This one is for Lady Saga and The Colonel.
It doesn't particularly explain why she is blind, but it puts it into context at least.
(Reader discretion is advised, as usual).
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What in Sithis’ name…?

Niamh sat up with a jerk and opened her eyes, confused and disoriented.

In front of her was a small hut, its walls comprised of roughly quarried grey blocks, its roof timbered. She was directly opposite the doorway which was open; it was dark within and silent. Looking around her she found that both she and the hut were situated on a small outcrop of rocky land that impinged into a fast-flowing river which ran behind her, she could hear it bubbling and rushing over the rocks. To her right was a small overturned boat of sorts with some fishing gear lying next to it. Above her the sky was grey and overcast and she shivered in the cold breeze that blustered around her, swaying the coarse plants that grew low and scrubby from the ground around her.

Only slightly shakily she stood up and looked down at herself. That something about her was definitely not right was self-evident, even if one disregarded – (with enormous effort of will) – the obvious fact that she clearly not where she should be; for a start when she had gone to sleep the night before she had been wearing a suit of light armour of Akaviri design whereas now she was not wearing anything at all. Her body, whilst still slim, had more substance to it, and her skin was darker and rougher and whilst it had not been particularly clean to start with, was definitely dirtier than she remembered and where once she had been shaved, well, now there appeared to be a fortnight or so’s growth.

Looking at her feet and holding her hands out in front of her she noted that where previously her nails had been partially coated in cracked and chipped black nail paint, now they were free of it. Her body did not feel “right”.

She put her hands up to her face and that feeling of existential fear that had been slowly growing within her since she had what, come to? awakened? – Now waxed strongly within her chest.

Casting around her she saw a pail filled, as it turned out, with water. Wishing the sky was clearer and acutely nervous as to what she might find; she took a deep breath and looked into the water.

That’s not my face! It’s not my face…

The visage staring back at her from the water was not the delicately featured Niamh that had gone to sleep the night before. Reflected unsteadily in the gently rippling water within the pail was a face longer and thinner, harsher, and harder. Her chaotically Elven nature was now much more truly expressed in that face, streaked as it was with cracked dark warpaint and filth, it was a face scarred and marked by a life of hardship and fighting. It appeared that she now looked out at the world from discoloured eyes; one red and one white, both almond-shaped and slanted.

All of her jewellery had gone, and the ears, now bare of rings, that sprouted from the head of the reflection were more truly “Elvish” than they had ever been before. Pulling back from the bucket she collapsed to her knees on the rocky ground, one hand going to her face.

“This is not right.” She said out loud and immediately gasped. The voice that spoke the words was cracked and raw and heavily accented. It was lower in pitch than …before. “I’m not me.” She rasped.

And yet, as she sat there on the ground between the river and the hut she realised that she was her, inside. Further, she realised she was more purely her than before. All her life had been a struggle between the two halves of her nature, the legacy of her unknown parents; one Bosmer and one Human. The face that gazed back at her from the still water within the pail, the body that she was now in, made it very clear that through some – “distillation” – one side had very definitely won out and with that the Elf in her had overridden the more cautious, Human, side of her nature such that she felt freer, but more fey – more chaotic – than before.

The act of self-realisation served in part to stabilise and crystallize her previous feeling of disconnection and as the minutes passed she could feel herself, body and mind, substantiating into one cohesive being.

“I am Niamh.” She whispered.

The conclusion of “What” and “Who” she was calmed her and allowed her to start to focus on the “Where” and secondarily the “How”.

After a moment she dismissed the latter.

Niamh was a practical, empirical, woman at heart and realising that she was where she was inevitably led to the conclusion that she would simply have to deal with it, How she got wherever it was that she was, was secondary now to Where she was and, subsequently, what she was going to do about it.

Standing up she walked to the hut and looked in. A strong smell of burnt pork met her nostrils. It was dark inside and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust but when they did she saw before her an interior space measuring maybe 15 feet deep by 20 feet along. The only gap in the walls was the doorway in which she now stood, hence the gloom, alleviated only slightly by dull light flickering in through holes in roof. What furniture there was appeared to be a table, 2 sleeping pallets and a couple of barrels. A fireplace had been built into the wall opposite the doorway, though the fire was dead now.

