashes of cobalt fire and her short, badly chopped hair was almost standing on end.

Rhen, I . . .

I said stand back, fool! the Dunmer woman growled, her fingers curling on the black hilt of her Katana. With one swift move, the blood-red blade was out, gleaming eerily in the ash-laden wind.

On more step, she said, harshly, and I’ll split you open!

Shurr could only gawk, as his mind struggled to take everything in. What in the name of Talos had happened to Rhen? As much as he tried to find the answer to that question, he always failed, as the enormity of the present situation threw him off balance.

I want you to get out of here! she went on, as if oblivious to her friend’s turmoil. Aid the Alliance in their struggle. Heal the wounded. Spare the dying of any further agony. This is not your battle.

Shurr almost jumped out of his skin, as realization finally struck home. Rhen hadn’t turned against him. Far from it; she was trying to spare him, by making him leave her!

Do you take me for a dim-witted Scamp? he asked, his gruff voice almost lost in the infernal howling of the storm. I promised you that I would always be by your side and I have no intention to renege this oath!

Even though her features remained as harsh as ever, a small, almost imperceptible smile quirked the corners of Rhen’s mouth, as she regarded her companion.

I knew you would say something like that, she spoke, this time on a gentler tone. If you are as wise as you think, my dear Shurr, why do you doubt my abilities?

It is not your abilities that I doubt, the Orc countered, shaking his head, rather your stupid habit of charging right ahead, without thinking of the consequences.

At this, Rhen’s smirk could not stop itself from extending across her face.

Ah, you know me all too well, Shurr, she sighed, casting her blue eyes toward the faint, ghostly glimmer of the Ghostfence, in the distance. You are familiar with my methods. What do you think I will do?

The Orc followed her intense gaze, until he could see the fence as well, almost completely obscured by the howling, red ash storm.

Something that has to do with the Ghostfence, he answered at length, his words steady. I cannot discern exactly what.

Rhen’s lips pulled even wider apart and her smile became deadly.

I will use the Ghostfence as a battery, she answered, on a quiet, but razor-sharp tone. At this, Shurr could only shake his head once more, in puzzlement.

What in Tamriel is a battery? he asked, his friend’s mysterious answers starting to wear on his already straining nerves.

Rhen leaned against the stone wall, pulling the leather hood tighter over her face, to protect herself from the caustic ash.

It is a Dwemeri concept, she answered, scraping her heel through the black soot on the ground. Basically, it refers to a device able to both produce and store a certain amount of raw energy. The idea has been all but forgotten, since the disappearance of the Dwemer, Rhen explained, leaning forward, so that Shurr could see the strange, almost unnatural glint in her eyes, and I am, possibly, one of the last beings in existence who remembers it. Dumac’s lessons are not easy to forget.

Shurr had to stop himself from shuddering, as he thought he could hear a deeper, male inflexion in the Dunmer woman’s voice. Even though most of the time he willed himself to forget what his friend was, moments like this shattered that vain illusion. Rhen was no longer the small, mischievous child with whom he had played in the fields of Algernon Priory, in his childhood. Now, she was something else entirely.

Even is she had seen her friend’s reaction, Rhen ignored it.

The Ghostfence will be my battery and I will be its catalyst.

The Orc had to place a hand on the ancient wall, to stop himself from loosing his balance, as a wave of shock passed through him.

Are you insane?! he gasped, inhaling ash in the process. Retching violently, he dropped to his knees, coughing, as Rhen continued to watch him, an unreadable expression on her features.

You can’t do that, Shurr spoke faintly, pulling himself up. Rhen, you can’t manipulate raw energy!

Who said that the Ghostfence is raw energy? the Dunmer asked, twirling her Katana through the air, in several graceful arcs. Have you forgotten all of the text books that those n’wahs in the Temple made us read?

Shurr could almost slap himself, as the answer came unbidden within his mind.

Ghosts . . . he whispered. The fence is made of ancestor spirits, bound to Mundus through their remains!

Rhen nodded, her features hardening once more.

They will give me all of the strength that I need.

For a few moments, the mad roar of the storm was the only thing heard, as Dunmer and Orc regarded each other, in complete silence.

You overestimate your abilities, the Orc sighed.

Maybe, was the quiet answer, but I will take my chances, nonetheless.

Shurr wanted to say something, but the words died in his throat, as both Rhen and his surroundings started blurring and moving quickly.

Rhen, he yelled his voice full of unrestrained fear, as the silhouette of the woman disappeared in the swirling mass of black and red. [/i]Rhen!

The next thing that he felt was a sharp, ringing pain, as his forehead struck the hard, cold stone floor.



3E 434, Imperial Cult Chapel of Akatosh, Legion Fort Buckmoth, Ald-Ruhn, District of Vvardenfell, Morrowind

“Shurr, you look horrible.”

The Orc monk raised his eyes from the book that he had unsuccessfully tried to read all morning, to regard the Breton woman who had spoken.

“Diplomatic as always, Muriel” he sighed, absent-mindedly turning a page.

“Who ever heard of an Orc giving a Breton lessons in diplomacy?" Muriel asked, a playful glint in her brown eyes. “If Rhen were here, she’d laugh herself silly at the idea.”

At this, Shurr’s features darkened and he lowered his eyes into the book, with a small growl.

