This is an idea for a story I had a short while ago. It originally started out in my head as a historian's journal, but gradually the idea evolved and it was becoming more and more impractical to write it in journal form, so I switched it to prose. This is set a few years after Morrowind and Oblivion, and the trouble that threatened the provinces has now begun to settle down.
Crits and comments are all welcome, as with everything I write. And without Further ado, I give you:
A historian’s travels
Part 1
It was morning by the time the ship, named Maria, docked in Seyda Neen’s port. The passengers filed off the gang plank and onto the town’s damp ground, many of them bleary eyed and sleepy. Among them was a young man, one of the few who was fully awake. Underneath his robes you could see he was shifting from foot to foot with restless energy, constantly moving his weighty backpack around his shoulders. He strode through the census office with a spring in his step, showed his papers, with the name Carro Antonius on them, to the officer, an elderly Imperial, and carried on through.
The air around Carro was hot and humid as he strode past, but he paid it no heed as he made his way through the town, his eyes fixed on the massive shape of the silt strider up next to conveniently sized. He made his way up the rather muddy path, digging his boots in and trying to ignore the worrying squelch. He reached the top of the path to see an elderly Dunmer snoring on a wicker chair next to the wooden platform that connected the hill to the insect. He approached him and shook the old elf’s prone form.
“Erm…excuse me,” Gaius said. There was no response. He tried again to no avail.
“Oh don’t mind him,” a voice behind him said. The young man jumped, to see a young Dunmer striding towards him. “Once he gets to sleep it takes nothing short of a war to wake him up.”
He extended his hand in greeting.
“Ronian Athani,” he said warmly. He stooped next to the sleeping man.
“OI, GRANDAD!” he shouted in his ear. “WE’VE GOT A CUSTOMER!”
Ronian’s grandfather carried on snoring. The dark elf sighed, rolled his eyes and proceeded to rummage around in the silt strider’s hollowed out shell. He returned a few moments later with a small bag of drakes.
“Sorry about this,” he said. He raised the bag above his grandfather’s head and began to shake it vigorously. The old man awoke suddenly, snatching at the bag above his head.
“Wha’s goin’ on?” he mumbled.
“We have a customer granddad,” Ronian said. “You know, someone who gives us work.”
“Come back of Fredas,” the old Dunmer muttered, closing his eyes.
“It is Fredas,” Carro said. Ronian’s grandfather gave him a murderous glare using only one of his eyes.
“Fine,” he grumbled. “You win lad. Where do you want to go?”
“I was hoping to go to Balmora,” Carro said.
“We don’t go there,” he replied.
“It says you do on the sign.”
Once again Carro was fixed with a one eyed glare.
“The sign’s wrong. Let me sleep.”
Thankfully, Ronian stepped in.
“Grandad, I’ll ride us there,” he said. “You can sleep.”
“Good,” was the only reply Ronian’s grandfather gave. “I need it.
#
“So what are you researching exactly?” Ronian asked as the silt strider made its slow, swaying way across the Bitter Coast’s swampy land. “If you’re another person researching the history of the Nerevarine I’ll push you of this silt strider.”
Carro shook his head.
“I’m trying to compile a history of Dwemer technology,” he said. “See if there’s anything I can discover.”
Ronian nodded.
“Fair enough,” he said. “Trying to make the discovery of the century?”
Carro shook his head.
“I’m more interested in what makes it work more than anything,” he replied. “See if there was any way we could make it work. I even dream of building my own robot.”
“Fat chance,” Ronain said. “No-one knows how Dwemer magic works. You’d have better luck working out what the meaning of life is.”
Carro shrugged.
“Out of interest,” he asked. “I don’t suppose you know of any Dwemer ruins?”
“Well, there is Arkangthand,” Ronian said. “That’s north of Balmora.”
“That’s the first place I’ll be going,” Carro said.
“No point,” Ronian said. “That place has been looted by adventurers dozens of times. Nothing left to look at.”
“I contacted a friend who had a key to the lower levels,” Carro replied. “Apparently no-one has been able to get there.”
“Really,” Ronian said. “You want to be careful when you’re down there. You know what that Dwemer technology is like. I heard they made creatures out of metal to guard and serve them. How amazing is that?”
“That’s precisely what I want to study,” Carro said. “If I could just work out what enchantments are put on them, I’d be the most famous Dwemer historian of all time. Think of all the advancements our civilisation could have. Why, if we just knew how to work some of the more advanced Dwemer weapons discovered, we wouldn’t have been in anywhere as much trouble in the Oblivion crisis.”
“You know, if you are poking around in those old ruins, you might want a little help,” Ronian said. “They’re dangerous places after all.”
“I can handle myself,” Carro replied. “I’ve spent enough time training as a mage to blast through an army of Daedra.”
Ronian shrugged.
“Just saying that you might want someone with a good sword hand and local knowledge with you,” he said, his tone suddenly nonchalant.
“If you want to accompany me, you’re welcome to,” Carro replied. “I wouldn’t mind the company.”
Ronian grinned widely.
“You won’t regret this,” he said, rubbing his hands together in glee.
When Carro was an older man, he realised that his new friend was right.