Prologue of an unnamed fan fiction (updating daily) Options

[Deutschland]

Prologue Part 1

It was not long after the first vernal breeze touched the sailors’ faces, when the massive profile of Vvardenfell lying along the horizon caught the eyes of the lookout. As the news spread across the ship, every sailor, weary but triumphant, was immersed in a sea of joy. Hats and headpieces were tossed into the air; the best barrels of wine saved only for the day were unsealed, and shared among the company.

Amid the celebrating crowd also stood a band of armor-clad, weapon wielding soldiers – the passengers of the ship. Though not unacquainted with traveling on water, they too were excited about the ending of such tedious trip. These Imperials were being transferred to the Imperial Legion of Vvardenfell, whose headquarters, the grand fort of Ebonhart, was the final destination of the journey. The Imperials were in much control of the towns and strongholds in Vvardenfell, especially on the west side of the land. They were fair and loyal, and gifted with the ability to charm another person into admiration. Many were masters of blades, armors and shields, which were to be carried and cherished all the time. However, among the soldiers on the ship, Herald was rather an exception. He wore no armor, and bore no shield or sword; instead he had a bow on his shoulder. Imperial archers were not unusual in Vvardenfell, but being the only archer on the ship was not without a reason: he was a scout. Soldiers like him, gifted with sight sharp as that of a hawk and limbs nimble as those of a deer, were sought by the Legion to be the eyes and ears of the commanders. But no matter how talented, he was no more than a newly recruited young lad, just like everyone else beside him. He was glad to be a scout. Running his fingers through his dark and abundant hair, which he kept clean thanks to not having to wear a helmet, he even felt sorry for the other lads covered by the shinny Imperial armors, sweat, and a foul-smelling odor. Like the slaves freed by the Nerevarine, he thought.

The soldiers knew little, if at all, about their new world, except their captain who used to serve in Ebonhart for a few years. He had been telling the soldiers about his experience during the idle hours of the trip. Even though a captain is not necessarily an excellent storyteller, his listeners often found themselves lost in the vision of the wonderland.

“Vvardenfell is now a much better place than five years ago,” once said the captain, sipping on his cup of Cyrodiilic Brandy, which often left a drop or two on his sloppy beard.

“Well there was a hero; we called him the ‘Nerevarine’. He had the strength of more than ten guars together, and his power dwarfed every mage in the whole Morrowind. He had a sword that would kill any wielder instantly except for him, and a bow that shoots out great lightening bolts from the heaven. He can walk in the mid-air or on the top of water, or stay under it for days without having to breathe… He helped many folks through the darkest of their days, and was the savior of many slaves in the barbaric far-east.”

The captain’s face was shining with a reddish hue as he became excited about the legend (or perhaps due to the Brandy?). Much satisfied by the wonders in the wide opened eyes around him, he continued: “And there was this devil, Dagoth Ur, who committed all the evil deeds in Morrowind. He dwelt in the deep heart of the Red Mountain; his spies and assassins were all over Vvardenfell.

“Then it was the Nerevarine who fought his way through the herds of monsters and ghosts in the Red Mountain, and was finally facing Dagoth Ur himself…” The captain stopped and took another sip at his favorite drink; the hunger for the story’s ending that filled every soldier’s face brought him much delight.

He would then spend another hour to describe how horrifying the monster looked and how Nerevarine fought furiously with it and eventually won the battle, killing the dreadful lord. We don’t have to assume the captain’s tales to be accurate, since he had only heard from gossips passed along from town to town; but the image of such heroic figure was engraved deeply into the hearts of the young soldiers.

And that was what Herald fantasized about at the moment. He turned to his friend, an Imperial swordsman who joined the Legion together with Herald. “Beren,” he said, “do you think we’ll meet the Nerevarine one day?”

“I can’t say,” Beren answered, “I hope he is still in Vvardenfell and is willing to reveal himself; but did you not hear the captain saying, that no one had seen him ever since the downfall of Dagoth Ur?”

Herald fell silent. Then he said with an amused smile: “I don’t really believe in everything he said; there are a lot of contradictions in his tales. I think the whereabouts of the Nerevarine shall ONLY be known by the folks of higher ranks – you know, perhaps those who concocted the entire story.” Both burst out hearty laughter. Herald liked his friend – a short-framed and good-natured lad with whom he grew up in the hometown. They always seemed to share the same opinion and judgments, although sometimes Herald wouldn’t even believe himself.

[Deutschland]

OOC: thank you for the comments. If you any negative comments please state them too, even in terms of grammar since English isn't my first language which is Chinese. Also you might want to pay close attention to Herald's personality, it plays an important role later on in the story.