Muriel slapped her forehead, in self-annoyance, as she realized what her friend’s thoughts were.

“You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?" she asked quietly, walking to the nearest window, to stare at the dreary weather outside.

A lone grunt was her answer.

“Now, stop playing the big, dumb, barbarian charade, because I’m not falling for it!” Muriel scolded him sternly. “I’ve known you for seven years and I’m well aware that you can speak with a lot more eloquence that that!”

“Who ever heard of a Breton scolding an Orc?” came the other’s reply, as he resignedly closed the book, placing it on the stone altar.

“Touché,” Muriel smiled. “Now, are you going to answer my question or not?”

Shurr carefully stood up from his seat, to join the Breton woman by the windowsill.

“Yes” was the simple answer.

Muriel nodded, as her eyes traveled over the vast expanse of dreary Ashlands, pelted constantly with rain over the last two weeks. Five years ago, rainfall in the Ashlands would have been considered a once-in-a-lifetime-miracle, but, after the fall of the Sharmat, a great many things had changed, both in the ancient land of the Dunmer and in the rest of Tamriel.

“She does what she believes to be the best for everyone” Muriel went on, her soft voice accompanied by the steady sound of the downpour.

“But there has been no sign from her for over six months!” Shurr nearly exploded, his usual calm, quiet demeanor completely gone.

“She will come back to us” Muriel spoke, not even flinching at her friend’s outburst. “You, of all people, who has known Rhen for almost her entire life, should know her power and possibilities. In the end, she will come back to us.”

On the altar, a gust of wind made the book flip open, its yellow, worn pages flapping in the breeze.

“In the end, she will return to us. I have no doubt about it.”



3E 406, Algernon Priory, District of Colovia, Cyrodiil

You’re as slow as a Sload!

The orc boy turned around, only to receive an apple directly in the face.

What was that for? he asked angrily, eying the small Dark Elf child standing in front of him.

Because I’m bored, came the prompt reply, as she girl smiled.

That’s a stupid reason to hit somebody! the orc boy shouted once more, breaking into a run after the Dunmer girl.

You’re never gonna catch me with those short legs! the girl laughed, hitching up her brown dress, to run faster.

The boy gritted his teeth and lunged forward, trying to get a hold of the girl. He missed her, but his fingers embedded themselves in the thick material of her dress. Grinning, he stopped suddenly, pulling the girl to a halt as well. The Dunmer yelped, as the boy’s strength sent them both tumbling in the long grass.

Do you give up? the orc asked, keeping the girl pinned to the ground.

I do, she whimpered, her small face contorting in pain. Just let me go.

The boy made to let go, but as soon as his guard was down, a sharp knee in the stomach made him double over in pain and in shock.

Now who’s giving in? the girl asked, her previously innocent expression giving way to a cunning grin.

Cheater, the boy grumbled, massaging his sore spot.

I don’t cheat, the girl quickly answered, on a resentful tone. I just play with the rules.

The orc boy wanted to fire off another harsh reply, but he found himself smiling instead. This girl had a great deal of personality and temperament, even though she looked no older that eight years of life.

What’s your name?

The girl’s scowl immediately disappeared, to be replaced by a small smile as well.

Rhen.

Just that? the boy asked, puzzled. What about your family's name?

I’m one of the orphans who live here. I never knew my parents, so I don’t have a family name.

The boy nodded in understanding, mentally cursing himself for his lack of tact.

What about yours?

I’m Shurr-ogr-Farra, he answered, with pride. My father takes care of the stables here at the Priory.

And what are you doing here? Rhen asked. There are far more interesting places to be, than a monastery.

Not for me, Shurr answered, on a tone that made it clear that he disagreed completely with Rhen’s statement. I help my father with the horses from time to time, but in my spare time I read a lot. I want to become a Chapel priest some day.

At this, Rhen started laughing, which made Shurr frown.

Sure, go ahead and laugh, like everybody else! he grumbled, standing up to leave. But one day I’ll show you that I can work with my mind, even though I’m an Orc!

Calm down, Shurr, Rhen said, struggling to control her laughter. I’m sorry. It’s just that I imagined you in a big, golden robe, with a large white, curly wig on your head! it was so funny!

Shurr couldn’t stop himself from smirking.

That’s a member of the Elder Council, not a priest, he answered, trying to keep up a serious demeanor but failing miserably.

Whatever, the girl waved her small hand, in a non-commital gesture. They're all the same to me.

Shurr bit his lip, to avoid breaking into all-out laughter.

What do you want to do with your life? he asked, in an effort to maintain his composure.

I don’t know, Rhen answered, on a more hesitant voice, a small shadow passing over her features. Shurr couldn’t help himself but stare at the strange girl. She was the most unusual Dunmer that he had ever seen. Most of her features were alike those of any of her kind: the blue-gray skin, the boyishly short, red hair and the slightly gaunt features. However, one thing differed: her eyes were not the usual blood-red (or variations on it), but a clear, crisp blue, like the waters of the Iliac Bay, in summer.

Help others, I guess, Rhen went on, oblivious to Shurr’s examination. I’ve always liked to do that.

Shurr almost smiled once more, at the girl’s innocence. For all her bravado, she was still untainted by the pain and suffering that he had seen.

Or was she? A closer look into her eyes revealed that something lay hidden in their dark depths, some things that a girl of eight years old should not have witnessed.

