The Mourning Stars-
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1.A
Prologue
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"Although we struggle with hope,
To free ourselves from this chains,
We realized that we were doomed,
our sins clings to us like a stain."
-the Mourning Stars, the Pariahs of Inferno.
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"....Join me, old friend, and let us finally drive the mongrel dogs out of glorious Resdayn! Can you not see the corruption they have wrought?! Even the Three Traitors have allowed this pervesion to continue! Look at what it brought, dear Nerevar, look and reflect! Malcontents and hypocrites who have the gall to call themselves the descendants of proud Chimer plague this land, and as I spread the Divine Disease to cure them of imperfection, they cast it back at my face with paranoia and point an accusing finger at me; crying foul and calling me the Shartan! This is what the fool Septim wants.
Discontent among the proud folk of Resdayn. Discontent among us will result in naught but open war and chaos. And what happens after that, Star-Blessed-One?
The weak pulling down the strong from their rightful place! You have been reduced to a tool by that mother of mine who calls Herself a Prince. Deceived by a dog who believes that Auri-El and His Kin speaks to him through a jewelry.
Join me, old friend, and let us cleanse this World of its blemish. Join me, where Destiny itself laid our path before us in the form of Akulakhan..."
"You have kept a Promise that had been unfullfilled through out milllennias beyond counting. Moon-And-Star, you are now free from your curse. And as another gift, I now rid this land of its sickness. Go, and find your own way at last.."
"... I am the true God of Morrowind, and will always be! I have offered you p-peace a-and you return it w-with his sword right th-through me?! Y-You will... kn-know.. pain.. mor-mortal. A-and.. your.. scre-screams... will..."
"The time of Triune has come at last, Incarnate. And although Oblivion would be a welcome change for me, there are still matters to attend to. Be careful where your origins began, my Hortator. Although it still stands strong, nothing is immortal or never-ending. There are those who would want Change; those who want a New Dawn. And they will carry out what they believe is a Divine Plan. Be strong in your beliefs and be loyal to those who consider you their salvation. Till we meet again, old friend."
Silence.. Dreadful, deafening silence. And then, there was an explosion of fire, followed by the nightmarish shriek of winter.. The loud unforgiving battlecry of thunder echoed, and the Other Voices began chanting.
"One thing about the Nerevarine, is that he's not the Nerevarine at all! He ripped the throat of one Caius Cosades, and convinced himself that he was speaking to him, even as the Imperial lay in the ground spitting a fountainful of blood! The Incarnate bathed in the poor man's entrails, for Mercy's sake!
He was told to kill,
Dogs and Demons gave him will!
Fear and roaming nights,
Some remember hating life!
Rise up, Son of Sin!
Seyda Neen's Lord of Flin!
With a whip in hand,
He reaps the women of Our Land!
La-la-lalala!"
"Stop! No, what are you doing?! You ignorant fool!"
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A gasp borne out of suprise and fear came out from the mouth of a dunmer as he bolted upright, his body like that of a quivering wreck and showered by sweat. The elf took heaving breaths, trying to calm his plagued mind from a nightmare. The Lunar Twins, Masser and Secunda, gayly danced beneath Aetherius and the stars were by their side, the angelic sparks encouragingly lighting up the Twin's playground. The dunmer was still for a few minutes, before leaning on the tree near his current position. It was a Nibenean Fyr, strong and sturdy, ideal for making a batch of targes and bucklers but that was irrelevant.
The dunmer closed his eyes as he let out a battle-hardened sigh.
After all these years, these times... I am not given the peace of which I sought. Gods have crumbled before me, and yet my nightmare clings still like a leech.. What did I do to deserve this? I only wanted a normal life, not as a prophecied hero.. But I fail to see the reason in wallowing in self-pity. Forward, forever I go forward.
Creaks and cracks were audibly heard by animals near when the Dunmer stood to his full height. Although he barely reached a full-grown Nord's throat, nevertheless his size was daunting, further increasing his aura of intimidation. He was shoulder-leaned and his arms were like talons from an oversized eagle. An armor that could make today's finest smiths and armorers to shame was almost glued to his entire body. It was obviously made from the refined lava ore, ebony, and its color were darker than a dirty alleyway in a forsaken village.
Designs of golden and silver leaves and roses intertwined each other on the side, while the faulds were completely gold in color. A pauldron that was shaped as a head of some roaring beast was sitted on his right shoulder, making those who see it wonder in morbid interest if a demon was forever whispering things not even sacrilegious sacrosants would feign to hear. At the front was an intricate design of a waning moon, overlooking a High-Rock style tower, which in turn was above a valley of what-looked like a sea. His legs and thighs was thick with a collections of chausses and Breton-made schynbalds, and further it was fortified by greaves made of the same substance that protected his torso. Boots that was made like some beast's foot warmed his entire feet, and although it prevented him from jumping great heights, it was still crucial to him and his adventures. Amidst its seemingly perfection, one cannot possibly ignore the blows and dents that this armor endured from numberless encounters.