In the room itself, on the reed-covered floor just to the left of the doorway were 2 bodies, one larger and male and one smaller, possibly that of a child, or a small adult. It was difficult, even allowing for the dusty gloom within the dwelling, for Niamh to tell more because it was to these bodies that the source of the burnt smell could be traced. They were blackened and charred; stick-like limbs frozen in unnatural positions, bodies arched stiffly in a rictus of fire-tightened tendons.

After looking curiously at them for a moment Niamh, on a whim, turned and walked out and away from the hut for a short distance. Facing towards the river’s opposite shore she held a hand out, palm outwards, in front of her – angled down at the water. She spread her fingers wide and after a brief moment of concentration she felt a power flow through her body, erupting from her palm in a stream of yellow and orange flame. The water steamed and boiled where the stream touched it.

After a moment more she closed her hand, cutting off the flames. The boiling water slowly cooled. Several fish floated to the surface and bobbed there lifelessly.

“It’s never done that before…” She said to herself.

She had always been able to channel fire to a degree but never like that, never as a stream of flaming destruction. It was an inconceivable coincidence that she was not responsible for the deaths in the hut and the only conclusion that she could come to was that there had been an altercation of some sort and she had applied force to resolve it, more than that she would not know.

What she did know however was that the hut afforded at least a modicum of shelter, albeit tempered by the smell, and might also have within it items that she could possibly find useful. The light was just starting to fade from the sky as she entered the building once again.

Taking hold of the bodies each in turn she dragged them outside and left them a good distance away, hoping to deter any potential predators from investigating the shack too closely. The presence of the bodies themselves was neither here nor there to her; she had seen, fought, and created enough corpses in her life for two more not to make any difference.

Just before retreating into the shack for the last time that night, she padded warily downstream for a short distance, squatted by the water and relieved herself. There in the gathering gloom she took an opportunity to reflect on her situation. There wasn’t much to say, she was still none the wiser as to where she actually was although it seemed to her very like the Skyrim she remembered from when she was younger except, well that was the thing, it only seemed like it – something about it was different – something that she could not put her finger on was strange, stranger on a much more fundamental level than even her actual being there.

After a moment, she shook her head and having wiped herself with a handful of leaves, stood up and returned to the shack, pausing only to grab a couple of cupped handfuls of water from the river to refresh her parched throat. She resolved to sleep for a little, and further examine her situation when she felt fresher. For the moment her head ached and she felt – unusually for her – terribly weary.

Stepping inside, she made her way to a sleeping pallet and lay down on it, pulling some skins over her. She was painfully aware that she was unarmed, unarmoured and at a disadvantage in pretty much every way it was possible to be, but – and here she smiled to herself in the growing dark – if the occupants of this land thought that they were tough, she would teach them she was tougher still and it would be a lesson harshly taught.

There was, of course something else as well. She had deliberately not brought it to mind but now the daylight was fleeing the sky the image of Vilja arose in front of her, spectral in her mind’s eye.

As much as she was stuck here, Vilja was stuck in Cyrodiil. Their plans had become as one, their lives and futures entwined. The sundering of that partnership was a heavy blow indeed and Niamh felt her eyes moistening at the thought of Vilja’s absence.

She wiped the tears roughly away with the back of a grubby hand, her face hardening. It was simply one more thing that she needed to resolve; one more thing that she must bend her will to, as bend it she must if she ever wanted to see Vilja again.

Unspoken in that, of course, was whether anything would be as it was, when she did.

Niamh was mighty angry about the situation she was in, and someone – anyone – was going to pay and payment would continue to be extracted until she, Niamh, got what she wanted.

Even if everything in this land stood against her, she would find a way to return – to Vilja, if for no other reason…

Lying on her back on the hard wooden pallet she stared up at the ceiling, the shack was now dark and, lulled by the sound of the river outside, she plotted her next move until, closing her eyes, she slept.