Shurr’s reverie was interrupted by the Abbot’s sharp voice, as he called his name.

I have to go, he grumbled, forlornly. Stiff-Pants wants to talk to me.

Rhen smirked at the nickname that the boy had found for the Priory’s stern, unyielding head. Leaning low in the grass, she watched as Shurr climbed up the marble steps and disappeared within the Priory house.

He’s nice, the girl whispered to herself, playing with a blade of grass. Maybe he’ll understand.

Close by, a spiritual presence agreed with Rhen’s words.

cool, I like the idea of using Ghostgate as a battery

HEHE....I cant belive i didn't see this one before now...sorry for that.

Your writing style is exellent, and exiting, you managed to make the characters alive, which is important....you paragraphe well, that is good to, and as long you wacth your gramamr, you'll be fine....exellent start, please continue.

Here is chapter two. You'll notice that the chapters are not in chronological order and that each one has the exact year specified, to avoid confusing anyone. (As a reference for ages, Rhen was born in 3E 398 and Shurr-ogr-Farra in 3E 393).


Two – Blood and Ashes



3E 425, Ashlands Region, District of Vvardenfell, Morrowind


The small, secluded yurt lay hidden behind a formation of tall, dagger-like rocks, almost completely protected from the harsh, cold winds that blew across the Ashlands at this particular time of the year. A casual observer, could note that the small shelter belonged to a group of renegade Ashlanders, judging by the intricate patterns laid out on its surface. However, if said observer were to take a closer look, he would make a grisly discovery: hidden from view, behind a blackened thorn bush, lay the lifeless bodies of three young Dunmer, covered in dark, clotted blood, one of whom had been almost decapitated.

Inside the yurt, another set of three beings lay huddled around the fire, trying to keep out the chilly night air and warm themselves.

“You know that I do not condone such methods, Rhen” Shurr sighed, half exasperated, half resigned with the fact that his friend would never listen to him.

“Yes, dear, I know” the Dunmer woman answered him, a sarcastic edge to her words. “Sometimes, I wish you would quit nagging me. You’re not my father, you know.”

“Still, you are sorely in need of one to keep you out of trouble” Shurr retorted, as he tried and failed miserably to adjust his massive bulk to the yurt’s confined space.

Rhen chose to ignore him, as she focused on the task at hand. With a rough cloth, made out of unprocessed kagouti hide, she kept rubbing the blade of her claymore, in an effort to clean it of the dried blood.

“Give it here” Muriel grumbled. “I’m sick of seeing you do the same thing over and over for three hours on end!”

Smirking, Rhen handed the blade to the Breton woman, who carefully placed it in her lap. Touching the metal with both of her thumbs and index fingers, she murmured a couple of words in a language that neither Rhen or Shurr understood.

“All done” Muriel smiled, handing the blade to Rhen, who reached out for it eagerly. However, no sooner had her grayish fingers touched the metal that the Dunmer let out a howl of pain, instantly dropping the weapon.

“What are you trying to do, burn me to death?” she snarled viciously, rubbing her sore hand, as her blue eyes glinted dangerously.

“I . . . I’m sorry!” Muriel gasped, between short bursts of laughter. “I used the wrong incantation . . . it was supposed to be a cleansing and purifying balm but I made it a heating spell instead!”

Shurr let out a deep chuckle, as an outraged expression took hold of Rhen’s features.

“From now on, you are not touching any of my equipment, witch!” she growled, slamming the claymore on the ground a few times and watching, with growing ire, as red-hot sparks flew off it.

“She didn’t mean to . . .” Shurr spoke calmly, in Muriel’s defense, but he could not finish his sentence, as the red-headed Dark Elf jumped to her feet, almost toppling over several mugs and pots in the process.

“Save it” she cut him short, with a glare. “I’m going to stretch my legs. All of this sitting around is driving me crazy!”

And with that, she was gone from sight, after throwing open the tarp covering the entrance.

“Is she always in such a nasty mood?” Muriel asked, with a small sigh, as she huddled closer to the fire.

“Not always” Shurr answered, in his usual reserved way. “You have to remember that her people are not known as the most placid and level-headed of beings.”

“However, that does not excuse her from acting so sour” Muriel retorted, annoyed. “I’ve paid the Mages Guild good drakes for a capable guardian and instead they give me a brooding, ill-tempered Dunmer mercenary!”

“I apologize for her behavior, lady Ancrois” Shurr said, in an effort to placate the irritated Breton. “Life has not been particularly easy on her. She is much more cynical and bitter than most mer of her age.”

“You seem to know much about her. Care to tell me what I should expect in the future?”

“We’ve known each other since we were children” Shurr answered, after a lengthily pause. “As for what you can expect, I suggest you let time tell you, lady Ancrois. It is not my place or duty to pass judgment on Rhen’s character.”

“Are you saying that I should judge her myself, after I know her better?” Muriel asked, a part of her displeased that her question had been easily sidestepped, another impressed at the Orc monk’s way with words and his unusual fairness.

“Yes” he nodded, throwing a small pile of dried wood into the fire, to keep it burning.

Muriel nodded in agreement and fell silent, as she watched the flames dance with wild, frenetical movements.

“I’m going to see what she’s doing.” Shurr said, carefully rising to his feet, as not to topple the entire yurt.