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A few days later on a sunny morning, the ship finally docked at Ebonhart. The soldiers looked up in awe at the magnificent castle, and they were stepping on each other’s heels as they walked into the courtyard in a line – certainly not a straight one. With one side opened to the dock, the courtyard was surrounded by walls and towers built with neatly trimmed grey stones. Though ancient and eroded by countless turns of seasons they had endured, they were still standing upright firmly against the smashing waves of the Inner Sea. Once polished surfaces were now covered by cavities here and there like eyes of gods watching the mortals walking by. Bronze rings and lanterns hanging on the walls added nothing but a sense of graveness. There were many doors but none was labeled, as though any extra decoration would ruin the solemnity of the fort. However the most grandiose figure was the bronze statue in the center of the courtyard. It was a dragon twisting around a spike, with its gigantic wings and clawed feet swinging in midair, as though soaring to the sky. No one – or at least no one among the new soldiers – knew the implication of the statue, though the eastward direction that the dragon’s head pointed to might have symbolized the reverence for the Temple and Lord Vivec. But that was far beyond Herald’s knowledge at the moment.

Herald was surprised by the peace and dullness in a seaport of such importance; no traders, craftsmen, sailors, or even training soldiers were to be seen. There were only Imperial guards patrolling around the courtyard. They wore black light armors and held wooden shields decorated with silver edges and golden figures; their eyes fixed to the distance, as though no one had just arrived; their shiny steel boots stumping the stone pavement were the only sounds to be heard in the vicinity. Nevertheless, the arrival of the soldiers had brought much disturbance to the silence.

The captain led them across the bridge towards the heart of the castle. What caught their sight instantly was a building with a totally distinct appearance from others: it had only two stories, one built with stones and the other with wood and painted white; all the windows had wooden frames, and some were extruding out of the walls. Vines were dangling from the roof, and to the right of the building was the only tree to be seen within Ebonhart. Strange, thought Herald, this house must be occupied by people of great influence.

Passed the lovely dwelling of the “important folks”, even the air seemed frozen as they walked deeper into the fort. The walls were taller and guards were patrolling on the catwalk; every piece of stone seemed colder and heavier. The gloomy surrounding reminded the soldiers of nothing but a prison. Finally they stopped in a small courtyard, in which a bald headed man was waiting for them. He was tall and bulky; a studded leather cuirass enhanced by interlaced steel rings fit tightly on his torso.

“It’s good to see you again, Briring.” The captain greeted him, “And even better to finally have my feet on the solid ground!”

Briring did not reply immediately. He stood motionless and watched the captain trying to settle the soldiers into a nicer formation. “Is that it?” said bald-headed man to the captain, “are these half-baked fools all they have for us?”

Before the captain had a chance to answer, the soldiers had already burst out fumes of anger. “We are not fools,” cried a soldier of around 20 years old, “we have dignity. And no matter whoever you are, you had better respect it!”

“That’s right!” cried two other soldiers, seeming to be friends of the first. “We shall not be looked down at, by either friends or foes!” The rest of the men started to boil as well, though not crying out like the trio.

“Silent!” A ferocious roar brought the complaints to a sudden end. The three soldiers who were defending their dignity fell unconscious to the ground, and the rest were shocked by the power. Through his past experience fighting the Necromancers, the captain could tell that it was the sound-burst spell, but he could not understand how Briring cast three times without any preparation. Though not a spell-caster himself, he knew that there were only a few ways in which the mages cast spells. They may touch and hurt the enemies or throw fireballs at them with their hands, or enchant the spells on their weapons to cast as they hit the target. The first manner would take longer time, for the hands of the caster must perform gestures for different spells. Some mages, though, who were masters of certain spells, were able to cast them as their minds simply commanded, which could have been what Briring just did. However, the captain could not explain how Briring could make such an achievement in just a few months while he was abroad.

“Who do you think you are?” said Briring, while looking down at the terrified soldiers. “When the battles come, you won’t be any more useful than the petty rats! They struggle for nothing but their own lives, and so will you. There is no such thing as dignity for you footmen, only life or death! Now report to Ingokning in the Skyrim mission. One by one. Caelius,” he summoned one of the patrolling guards, “take these rats to the healer.” Then off he walked into the garrison. The captain watched the guards dragging the unconscious soldiers away, sighed and followed Briring. He knew those soldiers had lost their hearing and thus would be discharged from the Imperial Legion.

Herald and Beren couldn’t believe what they had just seen. “That was harsh!” whispered Beren to Herald. “I’ve never expected the legion in Vvardenfell to be like this. But the captain, he must know the difference between the legions here and back in the hometown, why didn’t he tell us about it?”

Herald pondered for a moment, said: “I don’t think he expected to see that either. I saw his puzzled face when the man was raging against the poor folks. From the way they spoke to each other, it seems to me that his rank is not much higher than the captain. And perhaps they knew each other very well.”

“Herald, You always see every little thing around you,” Beren smiled with admiration, “and that makes you a perfect scout.”

Feeling a little flattered, Herald also smiled and said: “That’s indeed what my father had always tried to make me to do. Some times he asked me during dinner, what was on this dinner table yesterday morning, or where his baby Kwama was when we were splitting wood.”

“And what would happen if you couldn’t answer?” Said Beren, hoping to hear how Herald’s father would torture him.

“Well, there would be another long day of splitting wood!”