A series of scratches ruined the glinting beauty of the side pauldron, its golden hue replaced by silver whenever light found itself near it. The left side of his boot were slightly cracked. It was made neither by blade or bow, but a magick that was acid to anything steel or iron.
The thunder that quoted an approaching storm shook the entire forest revealed his face from his dripping hood. Gaunt and shallow, thin and stretched, strands of volcanic one might mistake this Elf from a vampire. His eyes were more of an unusual maroon rather than the expected crimson, and the eyebrows above it was non-existent. A tattoo, an interwining leaf that ran on his right eye to his left side of the mouth, was marked on his face and when in darkness, it glew a phantom red.
It began to rain, again.
He looked up, partially ignoring the droplets that landed on his sharp cheek, and stared straightly at the lightless sky and clouds. Heavens above, but he knew someone was also staring at him, observing his progress in a Realm of dreams and visions.
Azura..
By the time his eyes were set on a dirt path in front of him, his nerves were steeled and his will became iron. His determination reached its peak and his eagerness overshadowed his fear or nervousness. The burning sensation he felt at Red Mountain and at the Clockwork City became thunder in his chest, a river of flame in his veins and acid on his neck.
With one step from his foot, Change would surely follow. There were those who were afraid to make life-changing and fate-altering step; one step to be their salvation or damnation. They are the ones who are overcomed by Change, and forever be shadows because of their mistakes.
But there are those who freely accept different destinies and new begginings. By taking the first step, they have the abillity to throw mountains apart, destroy entire cities, overthrow Emperors or destroy a God. Fate no longer matters to them, for only they have the power to alter their destiny and of others.
Sybrael Aevareth, the Incarnate of Saint Nerevar, was one such individual.
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The dunmer walked where the road went, ignoring the downpour that fell from the sky and immersed within his own world. He was in Cyrodiil, that much he knew, but his memory failed when he racked his brain for an explanation of why he was lying beside a road. All he remembered was being beset by shadows that took the form of men.
It had something to do with Black and friendship... And oddly, Mournhol- Ah.
The Brotherhood were on his heels once again, trying to fulfill the contract they have failed. Sybrael mentally berated himself for thinking that Dark Brotherhood would simply give up and leave him alone. At least the Morag Tong was honourable, although being in a land full of snakes and traitors might contradict that. There was still something wrong there, something out of place. His mind was thrown upside down when he searched for an explanation regarding him laying unconscious beside a road for some unknown amount of time. He was heading towards Cloudruler Temple, that much he knew. A ship was hired for his needs and the crew set sail for the docks of Dam'Rolen, a village that wasn't even on today's maps. He recalled a villager that kept shooting glances at him, and the way he looked at Sybrael was comparable to a dremora encountering a lesser Aedra. The Nerevarine layed his suspicions that this particular man was the 'courier' of the Brotherhood, a messenger and spy combined. He remembered his existence, but oddly he didn't remembered his face. Just his gender and race; a bulking Nord.
Odd for a barbarian to involve himself in the arts of silent killing and back-stabbing. The Incarnate can care less if the northener sneaked into the Royal Palace with nothing but underclothes and entertain himself with the sleeping Emperor.
He banged his head for more information, but only blank and colorless thoughts greeted him. As he further rummaged his brain, he stumbled across not an answer, but a question. A question so vital and so plain to see that he overlooked it in his search for answers.
Where was he now?
Bitter laugh followed him as he took out his map; despite it's age, it was still lovongly cared for and it was thick with legends written by Sybrael himself. He traced a road that was near Dam'Rolen, and it ended with the dark elf pointing his finger at a legend with the name 'Cheydinhal' etched eloquently beside it.
"Hmmm.. the city's distance from my current location should be," he planned it all out of his head. Resting when dusk approached, hunting the occasional game when needed and the posibillity of being beset by outlaws or worse.. Three days.
"Considerable. Although if this storm continues still, it may hamper my speed," he then smiled as another idea formed on his head. "Why depend on skill, when the arcane can provide a whole better deal?"
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3E 432, Cheydinhal. 'Rovalen's Diner'
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"Listen, cherry cheeks. Ro'Juba is losing his patience. Hand Ro'Juba the gold for his protection or this... fancy restaurant you got here would see some re-decorations. And it'll involve fire and wood." the gigantic Cathay-raht, Ro'Juba, softly threatened the wide-eyed Imperial in front of him. And he could see why would the girl not be scared witless.
Barrel chested and shoulders that could rival a set iron pauldrons, Ro'Juba could've rivaled an Orc in sheer body size. Muscles on his arms were simply the size of a metal girder, and fists were comparable to a plate. In fact, so massive was his muscles that the sleeves on his brown tunic was ripped. His olive colored breaches and belts somehow avoid this fate, and the leather boots that warmed his feet were made solely for a Nord, but Ro'Juba's 'persuading' skill convinced the armorer to instead hand the humongous boots to the Cathay-raht.