“Worried?”

“Somewhat” he admitted, with a small, toothy smile. “She has a penchant for causing problems, if not supervised carefully.”

Bending low, the tall Orc passed over the sanctuary’s threshold, from the warm glow of the flames, into the dark, icy cold night of the Ashlands. Squinting his eyes, to try and see in the semi-obscurity of midnight, the monk could distinguish a silhouette, several feet ahead of him. The shadow was moving with amazing speed and agility, performing small jumps, spins, kicks, punches, back flips, with the ease of a trained professional.

Shurr seated himself on a flat rock, watching his friend in awe. Even though he had seen her train may times, it still baffled him how such a slender, petite form could carry all of that heavy, steel armor and move with some degree of grace and apparent lack of effort while wearing it.

Is she a member of the Dark Brotherhood?

Shurr inwardly trembled, as he remembered a young Bosmer’s question, from only a few years ago.

I don’t know.

It had been the truth, hadn’t it? Back then, he had no idea what Rhen's path had been, in the ten years of separation. Honestly, he didn't know that much now, either.

She is, I tell you. I’ve heard of her. Some people said that she was brazen enough to waltz into a crowded tavern, at dusk and slice off the head of a target marked for execution. In full view of two Guards, who were either too intoxicated to care or she had paid them a hefty bribe in advance.

Shurr violently shook his head, to get rid of the disturbing image of a grinning, vicious Rhen, cutting off the head of a hapless man, over a bar counter.

What do you expect from a Dunmer? he remembered the Algernon Abbot’s harsh words. They have always been the vilest of creatures, aside from the cat-people and lizard-men!

The Orc gnashed his teeth together, in frustration. It was prejudices like these that sometimes made life a living hell, for all parties involved and caused senseless bloodshed between the peoples of Tamriel.

But you know very well that she is no longer the cheeky, almost innocent girl at the Priory, the cleric’s over-zealous conscience stepped in. She has committed more sins than an entire army of vandals, across the duration of her life!

A sharp whistle drew Shurr out of his dark reveries, as he found himself face to face with a slightly winded, but nonetheless satisfied Rhen.

“Care for a quick sparring match, Shurr?” she asked, with joviality, her earlier surliness completely gone.

“With what weapons?” he asked, stepping up to her challenge, trying to keep his thoughts occupied and away from further useless speculation. “I lost my staff and your claymore could very well be used to cook our next meal.”

“A quick fist-fight” the blue-eyed Dunmer answered promptly. “For old times’ sake.”

“For old times’ sake, then” Shurr agreed, with a mental sigh.

“Good” Rhen smirked, sitting herself next to Shurr and yanking the gauntlets off her hands and the boots off her feet.

“What in Stendarr’s name are you doing?” the Orc asked, as his friend fiddled with the clasps that held the pauldrons in place.

“Getting rid of all this metal” she answered. “You’re unarmored and it would not be a fair fight if I kept my plate mail on. Besides, have you ever received a kick from someone wearing steel boots? A very painful business, I tell you.”

Shurr smiled as well, at his friend’s lighthearted, carefree attitude. In moments such as these, she reminded him of the young girl with whom he had used to spend almost every waking day of the summer, causing mischief and chaos.

“Rhen?” he asked suddenly, his gruff voice becoming hesitating.

“Yes?” the woman inquired, as she quickly pulled off her chestplate and set it on the ground, next to the other pieces of armor.

“All of these years . . . after your first departure for Morrowind, with those merchants . . . did you miss anyone at the Priory?”

“That’s a stupid question to ask” Rhen answered, jumping to her feet and moving her extremities, to get them re-accustomed to the lack of weight. “Of course I didn’t miss anyone! Who was there to miss? That stiff-necked, sour-faced Abbot? Those annoying ‘holier-than-thou’ nuns? All of the snobby, Cyrodiilic kids, who couldn’t be bothered to talk to the ‘dark-skinned freak’? No, I haven’t missed anyone.”

“Good to know” Shurr said and, if she handn’t been so entranced on her exercises, Rhen surely wouldn’t have missed the uncharacteristic bitter edge to his voice.

“I would keep my guard up if I were you” Rhen smirked and lunched a quick punch, before Shurr could completely figure out what was happening. The hit struck the orc in the chest, making him stagger back several steps, as the air was blown out of his lungs.

“Cheater” he growled, struggling to get his bearings back.

“I do not cheat” Rhen quipped, sidestepping the orc’s own strike. Dodging to the left, she parried another attack with her forearm, whilst delivering a blow of her own, which nailed Shurr in the ribs.

Grimacing in pain, the orc quickly gripped one of Rhen’s wrists in a tight hold, twisting it around, to try and immobilize the Dark Elf. His action proved to be useless, when a bare foot slammed into his knee joint, causing him to lose his balance for a few seconds.

This was all the advantage that Rhen needed. Pulling her hand out of the orc’s grip, she somersaulted, landing as quietly as a Khajiit behind him.

Shurr gasped, as a fist struck him in the back, between the shoulder blades. The force of the blow made him topple forward and soon enough he found himself laying face-first on the ground, his head almost completely buried in ash.

“Give in?” Rhen asked him, as she kept him firmly pinned to the soil.

Her opponent's only response was a faint gurgle.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Shurr steadily raised himself from the ground, spitting out several mouthfuls of ash.