++++

Fate, it seems, often has plans for us whether we like it or not…

As Niamh slept, added to the sounds of the river and the night creatures large and small going about their business came another noise; stealthy footsteps, creeping oh so slowly closer to the shack in which she lay…

Blimey, there's a pilot to a series if ever I saw one... ...

Excellent stuff, as ever...

While I know that you're more of a short burst, brief encounter type...This one does cry out for follow-up episodes... ...

I'd love to know what actually happened to trap her there...

Loved it!!...

Nice one!!..

*Applauds heartily*...

Thank you very much.
I've often thought that it needed fleshing out a little, either side as it were.
May be I should...

And on the back of that last post, we find ourselves back in The Northern Province once more; unexpected and unasked for. In Skyrim time it's somewhere in the region of 3 months since she was there last, for Niamh herself, it's in the region of 200 years in the future...
Confused? Try walking a mile in her bare feet...

Note:
The story of Bjornulf and what happened to him can be read on Niamh's Blog. It is not linked to here for reasons that will become abundantly apparent to anyone reading it.
Let's just say it's a cautionary tale...

Damn, Niamh, you scary...

You mind telling me what the precursor story for this piece is called so I can look it up on your blog, by the way?

No worries, it's called "Bjornulf".

It occurred to me today that I might round off, as it were, the above piece concerning Captain Menchus.
At least for now...

Excellent stuff, as ever... ...

Loved it!!...She's reaching the level of urban-myth now... ...

Nice one!!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

...And so, things have a way of changing.
What if Niamh could be different, what if when she arrived in Skyrim - however that was - she arrived alternately, how would that story play out?

We shall see.

Yes we shall. *nods*

And our time jumping elf has burst into Skyrim and is already wreaking havoc. Okay, line up all the naked elves with one red and one white eye and find the culprit who's been ruining careers with arrows to the knees!

So, on with the show.
This little vignette actually is linked to the latest screens in Niamh's screenshot thread, and it concerns...
...well it's probably just easier to read it I guess:

Interesting story! Just one question - in Niamh's screenshot thread there is a pic of her taken in Riverwood, so was she there as well? Or is that a pic of the other Niamh? Sorry if I sound confused, I'm just curious.

Stories about Niamh are addicting, I wish I had more time to nicely read them from the beginning. Maybe when I retire, in 40 years or so.

Thank you.
Heh,
No apologies necessary! The Riverwood shots are "non canon" images of "armour" Niamh, who has always lived in Skyrim, they were taken our of context, as it were.
They can be told apart partly by their armour or the lack of it, and also by their weaponry. Armour Niamh is a more in your face fighter and brawler, whereas the other is much more of a sneak and does not like getting right into combat unless she can help it.
More subtly, they have different moral codes.
Philosophically, "naked" Niamh is a function of Niamh as she exists in Cyrodiil and does not exist in any way in Skyrim until 5 years after the events currently being documented in armour Niamh's story, although they are the same age and the one dreams of the other, initially as she is in Cyrodiil.

Eventually, these threads will resolve, but you'll have to wait awhile for that, 40 years will probably be about right...!

This paragraph clarifies a lot and I think I get it now - thanks for the explanations.

You're welcome.
It does all make sense, honest!
Although you do raise a good point, I should probably start to put things in the right narrative order, believe it or not there actually is one!

*Robert was not confused by the time-twins in any way, shape or form...No...No he wasn't*... ...

I get it now...I think...

Who cares anyways?... ...A proper excellent story that I'm enjoying each chunk of in a huge way...

Nice one!!...

*Applauds heartily*...

PS...Love the way you're putting it in a quote bubble...Does make it easier to read somehow... ...

HECK YEAH!

So, Niamh has experienced a bit of an epiphany and is perhaps not as murderously ruthless as she was, well relatively speaking. Trouble is, even her best efforts at being personable can go a little awry...

Note: this vignette and the one above are not chronologically contiguous...


This post has been edited by PhonAntiPhon: May 2 2013, 12:08 AM