His face weren't different from the Khajiit, but the spots that dotted his whole face and body like wounds is simply unignorable. Rings clasped his ears and nose, glinting with malevolent vanity. THe dome of his head was devoid of any hair, and it further boosted his aura of intimidation. Standing seven feet high, a Ro'Juba enraged can put the fear of the Nine Divines inside a battle hardened pagan.
"I-I please, sir Ro'Jub-" the teenaged brunette suddenly saw the ceiling as she passed the realm of sudden pain to the realm of unconsciousness. Ro'Juba, although he demanded respect, despised his name being distilled together with 'sir' or other words that humans called respected ones. Instead of feeling complimented, the Khajiit felt that everytime someone used that array of terms about him, his face would darken and a punch would be thrown. Everytime he heard that, he would feel salt descending on psychological wounds.
He gnarled his mouth and his ears were like horns that faced the wrong angle. A demonic glint overshadowed the golden irises of Ro'Juba and the crimson that replaced it could've made the fires of the Deadlands pink. He made a motion of his hands, and as if on que, eight Suthay-raht materialized from the void, wielding the thug's expensive weapon; Scimitars. Customers that ate food, was now being fed Fear's true meaning. All were silent except for the fury that emanated from Ro'Juba. His subordinates walked around the civillians, threatening to introduce their wicked swords to their neck if need be.
"Burn this pathetic excuse for a rat-hole! And do not spare any civillians or money! S'Retizi and S'Khaj, take this to the Captain and tell him I want no interference from the authorities!" the bark that came out of Ro'Juba's mouth can be comparable to an unforgiving maelstrom, the winds of hatred whirling in a blazing circle of rage, with bitter memories being the Eye of the storm.
Some of the shell-shocked bystanders stood up and vaulted for the exit, the panic in their eyes meant that imaginary hordes of daedra were at their heels, their minds becoming like a simple animals with one objective; survival. And like animals were they slaughtered. The Khajiiti scimitars rang a relieved sigh when ripped from their scabbards, and when descending with full force to a neck, they sang a song full of violence and bloodshed. Heads rolled off without the body, limbs flew free when cut off from their respective parts and the shrill scream of agony and death that followed made the scene at the diner a bloody copy of Dagon's realm. Ro'Juba simply stared at a woman asking- no begging for mercy and release, before the claws of the Cathay-raht found her neck and blood oozed forth like fountains of intestine. The woman, a Dark elf with frowning feautures, horrifiedly stared at the burning eyes of the demon in front of her, before her ancestors greeted her.
"Filthy Elf, your kind deserves no less for what you did to mine. Immune to the element of fire? Then let fire guide you to the other World." voice dangerously low, the Khajiit simply threw the dead elf at a burning part of the crumbling building, mentally nodding in approval. It was fitting, that the elves of Morrowind die by the fire of which they were forged in.
Then, in Ro'Juba's mind, the world in front of him stopped. Every second, every moment.. it just stopped. He could even see the broken splinters of a table in mid-air as they were separated from the main wood. Droplets of blood that dripped from the scimitar of his subordinates were still clinging on the weapons, looking like a rope made of liquid rather than fibre. Alas, but the fires kept their eternal motion. It hypnotized Ro'Juba and by staring into the fires, the fire stared back, bringing with it the bitter memories of a life long past.
He could still hear the screams. He could see the angel of death ascend from the Underworld and snatch his loved ones before his eyes.. The blood-curdling shrieks of young Khajiit women begging for help.. for.. for anything, as a sick dunmer pleased himself. The unnerving laughter of the slavers as they lynched an old and wizened Khajiit elder.. Mutilazed millitia being hanged from the rafters as their helpless fledgelings stared in horror. Pregnant mothers and their children being hauled off to ships, forcefully being taken as slaves.
He could see the fires. He could see it descend upon a young Cathay-raht, bathing and showering it with unquechable flames, burning its skin. He could see the face that burned with a passionate hatred. He could see the sheer anger from its eyes and hear the promises of violence it made against the mer of Morrowind.
He saw himself stare back. Some part of him was disgusted by this.. creature, this demon from the never-ending fires of hell but by moments like these, he remembered why fire stared back and reminded him of a memory. It saved his live in the bitter past, but in return, it fully destroyed and burnt out the reasonable and rational side of him; the candle of his soul. The flames of anger melted the candle that once controlled it, and by this, all that was left of Ro'Juba was fires and the oath he swore.
"I am the fire, I am a flame that desire vengeance. Only justice can doze me forever." the Cathay-rath quietly murmured to himself.
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EDIT: WAIT A SECOND! They change 'Frosty-toots' or ... anyway, they change that into mother of mine?