“That was not necessary, you know” he ground out between clenched teeth, as he struggled to wipe the coarse ash from his face.

“No. But it was fun, nonetheless”

“For you, maybe. Next time you challenge me to a duel, I’ll run to the opposite end of this cursed island!”

“Stop being such a killjoy” Rhen scolded him, with an amused grin on her features. “A little ash never killed anyone. Here, let me help.”

And with that, the Dunmer ripped a piece of the leather shirt that she wore under her armor, to protect her from the chaffing steel and dunked it into the barrel of water outside the tent. Shurr spluttered indignantly, as the wet rag was dragged forcibly across his eyes and cheeks.

“You are worse than those baby Khajiits, you know?” Rhen asked him, half annoyed, half amused. “Even they had the common sense to stand still while I cleaned them.”

“Because they thought you were their mother” the orc answered, his cheeks darkening. “I don’t need anyone fussing over me!”

Rhen wanted to fire off a retort of her own, but a loud, rending scream in the dark made her froze.

“That was Muriel!” the two cried in unison. Jumping to their feet, they broke into an all-out sprint across the dry plane, towards the yurt.

When Rhen and Shurr reached the campsite, they both gasped, at the sight: the brown-haired Breton woman lay on her knees, on the ground, two Ashlanders, garbed in long, grey cloaks standing by her sides.

“So, you fetchers decided to show up, after all” one of them said, on a dark, guttural voice, his blood-red eyes narrowing as he studied Shurr and Rhen.

“What do you want?" Shurr asked, when he recovered from the shock and could use his voice.

“After you killed our clan-brothers, what do you think we want?” the other Ashlander asked, pointing toward the bloodied, decaying corpses. “Revenge.”

“Then it is me whom you should face” Rhen growled, her eyes blazing in fury. “I killed your companions, not her! And you will be joining them soon enough!”

The two Dunmer grimly smiled to each other, as they looked at the barefoot, disheveled Dunmer girl, dressed only in a rough leather shirt and a pair of hand-stitched pants.

“Let’s show the s’wit what she’s gotten herself into!” one of the Ashlanders chuckled, as both of them unsheathed their chitin daggers.

Shurr bared his teeth ferociously, as he made to stand by his friend, but Rhen’s sharp voice stopped him.

“Stand aside! These fools are mine!”

Grunting in protest, the monk nonetheless obeyed Rhen’s orders, staying on the sidelines and watching as the two men slowly encroached upon the Dunmer woman.

“Just a little bit closer . . .” Rhen murmured under her breath, her muscles tightening in anticipation of the battle. “A few more steps, you fetchers . . .”

And then it began. In a split-second, Rhen exploded into movement, punching the first man in the face. The Dunmer was so surprised by the speed of the attack that he had little time to react, as the chitin dagger was easily pried out of his fingers.

“Some warrior you are!” Rhen spat, as she made a sideways cut with the weapon. The man grunted, as his cloak was torn apart and a deep, red gash appeared across his chest. Howling in rage, he launched himself at the woman, but she jumped out of the way. The last thing the Ashlander ever felt was a hard, roundhouse kick, which broke his neck.

The man’s body collapsed on the ashen ground, with a muffled thud, much like the sound that a sack of rocks would make, at impact with the soil. The other Ashlander fearfully cast his eyes around him, to the dark silhouette of the Dunmer woman, standing in sharp contrast with the starry sky. Quickly drawing his own dagger, he steeled himself for the imminent attack. No sooner had he finished his thought that the woman was in motion again, her bare feet making almost no sound against the ground, as she sprinted toward her target, bloodied blade prepared to strike.

The Ashlander, ignoring the frantic heartbeats in his chest, stood his ground. Raising his dagger, he used the wide side of the blade to intercept the other’s attack. The two chitin weapons gnashed against each other, as both Dunmer stood almost motionless, for a fraction of a second. Red eyes stared into blue ones, murderous intent shining in them both.

With a low growl, Rhen pulled herself out of the standstill. Swiftly, she launched a high kick, catching the Ashlander in the abdomen and making him stagger backward. Seizing the opening, Rhen struck again, only to have her weapon intercepted once more. Hissing in frustration, she pushed with all of her strength against her opponent, trying to throw him off balance. The man, however, wisely chose to end the lock, pulling himself back. The sudden shift caused Rhen to move forward a few paces, almost tripping over a piece of wood sticking out of the soil. Grinning ferociously, the Ashlander chose this time to thrust his dagger forward, toward Rhen’s unprotected midsection.

Move!

Rhen’s eyes snapped ahead at the harsh order and she quickly sidestepped, to avoid being impaled on the weapon. Her dodge was not entirely successful, as the blade made a gash over the ribs of her left side, causing her to bite back a scream.

Gritting her teeth, together, at the humiliation of being fooled by such a simple trick, Rhen feigned a strike to the left, making the Ashlander raise his own weapon, to parry. With almost blinding speed, she switched the dagger into her right hand and thrust it forward, into the other’s unprotected flank.

The man’s red eyes bulged, as he felt a hot, searing pain in the lower right side of his abdomen. Staring down, he was shocked to see that the other’s dagger was imbedded hilt-deep in his flesh. With almost morbid fascination, he watched as the grey garb around the point of entry swiftly began turning crimson, as blood started to pour out. Raising his eyes, he met the woman’s ice-cold, steely gaze.

“Kill me . . .” he managed to gasp out, as the color slowly started to drain from his cheeks.

“You wish” Rhen growled, her eyes flashing. Quickly pulling the dagger out, she let the wounded Dunmer collapse to the ground, much like his friend had done earlier. “That is a sternum puncture you have” the woman went on, oblivious to her opponent’s pain, as a puddle of blood started to form around him. “It will be a slow and painful passing. Enjoy!”

The Ashlander wanted to protest, but the only sound he could make was a faint wheezing noise, as spurts of blood came out of his mouth and nose.

“Rhen!” Shurr cried indignantly, moving from his position next to an ashen-faced, but otherwise unharmed Muriel. “You can’t do that to him!”

“I most certainly can” the Dunmer woman answered, her voice calm and impassive, as she studied the crimson dagger in her hands. “Useless” she sighed, throwing it into a small hole. “For all of their vaunted warrior spirit, these savages know next to nothing about the crafting of quality weapons.”

Struggling to keep his rising temper in check, Shurr determinedly started walking toward the dying man. “At least I will try to ease his pain!”

“No.”

The orc stopped, as Rhen’s small, blood-stained silhouette posed herself in front of him, a fierce look in her eyes.

“You go anywhere near him, Shurr” she threatened, her voice deadly quiet, “and it will be the biggest mistake you will ever make!”

“Do I look like I care?" the orc monk asked, trying to stop himself from using the profane words that hovered over his tongue. Sidestepping Rhen, he kneeled next to the agonizing man.

“What is happening to you?" Shurr asked, as he placed his palms on the Dunmer’s forehead and muttered a few quiet incantations. “If you would stoop so low to even threaten me, then I do not know what is becoming of you, Rhen.”

The woman was silent, her back turned towards the orc.

“None of them deserve any mercy” finally came the whispered answer, spoken on such a low tone that Shurr had difficulty hearing it. “Not after what I endured at their hands, for all those years.”

“The Ashlanders?” Shurr asked, puzzled.

“The Dunmer.” Rhen corrected him on the same flat, dead tone. “All of them are the same. Merciless barbarians, who would enslave other races for their own benefit!”

Shurr’s eyes widened, as he realized that he was being offered a rare, precious glimpse into Rhen’s twisted past.

“But” he countered, his mind spinning wildly in circles, “does that excuse your behavior? I think not. In the end, it makes you no better than any of them.”

Rhen swiftly turned around, her eyes flashing in anger. Shurr braced himself for the storm that was to come, but the eerie silence that had fallen over the darkened plains was not broken. The orc heard soft, pattering sounds, as Rhen’s bare feet stepped over the scorched, barren soil, to kneel next to him, alongside the fallen Ashlander.

“Sometimes” Rhen whispered, her features illuminated by Secunda’s ghostly light, “you have a frightening way of making perfect sense.”

Shurr kept his grave countenance, but his voice was lighter when he spoke.

“I know. Someone has to be the voice of reason in all of this madness, no?”

Rhen nodded, quietly. For a few moments, all was still and silent. Looking at Rhen, Shurr was once again frustrated by his inability to read her feelings. Her head was bowed, the red hair falling over her face, hiding it from view. Her grey hands were clasped firmly in her lap and both of her feet were crossed underneath her.

“Is he dead?” the Dunmer woman finally asked, breaking the silence.

“Yes.” Shurr said. “His heart stopped beating a few moments ago. I made sure his passing was as quick and painless as possible.”

“Good” Rhen nodded, raising from her crouched position. “Tomorrow, we will properly bury him and his clan-brothers.”

“No more leaving them as cliff-racer fodder?” Shurr asked, a small, teasing note in his voice.

“No” Rhen answered. “If we left them out here, it would stink for miles and we would be swamped by those accursed flying pests!”

Shurr couldn’t stop himself from smiling. So typical of Rhen, to mask her honor-based decisions behind rough excuses. She tried (and often succeeded) in seeming the perfectly cynical, calloused, cold being, but Shurr knew that, underneath all those layers of black grit still lay a beating heart. All it took was sustained effort to reach it.

From her seating position on the ground, Muriel had watched the entire event unfold, with an expression on her face that clearly said: What in Mara’s name have I gotten myself into?!

Pulling herself up from the awkward position, the Breton shook the ashes off her robe, all the while muttering and mumbling: "When I get to Wolverine Hall, Skink is going to be dead! Just what was in that stupid Argonian’s mind when he hired such a psychotic mercenary?”

“You had better do something about that wound” Shurr warned Rhen, pointing to her left side, where the leather shirt had been darkened with blood.

Rhen wanted to answer that she could take care of it, but was swiftly silenced by Muriel’s intervention.

“Get in the yurt and I’ll have a look at it.”

For a brief second, an expression of horror passed over Rhen’s features, before the Dunmer composed herself.

“No! I’d rather bleed all night than let you use your magick on me! After what you did to my claymore, you might turn me into a dreugh!”

“Calm down, Dunmer” Muriel said, stifling back a laugh. “I admit that I sometimes confuse spells, but my skills with herbs and the preparation of healing balms is unequaled on this side of the province.”

Nodding reluctantly, Rhen set off for the illuminated yurt, only to stop and look back at Shurr.

“Aren’t you coming inside?”

“No” the orc shook his head, seating himself on a large, dead piece of ancient wood. “With these bodies out, carrion feeders are sure to come. And with them, probably far nastier creatures. I’ll keep watch tonight.”

Agreeing to his decision, Rhen lifted the tarp that covered the entrance to the yurt, but stopped a second time.

“Shurr?”

“Yes?’ the orc raised his eyes from the small insect that he had been looking at.

“About your earlier question” the Dunmer said, slowly, “I didn’t finish answering it.”

Shurr frowned, unsure of what his friend was now playing at. With Rhen, it was impossible to know such things and many times he compared being in her presence to walking on quicksand – you never could predict your next movement.

“I wanted to say” Rhen went on, not knowing of her friend’s ruminations, “that I did not care to know about anyone at the Priory, but that I had missed a bookish boy, who followed me everywhere and with whom I used to run and play on the moors.”

For a few moments, Shurr was silent, taken by surprise by Rhen’s words. Quietly, he watched his friend, who stood motionless by the entrance to the yurt, her hands resting casually by her sides. The warm, ember glow of the fire illuminated half of Rhen’s face, seeming to make her hawk-like features milder and the look in her eyes much gentler.

“Good to know” Shurr finally answered, but this time, the bitter note was missing from his voice.

Rhen allowed herself a small smirk at those words.

“Make sure you guard us well, you big lummox” she jokingly warned, “because if anyone tries to slit our throats in our sleep, your hide is mine!”

And with that she was gone inside the yurt, pulling the tarp back in place. Shurr shook his head once more, in amusement. Moments like these, he thought, were what made this bleak, grey life worth living. Casting his eyes toward the starry heavens, he watched as Secunda lazily moved across the night’s sky.

Three – Infant



3E 399, Algernon Priory, District of Colovia, Cyrodiil


Sister Raisa sighed, as she leaned slightly against the old, wooden fence. It was close to midnight and the merchants from Skingrad City had still not arrived. The black, winding road was silent, disappearing in the distance, in a dark haze.

The nun pulled the thick woolen robe closer to her, as protection against the cold. The first signs of Spring were starting to show themselves, but the weather was still chilly, even this far south.

“I hate to think what those poor souls in Bruma must be going through” the nun whispered to herself, swaying gently from one foot to the other, to keep herself warm.

Suddenly, the silence of the night was interrupted by the rhythmic thump of horse hooves on the road. The nun’s eyes turned to the west, where she could see the small caravan, slowly making its way across the wind-swept plain.

“Finally” Raisa sighed once more, in relief.

The caravan marched on and only stopped when all of the riders could see the Priory’s lights.

“Sorry for the delay, Sister” the leading rider said, “but we had some trouble at the outskirts of Skingrad.”

“Are the supplies intact?”

“Yes” the man answered, lightly jumping off his horse and helping the others unload several sacks from the carts. “This was trouble of a different kind.”

“What kind of trouble?” Raisa asked, a tint of fear slipping into her voice. She had known the tall Redguard caravan leader for several years, but she had never seen such an odd, dark glint in his eyes.

“A family was killed” he explained, his jaw set and voice grim. “They had a small shack built, near Skingrad’s east wall. When we were passing, we saw the whole thing burn to the ground!”

“Oh, my!” the nun gasped, one hand flying towards her mouth. “Did . . . did anyone die?”

“I’m afraid so” the man answered. “It seems that two Dark Elves, husband and wife lived there, with their infant child. When we were coming out of Skingrad, we saw the whole house turned into an inferno! We tried to put out the fire, but the flames were too strong for us. By the time the town guard deigned to show up, there was nothing left of that place!”

Raisa continued to listen, her eyes wide with fear.

“But that’s not all” the Redguard went on, in a hushed voice. “We managed to pull out the woman and the baby from the flames.”

“However” another trader cut in, on the same low tone, “the woman had been burnt from head to toe and died soon after. Only the baby was unharmed.”

“By the name of Kynareth!” the nun breathed, in utter shock. “What happened after that?”

“What could have happened?’ the caravan leader asked, on a dry, sarcastic tone. “The Skingrad guards showed up, sealed off the entire area, took the bodies – or what was left of them - to be buried and forbade anyone from coming close to the site of the disaster.”

“And what of the baby?”

The Redguard man signaled to another trader, who handed him a small, black bundle.

“Here she is.”

Raisa cautiously inched forward, to peer at the small being, that the man held in his hands. The infant was tiny, the only thing that could be seen, out of the black cloth in which it was wrapped, was a small, pale grey face, whose features the nun could not discern, in the obscurity of night.

“Her name is Rhen” one of the traders said. “Her mother told us so, before passing on.”

Raisa could only stare at the fragile, little Dunmer child, as she slowly felt her feet giving way underneath her.

“But . . . what about the city guard?" she asked, faintly. “Didn’t they stop you from taking her?”

“They told us to bring her here” the Redguard man quickly lied. “They told us that this Priory also serves as a small orphanage for those children that are besieged by fate.”

“Well . . .” the nun hesitated. “Yes, it does. But I’m afraid that we’re at full capacity at the moment.”

The man frowned, as he gazed at the nun with a pair of dark, steely eyes.

“This child has no other living kin” he said, on a low, dangerous tone. “Would you abandon a lost soul in its hour of need, Sister? What kind of devotee of the Nine are you if you refuse to help an innocent, defenseless being?”

The nun was silent for a few moments, before she extended her hands, a resigned expression on her face.

“Very well. Give her to me and I will speak to the Abbot about this special case.”

Smiling slightly, the Redguard gently placed the sleeping infant into the nun’s outstretched hands.

“Thank you Sister. What shall we do with the provisions?”

“Leave them by the stables” the nun said absent-mindedly, as she carefully studied the sleeping child in her grasp. “The stable-master will take care of them in the morrow.”

The Redguard wanted to say something else, but his reply was interrupted by a loud wail, as the little baby started crying.

“Ssshhh . . .” the nun cooed desperately, trying to silence the wailing infant. “Please be a good girl and be quiet . . .”

It was no use as the child continued to cry loudly, her screams echoing in the empty plain.

“Get her inside” the Redguard raised his voice, to be heard over the din. “She’s crying because of the cold. Get her somewhere warm.”

Raisa nodded dumbly, before heading for the Priory’s doors on a fast pace, without so much as a goodbye to the men. The traders watched as her small silhouette disappeared in the gloom.

“Hey, Boss, don’t you think that it would have been better if we told her the entire truth? What if the guards come looking for the girl here?”

“They won’t” the Redguard shook his head firmly. “This place is too secluded. Besides, they believe that the child died along with the parents and that her body was incinerated by the flames.”

“Then it’s true, isn’t it?" another trader spoke up. “The guards were somehow involved it this mess.”

“Not directly. It is more than likely that someone gave them a hefty bribe, to pretend that they couldn’t see the fire until it was too late.”

“I don’t understand, Boss. Why would anyone want to wipe out a family of dirt-poor Dark Elf refugees from Morrowind? It makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Does any killing of an innocent make any sense?’ the Redguard sighed. “Perhaps they angered someone in a position of power. Or perhaps someone from Morrowind followed them all they way here, in the south. Either way, we’ll never know. What’s important now is that the infant is safe and has a chance at life.”

The other traders nodded in silence, as they swiftly mounted their steeds and positioned themselves in an organized line.

“We set out for the Imperial City” the leader raised his voice, to be heard by everyone. “I expect us to be in front of the main gates tomorrow, at noon sharp. No delays are accepted!”

And with this, the caravan was once again in movement, the hooves of the horses striking the cobblestones in a rhythmic, primal cadence.

In the sky, above the row of dark silhouettes below, stood Masser, in all of her glory, shining in an ominous blood-red, on the black sky.





3E 422, City of Cheydinhal, Nibenay Basin, Cyrodiil


“You look much too beautiful to be a bar wench!”

The Dunmer male’s red eyes glinted voraciously, as he looked at the woman seated next to him. Her head was bowed, so he could not see her eyes, but the short, red hair, pale grey skin and elegant, long-fingered hands told him that he was facing a young, healthy example of his species.

“Well, aren’t you going to say something?”

The Dark Elf woman was silent, as she continued to stare in the depths of her cup of ale, thoroughly ignoring the other’s voice.

“Oh, the shy, silent type, eh?’ the man smirked. “Just my kind. What do you say to some fine wine, my dear, instead of that cheap drink?”

But, as his dark fingers reached out to encircle themselves across the woman’s hand, her own arm shot out, gripping the man’s wrist in a tight hold.

“Touch me and you are dead” came the answer, delivered on a calm, but nonetheless deadly tone.

“Come on, sweetcake” the Dunmer grunted, trying to free his hand, a part of him amazed at this woman’s strength. “I didn’t mean anything by it . . .”

“Of course you didn’t” the Dark Elf said, on a dry tone, raising her eyes. The man gasped, as he stared at the other’s face.

“What kind of monster are you?” he breathed in horror, staring at the other's strange, ice-blue eyes. The woman’s features darkened, as she quickly twisted her arm and the man screamed, as the bones in his wrist broke all at once.

“You are the monster, not me!” she growled, throwing the man over the table. He flew a few meters through the air, before smashing into a table and toppling it over, with a loud, rumbling sound.

For a few seconds, the entire tavern was silent, every pair of eyes focused on the Dunmer woman, who took her seat and casually drank the rest of her beer.

“The extra is for the mess over there” she said, handing the owner several drakes. “The others are for the ale.”

The owner nodded, carefully avoiding looking the Dunmer in the eyes.

“Why did you do that?” the man quietly asked, in a whisper. “You nearly killed that Elf!”

At this, the woman’s pale lips split open, in a feral smile.

“Death has run freely in my family. It only comes naturally for me.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and strode out. The other locals quickly stepped out of her way, no one foolish enough to try something with such a dangerous woman.

Above the city, Masser’s light shone in an ominous blood-red.

This is really an impressive story. You have well-drawn characters and an excellent sense of plot and timing. Bravo!

Who am I to disagree with Master treydog? This is a great story Kora! Keep it up!

Thank you! I've been writing fan fiction - and original pieces - for almost ten years, but this is among the first that I've had the guts to post online!

Oh, wow! This is really an interesting story, and I really enjoy (more like envy) your writing style and characterization.

This story has so much potential... So please keep writing. Pwease?